Haunted in Death (In Death 22.50)

"You carry that sort of thing? Letters, diaries, journals?"

"We absolutely do. On Bobbie again?" Maeve walked back to sit on the edge of a chair, crossed her legs.

"We have what’s been authenticated as a letter she wrote to a friend she’d made in San Francisco - ah… 1968. Two notebooks containing original lyrics for songs she’d written. There may be more, but those spring to mind."

"How about letters to family, from her New York years?"

"I don’t think so, but I can check the inventory. Or just ask my father," she added with a quick smile.

"He’s got the entire inventory in his head, I swear. I don’t know how he does it."

"Maybe you could ask him if he could spare us a few minutes."

"Absolutely."

When she hesitated, Eve primed her. "Is there something else, something you remember?"

"Actually, I’ve been sort of wrestling with this. I don’t think it makes any difference. I didn’t want to say anything in front of my father." She glanced toward the doorway, then tugged lightly - nervously, Eve thought - on one of the sparkling silver hoops she wore in her ears. "But… well, Mr. Hopkins - Rad - he sort of hit on me. Flirted, you know. Asked me out to dinner, or drinks. He said I could be a model, and he could set me up with a photographer who’d do my portfolio at a discount."

She flushed, the color rising pink into her cheeks, and cleared her throat. ‘That kind of thing.' "And did you? Have drinks, dinner, a photo session?"

"No." She flushed a little deeper. "I know when I’m getting a line. He was old enough to be my father, and well, not really my type. I won’t say there wasn’t something appealing about him. Really, he could be charming. And it wasn’t nasty, if you know what I mean. I don’t want you to think…"

She waved a hand in the air. "It was all sort of friendly and foolish. I might have even been tempted, just for the fun. But I’ve been seeing someone, and it’s turning into a thing. I didn’t want to mess mat up. And frankly, my father wouldn’t have liked it."

"Because?"

"The age difference for one, and the type of man Rad was. Opportunistic, multiple marriages. Plus, he was a client and that can get sticky. Anyway." Maeve let out a long, relieved breath. "It was bothering me that I didn’t mention it to you, and that you might hear about it and think I was hiding something."

"Appreciate that."

"I’ll go get my father," she said as she rose. "You’re sure you won’t have coffee? Tea? It’s bitter out there today."

"I wouldn’t mind either," Peabody put in. "Dealer’s choice. The lieutenant’s coffee - always black."

"Fine. I’ll be back in a few. Make yourselves comfortable."

"She was a little embarrassed about the Hopkins thing. She wanted to serve us something," Peabody said when Maeve left the room. "Makes it easier for her."

"Whatever floats." Eve got to her feet, wandered the room. It had a settled, family feel about it, with a thin sheen of class. The photos were arty black-and-whites of cities - old-timey stuff. She was frowning over one when Buchanan came in. Like his daughter, he was wearing at-home clothes. And still managed to look dignified in a blue sweater and gray pants.

"Ladies. What can I do for you?"

"You have a beautiful home, Mr. Buchanan," Peabody began. "Some wonderful old pieces. Lieutenant, it makes me wonder if Roarke’s ever bought anything from Mr. Buchanan."

"Roarke?" Buchanan gave Peabody a puzzled look. "He has acquired a few pieces from us. You’re not saying he’s a suspect in this."

"No. He’s Lieutenant Dallas’s husband."

"Of course, I forgot for a moment." He shifted his gaze to Eve with a smile. "My business keeps me so much in the past, current events sometimes pass me by."

"I bet. And speaking of the past," Eve continued, "we’re interested in any letters, journals, diaries you might have that pertain to Bobbie Bray."

"That’s a name I’ve heard countless times today. Maeve might have told you that’s why we decided to work from home. And here she is now."

Maeve wheeled in a cart holding china pots and cups.

"Just what we need. I’ve put the ‘links on auto," her father told her. "We can take a short break. Letters." He took a seat while Maeve poured coffee and tea. "We do have a few she wrote to friends in San Francisco in 1968 and 1969. And one of our prizes is a workbook containing drafts of some of her song lyrics. It could, in a way, be considered a kind of diary as well. She wrote down some of her thoughts in it, or notes to herself. Little reminders. I’ve fielded countless inquiries about just that this morning. Including one from a Cliff Gill."