“Please be at home.”
“I’d like to see what water from snowmelt in the Andes tastes like,” Peabody said when he left them.
“I bet it tastes like water. Who could live in this place?”
“It’s sort of giving me a headache. It hurts my eyes, and I have to keep blinking to see where things actually are. Oh Jesus, that’s not a pussycat.”
“Huh?” Eve glanced back. No, not just a cat. A cat. Maybe a lion—small scale, but . . . Or a tiger, or—
“A white panther cub.”
Candida, draped in a white sweater, snug white pants, white diamonds in a hard sparkle, glided in on bare feet. Her hair tumbled around a face as beautiful and as hard as her diamonds.
“Delilah.” She stroked a hand over the cub as she passed by. “Is Aston getting your tea?”
“Water,” Eve corrected. “We appreciate you taking the time to speak with us.”
“Oh well.” She laughed, waved a hand, then curled up on a curvy white sofa, all but disappeared into it. “I spend a lot of time talking to the police, or my lawyers do. I know who you are, and I’m interested. I thought you’d be older.”
“Than what?”
She laughed again. “I’m going to the premiere of your vid.”
“It’s not my vid.”
“I love premieres. You never know who you’ll see, or be seen by. Never know what might happen, and there’s nothing like seeing what nightmare dresses some women wear. Leonardo’s doing yours.”
“I’m not here to talk about my wardrobe.”
“Too bad. I could talk about clothes for hours. There you are, Aston. Will you make sure Delilah has her snack?”
“Of course.” He set her tea on the table beside her, walked over to offer the two glasses on the tray to Eve and Peabody.
“So, why are you here? I don’t have much time. I have appointments.”
“Marta Dickenson was murdered last night.”
Candida stretched her arms, shifted into recline pose. “Who’s Marta Dickenson, and why should I care?”
“She’s the accountant doing your trust fund audit. The one you’ve threatened.”
“Oh her.”
“Yeah, her.”
“If somebody killed her, it doesn’t make any difference to me.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No, I asked Tony, and he said they’d just have somebody else fuck with the audit. But maybe they won’t be such a bitch about it.”
“Who’s Tony?”
“Tony Greenblat. He’s my money guy.”
“One of the trustees?”
She made an ugly, dismissive sound. “He’s not one of those tight-assed old farts. He’s my personal finance manager, and he’s my lawyer, too. One of them. H