“No. Maybe. No,” she decided. She’d been a lot of places over the last couple of years. “I don’t think. Do you know who designs shoes like the ones I’m wearing, Peabody?”
“The shoe god. Those are magolicious shoes, sir.”
“No, not the shoe god. These are the product of a man, a devious flesh and blood man, who secretly hates all women. By designing shoes like this, he can torture them for profit.”
“They make your legs look a hundred feet tall.”
“Yeah, that’s what I want all right. A pair of hundred-foot legs.” Resigned, she stepped off on fifty-one.
The door to Penthouse B was wide as a truck, and opened by a petite woman in her thirties wearing a moss green dressing gown.
Her hair was long and sleep-tousled, and was a deep, dark red with subtle gold streaks streamed through it.
“Lieutenant Dallas? God, is that a Leonardo?”
Since she was goggling at the dress, it didn’t take Eve long to conclude she was talking about it. “Probably.” As Leonardo was not only the current darling of the fashionable set, but also the main squeeze of Eve’s closest friend. “I was . . . at a thing. My partner, Detective Peabody. Mrs. Vanderlea?”
“Yes, I’m Deann Vanderlea. What’s this about?”
“Can we come in, Mrs. Vanderlea?”
“Yes, of course. I’m confused. When they called from downstairs and said the police wanted to see me, my first thought was something happened to Luther. But I’d have gotten a call from Madrid, wouldn’t I?” She smiled, uncertainly. “Nothing’s happened to Luther, has it?”
“We’re not here about your husband. This concerns Elisa Maplewood.”
“Elisa? Well, she’s in bed at this hour. Elisa can’t be in any trouble.” She folded her arms. “What’s this about?”
“When did you last see Ms. Maplewood?”
“Right before I went to bed. About ten. I went to bed early. I had a headache. What is this?”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Mrs. Vanderlea, but Ms. Maplewood is dead. She was killed earlier tonight.”
“That—that’s just ridiculous. She’s in bed.”
The simplest, cleanest way, Eve knew, was not to argue. “You may want to check on that.”
“It’s nearly four in the morning. Of course she’s in bed. Her suite is back here, off the kitchen.”
She swept away, through the spacious living area, furnished in what Eve recognized as antiques. A lot of gleaming wood and curved lines, deep colors, complex patterns and sparkling glassware. It flowed into a media room, with the wall screen recessed, and the game and communication center housed in some sort of cabinet. Armoire, she corrected. That’s what Roarke called those big-ass cabinets.
A dining room angled off to the side, with the kitchen behind it.
“I’d like you to wait here, please.”
Snippy now, Eve noted. Irritated and afraid.
Mrs. Vanderlea opened a set of wide pocket doors and walked into what Eve assumed was Elisa Maplewood’s personal area.
“This place is huge,” Peabody whispered.
“Yeah, lots of space, lots of stuff.” She looked around the kitchen. Everything was silver and black. Dramatic, efficient, and so clean she doubted even a team of sweepers would come up with a single mote of dust.
It wasn’t that different a setup than the one in Roarke’s house. She didn’t think of the kitchen as hers. That was Summerset’s province, and she was more than happy to let him rule there.
“I’ve met her before.”
Peabody glanced back from her ogling of the massive AutoChef. “You know Vanderlea?”