“You were supposed to perform them,” Peabody reminded her.
“Maybe I’ll get around to that. Meanwhile…” She pulled out her badge. “You’re going to watch over that heap like it was an XR-5000, fresh off the showroom floor. And you’re going to buzz up and tell—Who are we seeing here, Peabody?”
“The Fergusons.”
“You’re going to t
ell the Fergusons that we’ve come to chat.”
“Mr. Ferguson’s already left the building this morning. Breakfast meeting. Mrs. Ferguson’s still inside.”
“Then get hopping.”
He looked none too pleased, but rang the apartment and cleared them inside.
Into chaos.
Eileen Ferguson had a child of indeterminate age on her hip. He had some sort of pink goo circling his mouth and was wearing footed pajamas decorated with grinning dinosaurs.
Eve figured if dinosaurs grinned it was because dinner was about to be served. So why did adults decorate their offspring with carnivores? She’d never get it.
In the background came screams and barks and whoops that may have been glee or terror. Eileen herself wore a rust-colored sweater, loose black pants, and fuzzy slippers the color of cotton candy. Her brown hair was slicked back in a long tail and her eyes, a quiet hazel, seemed eerily calm given the noise level.
Eve wondered if she’d toked before answering the door.
“This must be about Craig Foster. Come in at your own risk.” She stepped back. “Martin Edward Ferguson, Dillon Wyatt Hadley.” She didn’t shout, but her voice, perfectly pleasant, carried. “Settle down right now, or I’ll dismantle that dog and shove the parts into the recycler. Sorry, coffee?” she said to Eve and Peabody.
“Ah, no.”
“Dog’s a droid-terrier mix. I had a moment of complete insanity and bought it for Martin for his birthday. And now, we pay the price.”
But Eve noted that the noise level had dropped. Perhaps, at one time or another, other items had found their way into Eileen’s recycler.
“Have a seat. I’ll just put Annie in her chair.”
The chair was a round and colorful deal with dozens of bright buttons and rolling things to entertain curious fingers. It beeped and it buzzed and let out what Eve thought was a fairly creepy chuckle. But Annie was immediately engaged.
“Word is that Mr. Foster was poisoned.” Eileen dropped into a black scoop chair. “Is that true?”
“We’ve determined Mr. Foster ingested a poisonous substance, yes.”
“Just tell me, is it safe for me to take these kids to school?”
“We have no reason to believe the students are in any danger.”
“Thank God—on so many levels. I don’t want anything to happen to Martin—or any of them. But, sweet Jesus, I don’t want to be saddled with four kids all day.”
“Four?” Eve repeated, and felt an immediate flood of fear and sympathy. “Only Martin Ferguson is listed as your child on school records.”
“I’ve got kid duty this week.”
“Which is?”
“I take the group—that’s Martin, and Dillon from upstairs, Callie Yost, she’ll be here in a minute, and Macy Pink. We pick her up on the way; she lives a block down. Haul them to school, pick them up at the end of the day. In case of school cancellation or the enormous number of school holidays, I deal with them. We cycle—every week one of the parents has kid duty.”
“You signed in the day Mr. Foster died at shortly after eight and were there for forty minutes.”
“Yeah, got them in early, dumped them in Early Care, then I had to take the dozen cupcakes to the nutrition center for clearance.”