“Yes. That painting.” She gestured to a large study of a trio of bushes flowering in deep, deep pink, and a woman in the background, facing away, head bowed.
“Lucky chance for her, too. So you left Charity’s place about nine. And then?”
“I came home, caught up on some reading, and went to bed.”
“How about last night?”
“Last night? Why?”
“Jonas Wymann, a close friend of Edward Mira’s, was murdered. Were you and Charity hanging out again?”
“No. I was at work until nearly ten, then came home and put another three hours in on a project. At least three. I didn’t go to bed until after two.”
“Did Charity ever mention Wymann to you?”
“No. I don’t recall the name. I don’t believe she met any friends of Edward Mira’s, or she would have told me.”
“Even if she’d slept with him, too.”
The muscles in Lydia’s jaw tightened, as did—for just an instant—the fingers of the hands she’d calmly folded in her lap. “As I wouldn’t have judged her, I believe, yes, she would have told me. And if you see Charity as whorish because she was foolish enough to sleep with a powerful, married man who appears to have made it a habit to prey on foolish women, you judge far too harshly. His death is, undoubtedly, difficult for his friends and his family, but to my mind he victimized Charity and others like her.”
“That’s pretty judgmental, isn’t it, Peabody?”
“Leans that way.”
“But we all have our own scale, don’t we? How about Carlee MacKensie?” Eve threw out the question on the heels of the other, and got a reaction. More than a flicker—a quick flash of shock.
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s pretty simple. Carlee MacKensie. But I can refresh you. You both spent some time at Inner Peace.”
Anger burned low and sharp in her eyes, but her voice remained coldly controlled. “My visit to Inner Peace is personal.”
“Nothing stays personal with murder. Did you meet Carlee MacKensie there?”
“As the conditions of Inner Peace are headlined by confidentiality, we used only first names while in residence. I recall no one there named Carlee.”
“I’ve got a photo,” Peabody said helpfully, and took one out.
Lydia glanced at it, then away. “I don’t recognize her.”
“You know what’s another coincidence?” Eve kept her eyes on Su’s face. “MacKensie went to Yale, too. Just like you. Just like Senator Mira, like Jonas Wymann. School ties, insomnia, and Inner Peace. Yeah, that’s a lot of . . . what’s the word, Peabody?”
“Maybe happenstance.”
“Hmm. Not the word I had in mind, but we can go with it. Happenstance.”
Lydia pulled back, folded her hands in her lap again, palm to palm. “I suppose it’s a necessary part of your job to be suspicious. How unfortunate for you.”
“Unfortunate? Nah. It’s what gets me going in the morning.” Eve smiled then, deliberately predatory. “It’s more unfortunate for people who think they can get away with murder.”
“I can only tell you Charity and I spent the day together, as described. Now. Is there any other way I can help?”
“No, that ought to do it.” Eve rose. “Thanks for your time.”
She paused at the door. “Oh, you can let your good friend know we’ll be following up with her, too. Suspicions not only get me going in the morning, they keep me going all day long.”
They went out to the elevator. Eve glanced back down the long, elegant hallway. “She’s lying, right down the line.”