She raised her glass. “The bitch wins again.”
“Having her husband die in her arms doesn’t feel like a win,” Peabody commented.
Vera laughed. “Oh please.”
“You spoke with Mr. Fitzhugh shortly before he died.”
“Apparently so. I arrived late with my date and hadn’t had the chance to say hello. We spoke, I showed off the delicious young Rico, and like a good doormat, Brant moved on to ferry the champagne cocktail to Eliza. He’s always…”
She sat up straight. “Oh wait. Wait. Her drink. It was her goddamn drink. He said he needed to take Eliza her drink, and to enjoy the party. Hers. Jesus Christ, the man was such a putz he ended up dying in her place.”
Throwing back her head, Vera let out a howl of laughter. “It was meant for Eliza all along. You with your brilliant rep didn’t put it together. Eliza was meant to drink the poison.”
“Gee, thanks. We never would’ve figured that out without you.”
Vera’s eyes narrowed, then she shrugged. “So you had. That’s your job, after all, such as it is. We’d only arrived ten or fifteen minutes before I spoke to Brant, and I could hardly know in advance he’d have a drink for Eliza in his hand when I did.”
“Being he was such a doormat, I’d think you’d assume he might, at some point in the evening. Or you might take a moment or two to greet the hostess when she had a drink in her hand.”
Eve drank coffee, watched her quarry. “Kill the old rival, then follow through with the payback. Offer the grieving husband your comfort. Lure him in—your words. Then discard him. He not only loses his wife, he’s cut down in public and humiliated. It’s a solid plan.”
Vera’s lips twisted. Not a grimace, Eve thought. A silent snarl. “I wouldn’t give Eliza the satisfaction of killing her and making her into a martyr. Are we done?”
“We can be done for now. I’m sure we’ll have more to talk about later.”
“You can talk through my lawyers.” She rose, tossed back her hair again.
“No problem.”
She started out, paused, looked back over her shoulder. “And The Icove Agenda was overrated.”
Eve looked at Peabody, knocked a fist against her own chest. “Oh. Ouch.”
“What a stone-ass bitch.”
“I think more gold-plated, but yeah, a bitch. And not in a good way. The first with any kind of clear, if twisted, motive. We’ll dig deeper there because she sure as hell deserves it.
“Bring in the other assistant—Cela Ricardo. And get the passcodes for Lane’s electronics from her and to McNab. We need to let people go, make sure we have statements and contacts, but we can’t get to everyone tonight anyway.”
She didn’t get anything more from Cela but found the contrast to the other assistants interesting. No tears from this cool-eyed, contained woman, but an efficient, detailed relay of observations.
“I was on the second floor when Ms. Lane began singing.” Cela kept her hands neatly folded in her lap as she spoke. “My employer prefers to keep guests out of private areas, so I’m tasked at events such as this to conduct a regular sweep of those areas.”
“Anybody up there?”
“I had yet to complete the sweep when I heard the sounds of alarm from the main level. At that time I was at the far end of the second floor, as I always begin the sweep at the master bedroom suite. I chose to postpone the duty to go back down, see if I could lend some assistance. I had no idea, of course, of the severity of the issue until I reached the curve of the stairs.”
Shoulders straight in a black dress, Cela shifted slightly in her chair. The only sign, Eve saw, of any distress.
“From that vantage point, I saw Mr. Fitzhugh on the floor and Ms. Lane holding his head and upper body. Dr. Cyril, who attended the party with Mr. Adderson, appeared to be attempting some medical aid. Mr. Jacoby, Mr. Fitzhugh’s assistant, was kneeling next to Ms. Lane. I determined Mr. Fitzhugh was in serious physical distress and contacted nine-one-one for assistance. I believe one of the guests or staff had already done so, but I was unaware of that at the time.”
She cleared her throat. “Might I get a glass of water?” Cela gestured to a glass-fronted friggie under the counter.
“Sure.”
She rose, retrieved a tube of spring water, a glass from a cupboard. “Would you care for one, Lieutenant?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
After pouring the glass, rolling the tube, depositing it in the recycler, she sat again. And took three slow sips.
“It was, for several moments, very chaotic.”
“Did you come down to the main level?”
“Not at that time, no. I thought it best to stay out of the way. Dolby, Dolby Kessler, Ms. Lane’s personal assistant, pushed through the crowd. There was broken glass on the floor. Dr. Cyril cut his hand on a shard. Superficially, I believe. The bell rang—the door. That’s when I went down, and I let in the medical technicians. Though I’d already seen, again from my vantage point on the stairs, that Mr. Fitzhugh had died.”
She stopped, sipped again. “It was shocking. I couldn’t imagine how such a young, fit individual, and one who’d just had a complete physical evaluation, could simply collapse and die within minutes.”
When Eve said nothing, Cela shifted again. “I’ve heard several comments and speculation regarding poison, which I discounted as dramatic. Expected with so many theater people. But I’ve also been told you specialize in murders.”
That was one way to put it, Eve supposed. “I’m with Homicide. The medical examiner will determine cause of death, and for now this apartment will be treated as a crime scene. That’s standard.”
“Of course.”
“That said, are you aware of anyone who might wish either Mr. Fitzhugh or Ms. Lane harm?”
“I couldn’t say. There’s considerable competition in their chosen field, naturally. And some fans or critics can be harsh in their evaluation of a presentation of a role. Others become, in my opinion, of course, far too enamored of the person they see in that role and take strange flights of fancy. Such as Ms. Lane’s stalker.”
“Stalker?” Son of a bitch! “What stalker?”
“A young man named Ethan Crommell. I’m sorry, I should have said this was fully three years ago, and he was ultimately arrested.”
She paused, cleared her throat, drank more water.
“Ms. Lane was starring in All’s Fair at the time, and he came to numerous performances. More, after virtually every performance, he would linger outside the stage door for a word, an autograph, or simply to catch a glimpse. He often had a single red rose to give her.”
“She interacted with him?”
“Ms. Lane is very generous with her fans. But after a few weeks of it, she limited the contact. Then he wrote letters. Even that seemed harmless enough at first, if obsessive, but it escalated.”
“In what way did it escalate?”
“He sent flowers, small gifts, and in his notes he started to insist they were meant to be together. That they had been together in a former life. He began to follow her, and then to approach. In any case, over a period of about three months, his behavior became more delusional, and he more insistent.”