Vendetta in Death (In Death #49) - J. D. Robb Page 0,48

into running for president, but she—”

Peabody broke off as the door opened.

Female droid, Eve thought after a moment. Seriously exceptional droid designed to mimic mid-thirties. Slim, attractive, with dark hair, dark eyes.

“Lieutenant, Detective, please come in.”

They stepped into a wide foyer with soaring ceilings. A massive chandelier hung overhead, dripping with elongated crystals in the iciest of blues.

The gleaming antiques—long tables, fancy chairs—the art—soft, sweeping watercolors—made her think Roarke would approve.

“Ms. Pettigrew will be down as soon as possible. May I take your coats?”

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll take you to the main parlor to wait.”

Rooms spilled from the foyer through wide archways. The main parlor had enough seating to hold about fifty asses by Eve’s estimation. More antiques, more soft colors, lots of fresh flowers.

A fire simmered low in a hearth flanked by slim, carved columns. Above it, above the thick mantel of natural wood, hung a painting of a woman about a decade younger, Eve thought, than the droid’s simulated age and a man maybe four or five years older.

They stood, both ridiculously beautiful, with him behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist and her hands over his. She wore white, bridal white, Eve realized, an unadorned sweep that skimmed to her ankles. Her hair, richly blond, tumbled down. She wore a crown of flowers. Her head tipped back toward his shoulder. His black suit contrasted sharply with the white gown.

Looking as ridiculously happy as they did beautiful, they smiled off into the distance.

“Will you join Ms. Pettigrew for coffee?” the droid asked.

“Sure. Great.”

“Please sit. We’ll be with you shortly.”

Peabody waited until the droid walked out before breathing, reverently: “That’s her. That’s Eloise Callahan. Jeez, she was just seriously gorgeous, right? And that’s Bradley Stone. Big love story. He was an actor, too, and they met on set, and fell big-time. They got married and had a couple of kids. I think they were together about twelve, fifteen years.”

It didn’t interest Eve in the least unless it connected to the case. But in case it did … “Love story gone wrong?”

“Well, yeah, because he died. He was filming on location, somewhere down South, I think, and some guy, one of the extras, I think, got a real gun on the set and just blasted away. The story is there were some kids in the scene, and he—Bradley Stone—shoved one of them to safety and took the hits.”

“He was a hero.”

Eve turned toward the woman in the archway. “My grandmother never married again. Darla Pettigrew,” she said as she walked in, offered her hand. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I wasn’t dressed for the day.”

She was now, Eve thought, in black pants and a light gray sweater. She’d clipped her brown hair back from her face so it hung somewhat limply down her back. Though she’d slapped some makeup on, she still looked a little pale, a little tired.

“No problem. Lieutenant Dallas. My partner, Detective Peabody.”

“Yes, I know very well. My grandmother’s going to be disappointed she missed you. The Icove Agenda was her favorite vid from last year. She’d hoped to attend the awards, but she hasn’t been well. Please, sit and tell me what— Oh thank God.”

She let out a rusty little laugh as the droid came in with a tray.

“Coffee. Thank you, Ariel, just set it down. I know you both drink coffee, as I’ve seen the vid myself. More than once,” she added as she sat and began to pour the coffee, “since I spend a lot of time with Grand. She contracted pneumonia over the winter, and it’s been a long recovery. She’s still weak and needs considerable rest.”

“I hope she’s fully recovered soon,” Peabody put in. “I admire her work, on all fronts. In fact my own grandmother marched with her at the first Stand Up protest in East Washington. Well, I think it was still D.C. then.”

“Is that right? She’ll be delighted to hear it.” Darla handed Eve black coffee, doctored Peabody’s, then added a splash of cream to her own. “Now. Ariel said you needed to speak to me about an investigation. I have to admit I’m nervous and curious. Am I in some sort of trouble?”

Rather than answer, Eve pushed straight in. “You were married to Thaddeus Pettigrew.”

A quick flicker of what might have been pain, a tightening of the lips. “Yes, I was. We divorced two years ago.”

“Amiably?”

“Not really. Is there truly such a thing as an amiable divorce? We were married eleven years, together for thirteen. Unlucky thirteen,