Dark in Death (In Death 46)

He nodded, took a damp-eyed look around the room, managed a smile. “She liked happy, Chanel did. She liked pretty, bright, and happy.”

When he stepped out, Eve took her own look around.

Bright and happy covered it. The tiny room all but glowed with bright pink walls—what was it with pink?—and the cheerful art covering them. Mostly flowers and butterflies, Eve noted, and all, to her eye, little originals likely done by friends or bought on the street.

A candy-striped duvet flowed, just a bit carelessly, over the bed under a mountain range of pillows. More flowers and butterflies, she noted, along with a dancer in one of those ballerina skirts, a unicorn.

Clothes, just as colorful and bright, tumbled over a chair. Over the single window a half dozen suncatchers were draped from fishing wire. A curlicue mirror over a three-drawer bureau held a collection of photos tucked into its white frame. Bottles, pots, a bouquet of paper flowers in a thin vase, costume jewelry—earrings, bracelets, and pendants in a multicolored bowl—jumbled together on top of the bureau.

The lone bedside table held a lamp with a frilly white shade, a tablet, a candle that smelled like sugared cookies. In its drawer Eve found tubes of hand cream, face cream, lube, a vibrator, a lighter—likely for the candle—a nail file, little clippers, and basic female paraphernalia.

She tried the tablet—not passcoded—and skimmed through with the vague hope for a diary or journal. She found what she realized were plays, some with parts highlighted, a calendar and schedule, a lot of bookmarks for stores, theaters, music, e-mails—plenty of them junk and spam—more photos.

She’d leave the deeper search for EDD, she decided, and turned to the closet.

If she’d spread her arms, she’d have rapped her elbows on the sides. While she didn’t really appreciate the size of her own closet, studying the complete chaos here made her grateful that hers, through little effort on her part, somehow remained organized.

Everything jumbled and tumbled—dresses, pants, jackets, shirts—in cheerful disarray. Dozens of scarves and belts hung over the rods. B

oots, shoes, skids tumbled together in skinny cubbies, and out of them like a footwear river. A pair of battered toe shoes hung on a hook by their pale pink ribbons. Worn ballet slippers, shoes with straps and low heels Eve took for dance shoes—and a couple had those metal tap things on the bottoms—crowded onto a shelf above the rods.

Getting dressed every day must’ve been a frigging opera, she thought as she reached up for a box that bore Chanel’s name in big, bold letters among the glitter of stars.

Inside, Eve found playbills, old programs from school plays, dance recitals. The playbills had been signed by fellow cast members, some with inscriptions. Inside each, Chanel had tucked photos. Of herself, of other cast members—rehearsals, costume fittings, makeup sessions.

She’d saved some menus from the restaurant, had her coworkers sign them, attached photos.

No journal, no diary, Eve thought. Chanel had recorded her life as she lived it. In theater.

Eve replaced the box, stepped out of the closet. She wouldn’t find the killer here, or any trace of him. Chanel’s life hadn’t mattered to him. She’d only been a character in his world.

She went back out.

Lola remained tucked up, DeVon beside her. Peabody sat across from them, talking in low, soothing tones.

“Did you find anything that helps?” Lola leaned into DeVon as she spoke. “I didn’t touch anything in her room. I couldn’t even go in.”

“I’d like to take her tablet in, go through it more thoroughly.”

“You can take anything you need, anything.”

“Did she have other electronics?”

“Just the tablet. And the ’link in her purse—you already have that. Do you want mine? You can take mine.”

“That’s all right.”

“Should I … should I go see her? Her parents are coming in, and they’re going to see her. Should I?”

Eve read dread, guilt, fear, grief.

“I imagine her parents are going to want to have a memorial for her. Maybe you could help them with that. I think that would be more important.”

“I could help.” She pressed her face to DeVon’s shoulder. “I could.”

“We’ll help. I bet Annalisa would let us hold one in the restaurant. Music, dancing. That’s Chanel, right?”

Lola nodded. “Would it be all right if I cleaned up her room some, before her parents come? And maybe, ah, take out a couple of things Chanel would be embarrassed for them to see?”