Page 90 of Bonded in Death

“Not just a flick at what most of us had grown up on, but another at Wasp, you see? And no sort of gratitude, you see, for someone making a meal, or someone managing to bring in enough to feed a dozen.”

“Bad feelings? Arguments?”

“Families argue, and so we were. Thought we were,” he corrected. “Someone might shut him down there eventually. Marjorie excelled at that. Rabbit never let it go too far. Let a little steam escape, but then put the lid back on.”

He sipped his tea, then set it down again, circled the cup.

“He didn’t like working with me, or more specifically, working with a gay man. He was careful in what he said, and what he didn’t say, but it was there.

“And the women. Four of the finest women, finest soldiers, finest people I’ve ever known. He didn’t think much of them beyond using their sex togather intel. He misjudged Fawn. That was his mistake. He worked and fought beside her, but he dismissed her.”

Tears threatened again. Eve heard them soaking his voice.

“He didn’t comprehend her dedication, her ferocity, her incomparable courage.”

But those sad eyes filled with pride. “She thwarted him. He planned to kill her, but he didn’t. She gave her life, and she stopped him. She saved lives by giving her own. After it was all over, all of it, I never wished anyone harm. There’d been so much harm, so much death. But when I heard Shark was dead, I opened a bottle of champagne. But he’s not dead, and another good friend is.”

“He liked golf,” Eve prompted.

Pulling himself back, he nodded. “Oh yes, that’s right. He did. I liked that about him. It seemed to me that talking about the pleasure of hitting a ball with a stick, or running one down a field, of dancing, laughing, anything that spoke of life was hope.”

“What else did he like?”

“The theater. He’d make a remark now and then about the cinema—rubbish again. But the theater, serious, important theater, was worthy art. Opera, ballet, worthy. Though he complained that even before the wars, most had stopped dressing appropriately for performances. He expected that when London theaters opened again, it would be even worse.

“Fussy. I thought him fussy. How did I miss it? I can see so many signs now, but I missed all of them.”

“Everyone did.”

When she let him go, Eve got up again. She needed to move.

“French restaurants.”

“Added to the list,” Peabody told her. “Along with theater. Serious stuff. Nothing fun or frothy. Opera, ballet. He’d want to indulge, wouldn’t he?”

“He would. Maybe the seasonal thing. Good seat. And he’d dress for it. Underestimates women, which would include us. He thinks he’s covered his tracks at the prison well enough. Maybe we’ll have some questions there, sure, but dead’s dead. So that buys us some time.”

She paced some more. “DeWinter’s going to come through. Feeney’s geek is going to come through. And we’ll have more. But this is giving us a hell of a good picture.”

Iris Arden swept in.

Eve recognized rich and in charge—she’d married Roarke. And that’s just what she saw in the woman with creamy golden brown skin, eyes of piercing green. She wore her hair in a short, sleek cap around a face of sharp angles.

Eve imagined she’d changed from her traveling clothes into the silky, silvery pants and flowy top, freshened her makeup.

But even with that, Eve noticed signs of recent tears.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. I’m told I can get a cocktail for the asking. I’m asking for a very dry vodka martini, two olives. It’s been one hell of a day.”

“I’ll get that for you.”

Eve gestured. “Please have a seat.”

As she did, Iris opened the handbag she’d carried in, took out a red case, a circular silver dish with a red top. “We’re in a private home,” she began as she opened the case and took out an herbal cigarette. “So no laws broken. I hope you’ll take that hell of a day into consideration and indulge me.”

“Go ahead.”

She flicked on the silver lighter, drew in, and on a kind of sigh expressed a stream of smoke that smelled—just a little—like Mira’s tea.

---