Page 75 of Passions in Death
She could probably take a kangaroo down with a solid stun, but for all she knew they traveled in packs or herds or whatever the hell.
And she had to get her brain off kangaroos.
She blamed Roarke and his Australian resort.
She hit traffic, which she preferred over predatory wildlife.
Since she had to deal with it, she used the extended drive time to think things through.
They weren’t dealing with a lunatic—at least not someone overtly crazy. Not a serious calculator, either, because there had to be less risky ways to kill Erin Albright.
So target specific.
Motive? If Lopez, payback for rejection. If Barney, possibly still holding a flame for Shauna.
If someone else… so far the dead artist = paydirt didn’t hold up well enough to rate high. But maybe she’d find out more from Glenda Frost.
While it remained true a decent percentage of the partygoers could have slipped away just long enough to kill, the question of motive, and removing the weapon and the rest from the scene, remained.
Motive first, she concluded, and the rest would come.
Where was the gain? What was the reason?
She added having a conversation with the other artist, Anton Carver, since Lopez had rolled around with him after Shauna came into the picture.
Maybe his alibi wasn’t airtight. Or maybe he knew something. At least a different viewpoint on Lopez. A separate conversation with Becca DiNuzio, she decided. Another viewpoint on Barney.
She spotted Peabody at the entrance to the gallery with another woman. Pulling into a loading zone, she flipped on her On Duty light, waited for a break in the damn traffic. After nipping out of the car, she headed down the sidewalk.
Glenda Frost, her blond hair in a braided roll at the nape of her neck, wore a sleek black sleeveless dress with black pumps that added about four inches to her height. Black-framed sunshades guarded her eyes as she unlocked the gallery doors.
About five-three, she may have weighed in at a hundred pounds if you included the huge black bag hanging from her shoulder.
Even without the out-of-town alibi, her physicality would have ranked her low on Eve’s list.
According to her data, Frost—forty-six, divorced, one offspring—had managed the art gallery for twelve years.
Polished, attractive, she wore silver hoops on her ears and a wide silver cuff, intricately carved, on her right wrist.
“Lieutenant Dallas,” Peabody said, “Glenda Frost.”
“Ms. Frost, thanks for meeting us.”
“Whatever I can do to help.” Her voice was as polished as the rest of her. “Erin wasn’t just a talented young artist, she was a friend. Please come in.”
She led the way, switching on lights that showcased art. It hung on the white walls, stood on pedestals and glossy white or black tables.
Some Eve understood, even liked. The portrait of a woman, her face a map of what was surely a century of life, the cobalt vase of bold orange flowers caught in a beam of sunlight.
Others baffled her. Red and blue dots on a white canvas, a carefully detailed bag of soy chips.
“The portrait there.” Peabody gestured toward the old woman. “That’s Erin’s work, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Very good eye, Detective. She finished that about three months ago, from a photograph of her great-grandmother.”
“I think it’s wonderful.”
“So do I.”
