“Got it. You also work at Du Vin?”
“Oh God, oh God, I wasn’t even there when that gossip reporter was killed. But I’m starting to wonder if I’m bad luck.”
“Relax. Sit down.”
“I can sit, but I don’t know if I’ll ever relax again. I made the drink. But it was just a drink.”
“Then how do you know it was the drink that killed Mr. Fitzhugh?”
“Because people were buzzing around, talking about poison, and the cops. And oh God, when I came inside, I saw him on the floor, and I saw the broken glass. Am I under arrest?”
“No. Who was talking about poison?”
“I don’t know. Wait, um, Jed—one of the servers. He was standing next to me, and he said, like: Holy shit, somebody must’ve poisoned his drink. Something about his face. He came in with me, Jed, I mean. He was serving the terrace.”
“You told Detective Peabody Mr. Fitzhugh was talking to someone while you made the drink.”
“He called him Lin. They were really friendly, laughing. Um, something about heading out of summer into winter.”
“And they walked back into the living room together.”
“That’s right.”
“Did anyone follow them?”
“Not that I noticed. I was pretty busy. I did see Mr. Fitzhugh stop to talk to a couple people. This woman, she had a killer dress. I don’t mean killer!”
“What did she look like?”
“I think she’s somebody—she looked like somebody. Tall, a lot of boobs, blond hair. I mostly noticed the dress. Gold and shiny and cut down to her navel, practically, and to her ass crack in the back, with these glittery crisscrosses holding it together. Anyway, I caught him talking to her for a minute and saw them do one of those kiss-kiss deals, and how she jammed those boobs into him. Then I got busy, and I didn’t notice where he went after.”
“Okay, Monika, we appreciate it. If you think of anything else, please contact us.”
“That’s it? I can go home? You’re not going to arrest me?”
“For mixing a drink and cooperating with the police? I don’t think so.”
Monika let out a shaky breath, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Okay. Okay. Thanks.” She got up. “I want to say, he was really nice. Mr. Fitzhugh. He looks at you. I don’t mean like coming-on-to-you look. Just that a lot of people don’t look at you when you’re making a drink or serving. And he did. I’m really sorry about what happened.”
When she left, Eve turned to Peabody. “See if the killer dress is still here, Peabody, and send this Lin in.”
“Got it.”
He got the drink on the terrace, Eve thought, letting herself see it in her head as she wandered the area, opened what turned out to be a liquor cabinet—freaking alphabetized, she noted.
He tells the bartender it’s for his wife, and how she likes it. Anyone could overhear, she decided, and found a cabinet filled with glassware—sparkling and arranged by size and use.
Or, according to the wife, many would know it was for her. He’s with his assistant. So opportunity there. Stops to talk to Killer Dress, another opportunity. Makes his way through the crowd, and very likely stops here and there to mingle. More opportunities.
She continued to imagine it as she found serving dishes, bar tools.
A hand on his arm. “Hey, Brant, great party.” Kiss-kiss, handshake, guy hug. Easy enough to drop a little poison in the glass heading for Eliza Lane.
But she doesn’t drink it. The good friend suggests she perform. Coincidence—which is bollocks. Or just twist of fate, bad timing, both of which could happen.
But damn conveniently.
Then again.
Lane hands the glass back and goes to the piano. Fitzhugh moves into the crowd. More, plenty more opportunities to doctor the drink. Not his usual drink, but instead of just holding it, he toasts his wife and seals the toast by drinking.
Did the killer expect that, or not?
Which one was the intended victim?
As she leaned back against one of the long white counters, Peabody stepped in with a man, about five-eight, with a tough, muscular build filling out a suit the color of crushed raspberries. His eyes, lion tawny, showed signs of weeping. He sported a ruler-straight, narrow scruff along his jawline and a thick mane of brown hair.
“Lieutenant, Mr. Linwood Jacoby, Mr. Fitzhugh’s personal assistant.”
“And friend.” He spoke in a voice thick with tears. “Brant was my friend.”
“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Jacoby.”
“I lost my brother to addiction five years ago. I thought I’d never know a loss that deep. I was wrong. What the hell happened?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out. Please, sit down.”
“I need to do something. Anything.”
“You will be. How long have you known Mr. Fitzhugh?”
“Ah, seventeen years, I guess it is. They hired me to beef him up. I was a personal trainer, and the studio wanted Brant to put on more muscle, and to sharpen up his martial arts skills. I’d worked with other actors, built a good rep there, so I worked with Brant for ten weeks before they started shooting Warrior King. We hit it off, and he asked me to work with him through the production.”
“And you became his assistant.”
“Trainer, assistant, friend. I stood up for him when he married Eliza. When my brother died, he was with me for the memorial.”
“You were with him shortly before he collapsed.”
“We were on the terrace, at the bar. He wanted to take Eliza a drink. We talked a few minutes, then I walked inside with him. I peeled off to mingle, and Vera cornered him.”
“That’s Vera Harrow?”
“Yeah, and I don’t mean corner like that.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Vera and I aren’t especially friendly.”
“But she and Fitzhugh were?”
“They had a history—and I mean history. They had a thing for a few months, but that was a decade ago. Then Brant met Eliza, and, well, stars burst, angels sang.” He smiled a little.
“She and Brant get along fine. Brant has a way of getting along. But me? I’m the hired help as she sees it, and she makes sure I know it. So I steer clear if we’re in the same space.”
“Where were you when Mr. Fitzhugh collapsed?”
“I was in the main dining room, talking to Dolby—that’s Eliza’s assistant. I was actually getting ready to slip out. Great party, but I had a lot to do tomorrow before we left for location. And then Eliza and Samantha started the duet. I sort of hung back, figuring I’d wait until they finished, then ease my way out. Then…”
He closed his eyes. “Okay, then somebody screamed, and people either pushed back or rushed forward. I didn’t see Brant at first, but I started to go over, see what was wrong, how I could help. People were shouting and scrambling around, and somebody yelled out to call for a medical team. And that’s when I saw him, on the floor.”
He paused, looked away as tears swirled into his eyes again. “Eliza was down with him, and a man I heard after was a doctor. And Brant’s face was red, and he was shaking—seizing. I shoved my way through. It was all so fast, so insane.