Page 23 of Passions in Death
Eve knew it was a toddler, as it continued to wail as his mother carted him out of an apartment door. She knew it was the mother, as the woman with a messy tail of brown hair, an enormous bag on one shoulder, and a wailing kid on her opposite hip sent her an exhausted look.
“My mother told me being a mom’s the best job ever,” the woman said. “Every day’s an adventure, she told me. She must just laugh and laugh.”
She shifted the kid. “He knows,” she said darkly now. “We didn’t tell him, we didn’t speak of it, but he knows we’re going to the d-o-c for his c-h-e-c-k-u-p and his s-h-o-t.”
“Aw.” With a sympathetic smile, Peabody reached in her jacket pocket and pulled out some sort of cracker she palmed to show the mom. “Can he?”
“Ah…”
“We’re cops.” Peabody showed her badge with her other hand. “Peanut butter cracker. Still wrapped.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Peabody unwrapped the cracker, offered it.
The kid stopped wailing, squealed “Cookie,” and grabbed it. Mouth full, he grinned.
“Bless you. A thousand blessings on you.”
“No problem.”
Continuing up, Eve shook her head. “You carry crackers in your pocket, Detective Loose Pants?”
“Peanut butter—for a boost when we miss lunch. Which we do. A lot.”
“Now that you’ve done your good deed for the day, record on.”
On the fourth floor, Eve turned to the apartment door. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, entering residence of Shauna Hunnicut and Erin Albright, deceased.”
She mastered in, and when they stepped inside, took a long, slow scan of the living area.
“A shoe store manager and a street artist. They missed their calling. They should’ve run a cleaning service.”
The small space shined like diamonds. Multicolored diamonds, Eve decided. The sofa wore a sapphire-blue cover and showed off half a dozen pillows of varying sizes, shapes, and patterns that—somehow—worked. Mismatched tables, all painted in happy colors, a pair of small chairs, both covered in hot candy pink, a chest painted bright white covered with pink-and-blue flowers.
Art covered the walls. Cityscapes, still lifes, portraits.
A small round table painted the blue of the sofa and flanked by two metal chairs painted the hot candy pink held a clear vase filled with white flowers.
The two little front windows offered a view of the street below—which the victim had captured in one of the many paintings.
It struck Eve as not only amazingly clean, but girlie without the fuss and flounces.
“They were really happy here,” Peabody commented. “You can see it, and feel it. And you know, the victim’s work is really good. At least for me, it pulls me right in.”
Because she agreed, Eve merely nodded as she looked over the tiny kitchen, separated from the rest by a short counter. They’d removed a couple of cabinet doors so their dishes and glassware showed.
“Gives it an illusion of space.” Peabody wandered that way. “You have to be really organized and creative when you go with open cabinets. Looks like they were. A printout of their wedding e-vite on the fridge. I’d say Albright designed it. There’s a lot of her here. I can see why Hunnicut needs some time before coming back.”
“And that gives us room to go through the place.”
Eve headed toward the hallway.
They’d set up the tiny bedroom Peabody spoke of as an office/art studio space.
It held a desk painted a kind of coral color holding a mini D and C, a little vase of flowers, and a photo of the two women, heads together, beaming smiles. At the window—about the same size and shape as Eve’s skinny office window—stood an easel on a square of paint-splattered white cloth.
An unfinished painting stood on it—a crowded subway scene. Beside it, a makeshift table held a palette, brushes.
