Page 31 of Festive in Death

“Exactly.” She pointed at him with her fork, then stabbed some chicken. “If people didn’t cart around so much stuff, they wouldn’t need bags to hold it all. Handbags, shoulder bags, tote bags. People carry their life around with them, like refugees. I don’t get it.”

“But you bought them anyway, as gifts, which is what giving is all about, isn’t it?”

“There were socks, too. Fuzzy socks,” she remembered, dimly. It was like the fog of war, she realized. “And caps, and things to put other things in that go in the bags. They make fancy little cases just for lip dye. It’s crazy.”

“You can’t be serious!” He widened his eyes, got a narrowed stare from hers. “Astonishing.”

“Funny. And I got roped into buying a talking unicorn.”

“Excuse me, a what?”

There, at least, she’d surprised him, she decided—and wasn’t sure why she found it satisfying.

“A talking unicorn that goes in the unicorn bag for Bella that matches the big-ass unicorn bag for Mavis. It’s pink—the unicorn—with a silver horn thing, and it says stuff. And it dances. It’s probably going to scare the shit out of her.”

“I wager she’ll love it.”

“It kind of scared me. But Tiko kept zipping out, then zipping back with more stuff. He had to tag his grandmother, get a little extra time due to all the zipping out and back. I think he put the whammy on me.”

“Yet here you are, with your shopping done.” He toasted her. “Kudos.”

“I’d rather go hand-to-hand with a couple of Zeused-up chemi-heads than go through that again. What is this green stuff?”

Roarke only smiled. “Any progress on your investigation?”

“I’m learning the vic was probably a bigger asshole than I already thought. I’ll verify tomorrow when I go by the lab, but I think he roofied one woman, and probably more.”

Roarke’s smile faded. “That makes him more than an asshole.”

“Yeah, it does. And if I’m right, it’s a damn shame he won’t get his ass kicked for it. But since he got himself murdered, I’ve got to do the job.”

“A woman who found out what he did to her? I’d be inclined to take her side of it.”

“He deserved a cage, not a slab. Maybe a woman who found out he’d given her a boost, maybe a husband or boyfriend who found out. Maybe a woman who didn’t like him juggling her with others, or a guy who didn’t like being cheated on. A lot of variables. Then you add in the money, so maybe blackmail, which never ends well.”

“And yet remains a classic,” Roarke commented.

“Secrets plus greed generally equals a slab for somebody.”

“Cop math.” Roarke lifted his wine. “And usually accurate.”

“His client list skews heavily female, though he’s got men on it. It also skews heavily monied.”

“And somewhere along the line he tapped the wrong well.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking. I think, too, this new area of business—the money for sex and/or blackmail—was fairly new. Not that he didn’t cheat and reap some reward, but going into it heavier. He kept Trina’s friend around until a couple weeks ago, but he added the locks two or three weeks earlier.”

“Hedging his bets, perhaps,” Roarke suggested.

“Making sure he had a nice stockpile, working on sniffing up the ex before this ex. It could be. And yeah, tapped the wrong well.”

She glanced over at her board, at the IDs she’d started putting up. “He had a lot to choose from. I’m going to have to talk to Sima again, and that means I have to talk to Trina again.”

“Did you buy her a gift?”

“No.” Appalled, she gaped at him. “Why would I—I don’t have to— Do I? I’m not going back there, Roarke. They were decent, the bag people, but I’m not going back.”

“Why don’t I take care of that for you? She is your hair, face, body consultant—whether you want her to be or not. A small token would be appropriate.”

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