The tea and a plate of paper-thin cookies had been brought in by a smartly dressed woman with the build of a toothpick.
“We have met a time or two,” Jessica began.
“Yes, I remember.” Now that she had the face, Eve did remember. The woman was a trim and carefully turned-out eighty-something with short, softly waved hair of deep gold around a sharp-featured face. Her mouth, long and animated, was painted petal pink, and her eyes—thickly lashed—a deep river green.
“You wear Leonardo.”
“Only if he washes up first.”
Jessica giggled, an appealing sound of eternal youth. “One of my granddaughters is mad for his designs. Won’t wear anyone else. He suits her, as he does you. I believe people should always choose what suits them.”
When she passed Eve the tea, Eve had to resist commenting that coffee in a good, sturdy mug suited her.
“We appreciate you giving us your time, Ms. Charters.”
“Jessica, please.” She offered Peabody a cup and a flashing smile. “Indulge me just one moment. Could I ask, when the two of you interrogate—oh, wait, the term’s ‘interview’ these days—when you interview a suspect, do you ever rough them up?”
“We don’t have to,” Peabody told her. “The lieutenant scares confessions out of them.”
The giggle rang again. “What I wouldn’t give to watch that! I just love police dramas. I’m always trying to imagine myself the culprit, and how I’d stand up under interviews. I desperately wanted to kill my third husband, you see.”
“It’s a good impulse to resist,” Eve commented.
“Yes.” Jessica smiled her flower petal smile. “It would’ve been satisfying, but messy. Then again, divorce is rarely much tidier. Now, I’m wasting your time. How can I help you?”
“Stewart E. Pierpont.”
Jessica’s eyebrows quirked. “Yes, yes, I know that name. Has he done something murderous?”
“We’re very interested in speaking to him. We’re having a little trouble locating him.”
Though mild confusion was evident on Jessica’s face, her tone remained absolutely pleasant. ?
??His address would be on file. I’ll have Lyle look it up for you.”
“The address he’s listed doesn’t jibe. Unless they’re taking tenants at the Royal Opera House or Carnegie Hall.”
“Really?” Jessica drew out the word, and now came a quick and avid light to her eyes. “Well, well, well. I should have known.”
“How and what should you have known?”
“A very odd duck, Mr. Pierpont. He’s attended a few galas and events over the years. Not particularly sociable and not at all philanthropic. I could never wheedle donations out of him, and I am the world record holder for wheedling.”
“Galas and events are by invitation, aren’t they?”
“Of course. It’s important to—Ah! I see. How did he receive invitations if his address is not his address? Give me one moment.”
She rose, crossed the polished tiles, the thick Turkish rug, and went out of the room.
“I like her.” Peabody helped herself to a cookie. “She kind of reminds me of my grandmother. Not the way she looks, or lives,” Peabody continued with a glance around the room. “But she’s got that snap to her. Not just that she knows what’s what, but like she’s always known.
“Hey, these cookies are mag. And so thin you can practically see through them.” She took another. “See-through food can’t have many calories. Eat one, or I’m going to feel like an oinker.”
Absently, Eve took a cookie. “He doesn’t donate to the Met. Goes to a function now and then, but doesn’t lay out any real bucks. Tickets cost, events cost, but he’s getting something out of those. There’s the control again. If you donate, you can’t direct, not precisely, where your scratch is going.”
She looked over as Jessica returned.
“The mystery’s solved, but remains mysterious. Lyle reports that our Mr. Pierpont requested all tickets, all correspondence, invitations, begging letters, and so on, be held for him at the box office.”