“Yes, we all do what we do.” He went into the bedroom, ignored Peabody, and went straight to the closet safe. “I opened the one in the study downstairs for your associates,” he said as he plugged in the combination, finished with his thumbprint.
“Appreciate it.”
It was jewelry—his and hers. Pricey wrist units, some antique wristwatches, glittering stones, gleaming pearls. While he stood watch, Eve went through it, checked for false bottoms, compartments.
When she was satisfied, she stepped back. “You can lock her up.”
He did so. “How much longer?”
“C
ouple hours, at a guess. I want to ask one question. Lot of family photographs around the house. I haven’t seen one out of your son. Why is that?”
There was a look in his eye, for only a moment, and the look was bleak. “It’s painful. And it’s private.” He turned and left.
Questions and possibilities circled in Eve’s mind as she watched him go. “Have Baxter and Trueheart take the guest room up here, Peabody. You handle the bathrooms to start. I’m taking the kid’s room.”
What was interesting, Eve thought, was that with the kid’s schedule, Rayleen had time to use the elaborate space. But it was obvious she did from the art projects in progress, the schoolwork discs filed in her pink, monogrammed case. A paper desk calendar with a pair of insanely adorable puppies was turned to the correct date.
She had photos as well. One which had to be her classmates at Sarah Child all lined up by height, facing the camera in their spiffy uniforms. Another of a vacation shot with Rayleen flanked by her parents, all looking sun-kissed and windblown. Her own solo school picture, and another solo of her in a pink party dress.
There were a couple of thriving live green plants on her windowsill in pink and white pots. Obviously Rayleen didn’t tire of the color scheme. Or had no choice in it.
Eve was voting for the former.
The kid had more clothes than Eve could have claimed for all the years of her own childhood put together. All as neat and organized as her parents’ had been. There were dance clothes, dance shoes, a soccer uniform, soccer shoes. Three identical school uniforms, dressy clothes, casual clothes, and play clothes, all with appropriate shoes.
There was a forest of hair ties, bands, clips, pins, and ribbons, all meticulously kept in a designated drawer.
At least nothing was tagged to indicate where and when she’d worn anything. But a lot of items—notebooks, bags, stickers, writing tools, art cases, and so on—were labeled with her name.
A big decorative pillow on her bed had PRINCESS RAYLEEN splashed across it, as did a fluffy pink bathrobe and the matching slippers.
She had her own date book, with all of her activities and appointments plugged in, her own address book with the names of schoolmates, relatives, her father’s various ’link numbers.
Eve bagged them.
“How come you’re allowed to take that?”
Eve turned, though she’d known Rayleen was there. “Aren’t you supposed to be someplace else?”
“Yes.” A smile curved, charming, conspiratorial. “Don’t tell. Please? I just wanted to watch how you searched. I think maybe I’ll work in crime investigation one day.”
“Is that so?”
“Daddy thinks I’d make a good lawyer, and Mom hopes I’ll go into art, or dance. I like to dance. But I like to figure things out more. I think maybe I’ll study to be a criminalist. That’s the right word, because I looked it up. It’s somebody who studies evidence. You gather it, but then other people study it. Is that right?”
“More or less.”
“I think anyone can gather it, but studying it and analyzing it would be important. But I don’t understand how come my address book and stuff could be evidence.”
“That’s why I’m the cop, and you’re not.”
The smile turned right down into a pout. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”
“I’m not very nice. I take things because I need to look at them when I have more time. Your father will get receipts for anything that leaves the premises.”
“I don’t care. It’s just a stupid book.” Rayleen shrugged. “I remember everyone’s numbers and codes anyway. I have an excellent head for numbers.”