"Someone's died," Sam said aloud,
"Yes, someone's died. And now," Roarke said, "they'll work to find the balance."
CHAPTER THREE
Walter C. Pettibone, the birthday boy, had arrived home at precisely seven-thirty. One hundred and seventy-three friends and associates had shouted "Surprise!" in unison the minute he'd walked in the door.
But that hadn't killed him.
He'd beamed like a boy, playfully scolded his wife for fooling him, and had greeted his guests with warmth and pleasure. By eight, the party was in full swing, and Walter had indulged lavishly in the enormous and varied spread of food the caterers provided. He ate quail's eggs and caviar, smoked salmon and spinach rolls.
But that hadn't killed him either.
He'd danced with his wife, embraced his children, and dashed away a little tear at his son's sentimental birthday toast.
And had survived.
At eight-forty-five, with his arm snug around his wife's waist, he lifted yet another glass of champagne, called for his guests' attention, and launched into a short but heartfelt speech regarding the sum of a man's life and the riches therein when he was blessed with friends and family.
"To you," he said, in a voice thick with emotion, "my dear friends, my thanks for sharing this day with me. To my children, who make me proud—thank you for all the joy you've brought me. And to my beautiful wife, who makes every day a day I'm grateful to be alive."
There was a nice round of applause, then Walter tipped back his glass, drank deep.
And that's what killed him.
He choked, his eyes bugged. His wife let out a little shriek as he clawed at the collar of his shirt. His son slapped him enthusiastically on the back. Staggering, he pitched forward into the party guests, tipping several of them over like bowling pins before he hit the ground and starting having seizures.
One of the guests was a doctor, and pushed forward to lend aid. The emergency medical technicians were called, and though they responded within five minutes, Walter was already gone.
The shot of cyanide in his toasting flute had been an unexpected birthday gift.
Eve studied him, the slight blue tinge around the mouth, the shocked and staring eyes. Caught the faint and telling whiff of burnt almonds. They'd moved him onto a sofa and loosened his shirt in the initial attempt to revive him. No one had swept away the broken glass and china as of yet. The room smelled strongly of flowers, wine, chilled shrimp, and fresh death.
Walter C. Pettibone, she thought, who'd gone in and out of the world on the same day. A tidy circle, but one most human beings would prefer to avoid.
"I want to see the doctor who worked on him first," she told Peabody, then scanned the floor. "We'll need to have all this broken shit taken in, identify which container or containers were spiked. Nobody leaves. That's guests and staff. McNab, you can start taking names and addresses for followups. Keep the family separate for now."
"Looks like it would've been a hell of a party," McNab commented as he headed out.
"Lieutenant. Dr. Peter Vance." Peabody escorted in a man of medium build. He had short, sandy-colored hair and a short, sandy-colored beard. When his gaze shifted past her to Walter Pettibone's body, Eve saw both grief and anger harden his eyes.
"That was a good man." His voice was clipped and faintly British. "A good friend."
"Someone wasn't his friend," Eve pointed out. "You recognized that he'd been poisoned, instructed the MTs to notify the police."
"That's correct. The signs were textbook, and we lost him very quickly." He looked away from the body and back at Eve. "I want to believe it was a mistake, some horrible accident. But it wasn't. He'd just finished giving a rather schmaltzy little toast, so like him. He was standing with his arm around his wife, his son and daughter and their spouses beside him. He had a big grin on his face and tears in his eyes. We applauded, he drank, then he choked. Collapsed right here and began having seizures. It was over in minutes. There was nothing to be done."
"Where did he get the drink?"
"I couldn't say. The caterer's staff was passing around champagne. Other beverages could be had from the bars that were set up here and there. Most of us had been here since about seven. Bambi was frantic about all of the guests being in place when Walt arrived home."
"Bambi?"
"His wife." Vance replied. "Second wife. They've been married a year or so now. She's been planning this surprise party for weeks. I'm sure Walt knew all about it. She's not what you'd call a clever woman. But he pretended to be surprised."
"What time did he get here?"
"Seven-thirty, on the nose. We all yelled surprise per Bambi's instructions. Had a good laugh out of it, then went back to eating, drinking. There was some dancing. Walt made the rounds. His son made a toast." Vance sighed. "I wish I'd paid more attention. I'm sure Walt was drinking champagne."