J. Robb - Creation In Death

“Yeah, that’s the spot. See if your wit will work with Yancy.”

“Already asked and answered. She’d be, quote, ‘tickled pink.’ A peach, Dallas, with eyes like a hawk. She saw a photo in his wallet when he took out the cash. She said it was an old photo, took her back to her own youth. A lovely brunette. She thinks she can give Yancy something to work with there, too.”

“That’s good work, Baxter. That’s damn good work. Bring your peach in. Dallas out. It’s moving for us.” Her eyes were hard and bright as she turned back to Roarke. “It’s moving now.”

“Jessica Forman Rice Abercrombie Charters.” Roarke tossed Eve a memo cube. “Chairman of the Board. She’ll be happy to speak with you. She’s at home this morning. If she can’t help you, she’ll find the person who can.”

“You’re a handy guy.”

“In many, many ways.”

The smile felt good on her face. It felt powerful. “Peabody, with me.”

JESSICA WITH THE MANY LAST NAMES LIVED in a three-story apartment the size of Hoboken. The sprawling living area was highlighted by a window wall that afforded a panoramic view of the East River.

On a clear day, Eve calculated, you could stand at the clear wall and see clear to Rikers.

The lady had furnished the place to suit herself, mixing the very old with the ultra-new, with the result an eclectic and surprisingly appealing style. Eve and Peabody sat on the thick cushions of a sofa done in murderous red while their hostess poured tea from a white pot scattered with pink rosebuds into distressingly delicate cups.

The tea and a plate of paper-thin cookies had been brought in by a smartly dressed woman with the build of a toothpick.

“We have met a time or two,” Jessica began.

“Yes, I remember.” Now that she had the face, Eve did remember. The woman was a trim and carefully turned-out eighty-something with short, softly waved hair of deep gold around a sharp-featured face. Her mouth, long and animated, was painted petal pink, and her eyes-thickly lashed-a deep river green.

“You wear Leonardo.”

“Only if he washes up first.”

Jessica giggled, an appealing sound of eternal youth. “One of my granddaughters is mad for his designs. Won’t wear anyone else. He suits her, as he does you. I believe people should always choose what suits them.”

When she passed Eve the tea, Eve had to resist commenting that coffee in a good, sturdy mug suited her.

“We appreciate you giving us your time, Ms. Charters.”

“Jessica, please.” She offered Peabody a cup and a flashing smile. “Indulge me just one moment. Could I ask, when the two of you interrogate-oh, wait, the term’s ‘interview’ these days-when you interview a suspect, do you ever rough them up?”

“We don’t have to,” Peabody told her. “The lieutenant scares confessions out of them.”

The giggle rang again. “What I wouldn’t give to watch that! I just love police dramas. I’m always trying to imagine myself the culprit, and how I’d stand up under interviews. I desperately wanted to kill my third husband, you see.”

“It’s a good impulse to resist,” Eve commented.

“Yes.” Jessica smiled her flower petal smile. “It would’ve been satisfying, but messy. Then again, divorce is rarely much tidier. Now, I’m wasting your time. How can I help you?”

“Stewart E. Pierpont.”

Jessica’s eyebrows quirked. “Yes, yes, I know that name. Has he done something murderous?”

“We’re very interested in speaking to him. We’re having a little trouble locating him.”

Though mild confusion was evident on Jessica’s face, her tone remained absolutely pleasant. “His address would be on file. I’ll have Lyle look it up for you.”

“The address he’s listed doesn’t jibe. Unless they’re taking tenants at the Royal Opera House or Carnegie Hall.”

“Really?” Jessica drew out the word, and now came a quick and avid light to her eyes. “Well, well, well. I should have known.”

“How and what should you have known?”

“A very odd duck, Mr. Pierpont. He’s attended a few galas and events over the years. Not particularly sociable and not at all philanthropic. I could never wheedle donations out of him, and I am the world record holder for wheedling.”

“Galas and events are by invitation, aren’t they?”

“Of course. It’s important to-Ah! I see. How did he receive invitations if his address is not his address? Give me one moment.”

She rose, crossed the polished tiles, the thick Turkish rug, and went out of the room.

“I like her.” Peabody helped herself to a cookie. “She kind of reminds me of my grandmother. Not the way she looks, or lives,” Peabody continued with a glance around the room. “But she’s got that snap to her. Not just that she knows what’s what, but like she’s always known.

“Hey, these cookies are mag. And so thin you can practically see through them.” She took another. “See-through food can’t have many calories. Eat one, or I’m going to feel like an oinker.”

Absently, Eve took a cookie. “He doesn’t donate to the Met. Goes to a function now and then, but doesn’t lay out any real bucks. Tickets cost, events cost, but he’s getting something out of those. There’s the control again. If you donate, you can’t direct, not precisely, where your scratch is going.”

She looked over as Jessica returned.

“The mystery’s solved, but remains mysterious. Lyle reports that our Mr. Pierpont requested all tickets, all correspondence, invitations, begging letters, and so on, be held for him at the box office.”

“Is that usual?” Eve asked.

“It’s not.” Jessica sat, picked up her tea. “In fact, it’s very unusual. But we try to accommodate our patrons, even those we have to squeeze funds out of.”

“When was the last time you saw or spoke with him?”

“Let me see. Oh, yes, he attended our winter gala. Second Saturday in December. I remember I tried, again, to convince him to join the Guild. It’s a hefty membership fee, but has lovely benefits. He’s the type who enjoys the opera, who knows and appreciates it, but isn’t interested in funding. Tight-fisted. I’ve seen him come or go to performances over time. Always on foot. Doesn’t even spring for a car. And always alone.”

“Did he ever speak to you at all about his personal life?”

“Let me think.” Crossing her legs, she swung one foot back and forth. “Drawing on the personal is an essential tool of the wheedle. A longtime widower, travels a great deal. He claims to have attended performances in all the great opera houses of the world. Prefers Italian operas. Oh!”

She held up a finger, closed her eyes just a moment as if to pull together a thought. “I remember, some years ago, pumping him a bit-as he’d had a couple of glasses of wine, I thought I might slide that membership fee out of him. I had him discussing whether true appreciation for art and music is inherent or learned. He told me he’d learned his appreciation from his mother when he was a boy. I said that was, arguably, inherent. But no, he said, though she had been the only mother he’d known, she had been his father’s second wife. She had been a soprano.”

“A performer.”

“I asked him just that. What did he say? It was a bit odd. She had been, but circumstances had denied her, and time had run out. I’m sure that’s what he said. I asked him what had happened, but he excused himself and abruptly walked away.”

“Would Lyle know when Pierpont last picked up anything from the box office?”

“He would, and I asked him, anticipating you. Just last week.”

“How does he pay?”

“Cash, Lyle tells me. Always, and yes, that’s unusual. But we don’t quibble about eccentricities. He always wears black-tie to the theater, which is also a bit eccentric, I suppose. So do his guests.”