Shadows in Death (In Death #51) - J.D. Robb Page 0,5
back by tall mirrors. The tile floor spread in the color of gold sand.
“Please, here in the parlor you can sit.” She gestured as she led the way. “You would like coffee? Tea?”
“We’re good. Could we have your name?”
“Of course. I am Elena Rinaldi. I am the housekeeper. Please sit. I will alert Mr. Tween. He and Ms. Modesto are sleeping. It is very late.”
“Ms. Rinaldi, when did you last see or speak with Mr. Tween or Ms. Modesto?”
“Ah … I think about nine this evening. Yes, about nine before I retired to my quarters for the night. Please sit,” she repeated, and went out.
“Before Modesto went out,” Peabody murmured.
“Yeah.” Eve looked around what she imagined they called the front parlor.
More flowers—someone had a fondness for them. And a formal sort of feel with cream-colored sofas, peacock-blue chairs, tables with a slight sheen of gold. More gold in the ornate frame of the big oval mirror over a white marble fireplace filled with flowers and candles now for spring.
The art went for Italian scenes. Red tile roofs on stucco houses and great cathedral domes. Rolling hills and farmhouses. She recognized Tuscany—because she’d been there. As well as a painting of the Spanish Steps in Rome.
She walked to the one of Tuscany—those hills, those tall, slim trees, vineyards with purple grapes climbing, a winding path leading to a house of pale rose stucco with flowers rioting at its feet.
And in the corner, the artist’s signature.
M. Stowe.
“It’s good work,” Peabody commented. “I sent the other one in, still wrapped. You’ve been there, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Does it really look like that?”
“Yeah, it does. It’s her room. This is her room.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s formal and elegant. The flowers, the paintings—especially that one. The couple of photographs?” Eve gestured. “The kid, her and the kid, but not the husband. Her family, most likely, but not with him. The dust catchers all feel female.”
Frowning, Peabody looked around. “You’re right about that. It all feels female. Not frilly, but female.”
Eve gestured. “The tablet on the table by the chair that faces Stowe’s painting? She could sit there, read or work or whatever, look up and see the painting. Think about her lover. Think about home.
“A company room,” Eve added. “But otherwise hers.”
She turned when she heard footsteps, and waited to meet Jorge Tween.
2
Average height and build, Eve noted. His pale blond hair swept back from a handsome face—golden tan, deep-set and sleepy blue eyes, soft rather than sharp features.
He wore black lounge pants with the faintest sheen, a white pullover, and black house skids.
His expression read annoyed rather than concerned.
“As this is the first time I’ve been awakened in the middle of the night by the police, I’d like to see your identification.”
A smooth, soft voice, like his features, Eve noted as both she and Peabody held out their badges.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody,” she said. “We have difficult news, Mr. Tween. We regret to inform you your wife, Galla Modesto, is dead. We’re sorry for your loss.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He flicked that off, literally, with his fingers. “My wife is upstairs sleeping.”
“You verified that before coming down?”
“I don’t have to verify what I know. You’ve made a mistake.”
“Did your wife go out this evening, Mr. Tween?”
“I don’t know what business that is of yours, but yes, she went to her gym as she sometimes does in the evening before bed. She finds a workout helps her sleep.”
“And what time did she come back?”
“I don’t know. I had a headache, took a blocker, and went to bed. I occasionally suffer from migraines. Knowing that, Galla would use one of the guest rooms after she got back from the gym.”
“So you haven’t seen your wife since she left the house? At what time?”
“I don’t know.” Irritation, pure, without a hint of worry or alarm, sharpened his voice. “Somewhere around ten.”
“At ten-eighteen, Galla Modesto died in Washington Square Park after being stabbed in the abdomen. Her body has been officially identified.”
“That’s not possible,” he began as Eve took out her ’link.
She brought up a crime scene photo of the victim, held it up. “Is this your wife, sir?”
He stared at the image, stared hard, before he turned, walked to a chair, sat. “How could this happen?” He put the flat of his hand to his forehead, shielding his face as he looked down. “Galla—Galla was attacked?”
Deciding not to wait for an invitation, Eve sat, gestured for Peabody to do the same. “Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt her?”