Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

She tried the closet.

It had likely been another bedroom at one time, gutted and outfitted as a massive closet. Henry’s clothes ranged along one side—slightly jumbled, and with plenty of room for more.

Hers, on the other hand, were double tiered, with the back wall reserved for countless pairs of shoes. Eve noted the comp, had seen its like before. Darlene could consult it when choosing an outfit, could use it to revolve the clothing from day wear to evening to sports.

Apparently she’d taken wardrobe as seriously as philanthropy. And since Eve herself was married to a man who did the same, she couldn’t be too critical.

A large counter lined with drawers stood in the center of the closet. Eve opened a drawer at random and counted over a dozen bras.

Why does one set of tits need so many? she wondered, and began to rifle through them.

The drawer below that held sweaters—she didn’t bother to count these—and below that was stylish gym wear. In the bottom were the leggings, sweatpants, and T-shirts that told her the woman had worn regular clothes at least some of the time.

She moved down, top drawer middle: panties, and plenty of them, skimpy, lacy, colorful, all neatly folded.

And at the bottom of the stack—where a male co-hab was unlikely to go—she found a silver card case.

Inside she found business cards for psychics, sensitives, mediums, tarot readers, spiritualists.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “Why hide these from Henry?” She took out an evidence bag, dropped the case in.

Under another stack she found a few brochures—the same deal—with rates for readings and consultations, and with testimonials from satisfied clients.

By the time Roarke joined her, she’d finished the closet.

“I can’t say I’ve found anything helpful,” he told her. “Nothing on his office electronics, the house electronics and ’links that seems to apply. Her office is on the next floor, and what strikes is what’s not there.”

“What’s not there?”

“She has it set to automatically delete any searches twice daily.”

“And you let that stop you?”

He gave her a quiet look. “Hardly. I can tell you the vast majority of her searches fell into the area of research for her work. Running organizations that applied for a grant, that sort of thing. But she’s spent considerable time doing searches on the afterlife, on communicating with the dead, on those who claim to serve as a bridge between this world and the next.”

Eve nodded. “Like this?” she asked, and upended her evidence bag on the bed.

Roarke studied the brochures, pamphlets, business cards.

“Yes, like that.”

“She had these hidden—underwear drawer, and inside an evening bag. It’s quite a collection. New York, New Orleans, Arizona, Europe—Western and Eastern. I’m going to say she contacted at least some of these, paid visits. And the fact she hid it means she wanted to keep it to herself, and/or friends and family disapproved.”

“She suffered a great loss, and looked for comfort.”

Eve plucked up a brochure. “Nutritional Psychic. A grand buys you an hour consult where Doctor—and I bet that’s a loose one—Hester will recommend which herbs and berries you should consume in order to open yourself up to messages from the dead.”

She tossed it down, picked up another. “Now this one’s a bargain. Initial fifteen-minute consult’s free. During that consult Lady Katrina and her spirit guide, Ki, will determine if you have what it takes to pass through the portal.”

She tossed that down as well.

“I’m also betting when I check her financials I’m going to find big gobs of money pissed away on this crap.”

“I tend to agree with you regarding Doctor Hester, Lady Katrina and Ki, but we both know there are legitimate sensitives.”

“Who talk to dead people.”

He flicked a finger down the dent in her chin. “You do.”

She rolled her eyes. “I dream about them—small wonder.”

“Agree there as well. And no, I wouldn’t put my money on any of these holding conversations with the dead. I’d say the dead speak if and when the spirit, we’ll say, moves them.”

“Don’t go all Irish on me.”

“In the blood and bone. Still.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, sensing her frustration. “I see where you’re going, and it makes perfect sense. She got herself overly involved here, and it maybe fell under the influence of someone not just illegitimate but dangerous. But how could that influence be so strong, Eve, to have her kill the brother she loved, and herself?”

“I don’t know yet. But it’s an angle. She had a good life here. You can feel it.” She poked at him when he lifted his eyebrows. “That’s not psychic mumbo. You just have to look around, and you get it. She had a good life here, a man she loved, work she loved, family, a place. She took a kick to the gut, I get that, too. Either grief twisted her up to the point she had a psychotic break, or someone twisted her up in it.”

“You’ll find out which.”

“Yeah. Either way, she won’t be crossing the bridge and coming through the portal to tell me. We work it.”

She rebagged her evidence.

“Got another hour in you?” she asked with a glance up.

“What did you have in mind?”

“I want to go through the rest of it before Henry comes back. Plus, I didn’t find any snazzy jewelry, and she’s bound to have it, which means a safe. You find the safe, and I’ll go through the rest of the place.”

“And finding it, do I open it?”

“Yeah, you open it.”

He flashed a grin. “This is much more fun than sleeping alone.”

CHAPTER FIVE

She dropped into bed at two a.m., with the muttered request that Roarke wake her at six if she slept through. He was better than any alarm.

With a low fire simmering, the cat curled into the small of her back, and Roarke’s arm wrapped around her, she tumbled straight into sleep.

The dead had a lot to say. In dreams, she thought, dreaming. And that was different from believing you could walk over some magic golden bridge into the afterlife and have conversations with vics.

No golden bridge for her. She sat in Interview A, with Marcus and Darlene Fitzwilliams seated on the other side of the scarred table.

“What gives?” she asked.

“I love my brother. I’d never hurt him.”

“It’s pretty clear you did.”

“I’ve never hurt anyone in my life, not on purpose. You were in my house. What did you see?”

“It’s all right, Darli.” Marcus draped an arm around her shoulders, pressed his lips to her temple.

She’d seen that, Eve remembered. A photograph of just that, in a frame. Another when they’d been teenagers—Darlene riding on Marcus’s shoulders as he hammed it up. Her in a bikini, Eve remembered, him in swim trunks, up to his waist in a blue sea.

Other photos, many photos. The siblings, the parents, Darlene and Henry, Marcus and Henry. Holiday photos, casual photos, formal photos.

A life in frames.

“You had secrets,” Eve said.

“Everyone has secrets.”

“And some people kill to protect them.”

“Do I look like a killer?”

“Mostly killers look like everybody else. You jammed scissors in your brother’s heart.”

“I couldn’t.” Darlene gripped the handle of the shears now buried deep in her brother’s chest. Yanked them free. “I’d kill myself first.”

“You killed yourself second,” Eve pointed out. “Grief can mess you up.”

“How do you know? You’ve never lost anyone. You don’t know my grief, you don’t know my sorrow. My parents were angels. Yours were monsters.”