“I could indeed.”
“And a good dig into the rest of his finances.”
“Now it’s a happy day for me. I feel as giddy as Peabody in the snow.”
He would, she thought. Roarke wasn’t—thank God—a cheerful optimist, but he had his moments.
“You saw the house. Just an educated guess on what it’s worth.”
“Double townhouse, that neighborhood, well maintained? Twelve to fifteen million. Unless he’s heavily mortgaged or borrowed against it, she’ll be more than fine.”
“She doesn’t want to go back there, and the lawyer says she can’t sell it until the estate’s settled. At least a year, more like two. He didn’t want her to just be able to walk away, not with his money, if he popped first. I couldn’t wrangle any details on the prenup, but clearly Wythe felt Daphne got screwed over there. He says he advised her to get her own attorney, but she didn’t.”
“Neither did you, it turns out.”
She aimed a look at him. “Did I get screwed over?”
“No, but…” He lifted a hand, let it fall. “We settled that, didn’t we?”
“Add this: He worked things so she needed him for money. No job, no family—and I’m contacting them when we get home, because I want to know those details—no friends. It’s classic. She was completely dependent on him, and he structured the will so she gets a house and her own damn clothes, plus the baubles he gave her. She nearly always calls him ‘my husband,’ rarely actually uses his name.”
Eve shrugged it away. “Not the issue, it just pisses me off in general. I don’t know if it applies. I can’t see how it would, except the killer might have targeted her because he saw and recognized it, saw her as weak. An easy target. He may have seen Rosa that way, too. But Lori doesn’t come off as soft or easy.”
She brooded about it as he turned through the gates, then reached over, laid a hand on his arm. “Stop a minute.”
When he did, she slid her hand down, linked fingers with his. “I hate winter mostly. It’s cold, wet, messy, and inconvenient. But that? That’s a hell of a visual.”
Some droid, she supposed, had cleared the long, winding drive and the steps leading to the house. All else stood white and perfect with that house rising up from the snowy carpet, the stone laced on the rooflines. Trees and shrubs, wrapped in white mink, shimmered in the lights.
“I’m glad we came home,” she told him.
He leaned over to kiss her. “So am I.”
He drove the rest of the way as more lights flickered on inside the house. When they stepped inside that light, Summerset and the cat waited.
“Early and together,” Summerset observed as Galahad pranced over to slither between two sets of legs.
“I expect the city will be shut down in another hour or two,” Roarke told him. “You shouldn’t plan to go anywhere.”
“I don’t. I’d hope the two of you will also do the sensible thing and stay inside.”
“Easier to reschedule a ghoul party than a murder investigation.” Eve tossed her coat over the newel post. “But I’m working from here until I’m not.” She started up the stairs, stopped. “Don’t go outside. It’s cold, windy, and slick.” And continued up.
“Was that actually a concerned directive?” Roarke asked as he walked up the stairs with her.
“Sure. His bony ass slips in the snow, we’ve got to deal with it. It gets buried in the snow, I’ve got an unattended death to wade through. Just trying to avoid the mess.”
“Of course.” He swung an arm around her shoulders.
“I need to contact Daphne Strazza’s foster family. She’s indicated she doesn’t want anyone contacted, but I want a better sense of who she is, and what they—the family—might know about her relationship with Strazza.”
“How will that help you?”
“Details.” She shrugged. “It could give me—or Mira—a clearer sense of how to help her to remember the attack.”
“I’ll leave you to that, and give myself the entertaining time of digging into Strazza’s finances.”
“Speaking of.” It didn’t apply, Eve thought, but … “The first wife probably got a financial settlement. See if you can find that.”
“The fun never ends.”
“Glad you see it that way. Catch you later.”
She went into her office, Roarke into his. The cat debated, then opted for her sleep chair.
Eve nearly headed into the kitchen, then remembered she had the ability to program coffee from her magalicious command center. Then remembered she now had the addition of a fireplace.
Why not use it?
She ordered it on, stood studying the simmer of flames, wondering why the hell she’d ever bucked Roarke on his idea of updating her office.
She sat, programmed coffee while watching the snow fall outside the window, fast and steady.
Getting to Central in the morning would be a bitch. But that was tomorrow.
Now she opened the file with Daphne’s data, and contacted the number for the couple who’d been her guardians.
The woman who answered, bouncily, was far too young to be Daphne’s guardian. Mid-twenties, Eve judged, hair an improbable shade of red streaked with an improbable shade of blue. A line of multicolored hoops—à la McNab—ran down the lobe of her left ear while a single red stud punctured her right. She looked almost fiercely bright and happy.