“We’re still basically newlyweds. It’s perfectly acceptable for newlyweds to neck in public places.”
“Like you care about what’s acceptable.” She put a hand on his chest, nudged him back to a safe distance. “So, you’ve packed them in tonight. I guess you figured you would.” She turned back to look out on the audience again.
She didn’t know much about architecture or design, but the place dripped with class. She imagined Roarke had employed the best minds and talents available to rehab the old building into its former glory.
People wandered in and out of the enormous, multilevel theater during the break, and the sound of their voices rose in a low roar of humanity. Some were dressed to kill, so to speak. Others were decked out in the casual wear of airboots and oversized, retro flak jackets that were all the rage that winter.
With its soaring, muraled ceilings, its miles of red carpet and acres of gilt, the theater itself had been redone to Roarke’s exacting specifications. Everything he owned was done to his specifications—and, Eve thought, he owned damn near everything that could be owned in the known universe.
It was something she still wasn’t used to, something she doubted she’d ever be fully comfortable with. But that was Roarke, and they’d taken each other for better or worse.
In the year since they’d met, they’d had more than their share of both.
“It’s a hell of a place you’ve got here, pal. I didn’t get the full punch of it from the holo-models.”
“Models only provide the structure and elements of ambiance. A theater needs people, the smell and sound of them, to have impact.”
“I’ll take your word for it. What made you pick this play for the opening?”
“It’s a compelling story, and, I think, has timeless themes as the best stories do. Love, betrayal, murder, all in a layered and untidy package. And it’s a stellar cast.”
“And it all has your stamp on it. Still, Leonard Vole’s guilty.” She narrowed her eyes at the shimmering red-and-gold drawn curtain as if she could see through it to measure and judge. “His wife’s a very cool customer, with some trick up her sleeve. The lawyer guy’s good.”
“Barrister,” Roarke corrected. “The play takes place in London, mid-twentieth century. Barristers plead criminal cases in that particular system.”
“Whatever. The costumes are cool.”
“And authentic, circa 1952. When Witness for the Prosecution came out on film, it was a huge hit, and it’s proven an enduring one. They had a stellar cast then, too.” He had it on disc, of course. Roarke had a particular fondness for the black-and-white films of the early—and mid-twentieth century.
Some saw black-and-white as simple and clear cut. He saw shadows. That, he thought, his wife would understand very well.
“They’ve done a good job casting actors who reflect the original players while maintaining their own style,” he told her. “We’ll have to watch the movie sometime, so you can judge for yourself.”
He, too, scanned the theater. However much he enjoyed an evening out with his wife, he was a businessman. The play was an investment. “I think we’re in for a good, long run with this.”
“Hey, there’s Mira.” Eve leaned forward as she spotted the police psychologist, elegant as always, in a winter-white sheath. “She’s with her husband, and it looks like a couple of other people.”
“Would you like me to get a message down to her? We could invite them for a drink after curtain.”
Eve opened her mouth, then slid her gaze to Roarke’s profile. “No, not tonight. I’ve got other plan
s.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. Got a problem with that?”
“None whatsoever.” He topped off their wine. “Now, we have a few minutes before the next act. Why don’t you tell me why you’re so sure Leonard Vole is guilty.”
“Too slick not to be. Not slick like you,” she added and made Roarke grin. “His is a—what do you call it—a veneer. Your slick goes down to the bone.”
“Darling, you flatter me.”
“Anyway, this guy’s an operator, and he does a good job with the honest, innocent act of a hopeful, trusting man who’s down on his luck. But great-looking guys with beautiful wives don’t piddle time away with older, much less attractive women unless they have an agenda. And his goes a lot deeper than selling some goofy kitchen tool he invented.”
She sipped her champagne, settling back as the house-lights flickered to signal the end of intermission. “The wife knows he did it. She’s the key, not him. She’s the study. If I were investigating, she’s the one I’d be looking into. Yeah, I’d have myself a nice long talk with Christine Vole.”
“Then the play’s working for you.”