She ate, considered. “The same one that launched her long career, right? And there was a death there, too. Something about the actress cast in the role of the daughter back then overdosing. I have to look at that.”
“I couldn’t say, as I’d’ve been running the streets of Dublin at that time and more concerned with survival than Broadway musicals.”
“I need to look at it. There could be a connection. Somebody holding a really long grudge.” She shoveled in eggs as she thought it through. “Lane gets the spotlight because somebody dies. In a way, poisons themselves,” she said as Roarke topped off her coffee. “And here she is, using that same show to get all this media, the applause, maybe another whatever it is you get for plays. The statue thing.”
“A Tony.”
“Whatever. She got one all those years ago in the daughter role, I got that much. Now she’s going to try for another in the mother role.”
“A quarter century,” he commented. “A long time to wait.”
“It makes a circle. Maybe somebody connected to the original show, or more, to the original actor.” Eve shrugged. “It’s shaky, but worth some digging. Just like we’ll dig deeper in case one or both of them were smart about screwing around. Or if, say, Lane had some money issues we don’t know about. She’ll be raking it in from his estate. Other beneficiaries we’ll look at. She cleared us for a copy of his will.”
She frowned over a bite of egg. “Every single person we interviewed last night cooperated. Vera bitched, but she cooperated.”
“Any chance someone crashed the party?”
“I’ve thought about it. The security was tight, but it happens. Nobody used the private elevator. But you had a lot of those plus-one deals, so we’ll dig there. A couple hundred people in one space, a big space, but still one space. A lot of opportunity to poison a drink.
“I need to get started. Setting up a board should give me a clearer picture.”
She rose, went into her closet.
“I’ve an hour or so this morning. I could look into the financials, the victim and the widow.”
She poked her head back out. “You’re just looking to have more fun.”
“Always. I do know Fitzhugh formed his own production company a couple years ago, and they’ve done a few projects. One was up against the Icove vid for best picture. And, I believe, the one he was about to start, as lead, is the first he’d have been in as well as producing.”
“Maybe that pissed somebody off,” she called out as she stared blankly at the forest of clothes surrounding her. “Maybe one or both of them nixed some other actor from getting a part in these big deals they’re doing. Actors are weird, right?”
“Are they?” Roarke said from her open closet doors.
“They’ve got to be. They make their living pretending to be somebody else doing and saying the stuff that fake person says and does. Then somebody’s always whining they didn’t do it well enough.”
“That’s one way to look at it. You can go with black. You’ll be speaking to the widow again today, I imagine. But not severe, so a pastel shirt to soften it. Professional, but not funereal, as you’ll have that media conference as well.”
“Fine. Great.” She grabbed clothes at random. “I can maybe wheedle out of the media thing.”
He kissed her cheek, like a father to a naive child. “Good luck with that.”
She dragged on trousers, a pale blue tee, and came out for her weapon harness. “I can’t feed them what I don’t have.”
“Darling, you have quite a lot. And the fact is, you’re better at dealing with the media than you care to admit.”
“Yeah, but—” Her ’link signaled. Snatching it up, she frowned. “Nadine. I can ignore that.”
“And I repeat myself. Good luck with that, as she’ll just keep tagging until you answer. Or show up at Central with brownies.”
“Brownies make it go down easier,” she muttered, but knowing he had it right, she answered. “I got nothing but a dead guy and a couple hundred potential suspects. Don’t hound me.”
“What kind of poison? The word is cyanide, but it’s not confirmed.”
“Because it’s not confirmed.”
Nadine Furst, crime reporter, writer, friend, gave Eve a long look out of shrewd green eyes. She’d styled her blond hair, streakier than usual, in a sleek bob. A new look that framed her foxy face. She simply said:
“Dallas.”
“Morris has him, and Morris will confirm.”
“Cyanide in a champagne cocktail.”
Damn public crime scenes, Eve thought.
“I’m not prepared to confirm or deny.”
“I met them. Brant Fitzhugh and Eliza Lane.”
Eve shrugged into her jacket. “Why weren’t you at the party? Media types there.”
“Entertainment media types,” Nadine pointed out. “And I met them. We weren’t friends, not even really acquaintances. I met them at one of the after parties at the Oscars. They were both very gracious—very,” she repeated, “considering we beat them out on three of the major awards they were also nominated for. I liked them,” she added. “It wasn’t just the dazzle of the moment.”
Because she knew Nadine had an exceptional gauge, Eve decided to pump the source as she walked out of the bedroom. “How did they strike you as a couple? A married couple.”
“Happy, and in tune. While we were chatting, he slipped away, and came back with a drink for her. Champagne cocktail, twist of lemon. I’ve had time since I got word on this to look, and that’s her signature drink. How come he drank it?”
“Circumstances.” Then she decided what the hell. “He brought it to her, but she decided to do a number, and he ended up drinking it.”
“So she was the intended victim—some of the reports are hinting pretty strongly there.”
“That’s not what I said. I’d be careful there, Nadine.” Here she warned both reporter and friend. “We still have witnesses to interview, data to accumulate, and Morris has yet to confirm COD.”
“Give me something, any little thing.”
“The bartender who made the drink is clear. The victim stood there telling her just how to make it to his wife’s preferences. She couldn’t have slipped anything into the glass.”
“Okay, that’s a good little thing. What’s her name?”
“I bet a hotshot reporter like you can find that out. Shit, shit, I’ve got another tag. It’s Whitney. I have to go.”
“Wait—”
She didn’t, simply broke the transmission with Nadine and answered her commander as she walked into her office. “Sir.”
“I need a full report on the Fitzhugh investigation asap.”
“Yes, sir. I’m working from home right now. I’ll have the report to you within the hour.”
“Bring it with you. One hour, my office. We’ll have Kyung set up the media briefing at ten hundred hours.”
“Sir. I have a team meeting at the crime scene at nine hundred, to execute a full search. At that time I plan to follow up with Ms. Lane. She’s staying in the building with a friend. I have a man on the door. I would also like to consult with Morris, ascertain the official COD, and any other information he can provide.”