"Do you understand what happened to your husband?"
She hugged the puffball dog, buried her face in its fluff. "He got sick. Peter couldn't make him better."
"Mrs. Pettibone, we think it's most likely the champagne was responsible for your husband's death. Where did he get the glass of champagne he drank right before he collapsed?"
"From the girl, I guess." She sniffed, stared at Eve with a puzzled expression. "Why would champagne make him sick? It never did before."
"What girl?"
"What girl?" Bambi repeated, her face a baffled blank.
Patience, Eve reminded herself. "You said 'the girl' gave Mr. Pettibone the champagne for his toast."
"Oh, that girl. One of the servers." Bambi lifted a shoulder, nuzzled the little dog. "She brought Boney a new glass so he could make his toast."
"Did he take it off her tray?"
"No." She pursed her lips, sniffled softly. "No, I remember she handed it to him and wished him a happy birthday. She said, 'Happy birthday, Mr. Pettibone.' Very politely, too."
"Did you know her? Have you employed her before?"
"I use Mr. Markie, and he brings the servers. You can leave everything up to Mr. Markie. He's just mag."
"What did she look like?"
"Who?"
God, give me the strength not to bitch-slap this moron. "The server, Bambi. The server who gave Boney the glass of champagne for his toast."
"Oh. I don't know. Nobody really looks at servers, do they?" She said it with a fluttering confusion as Eve stared at her. "Tidy," she said after a moment. "Mr. Markie insists on his staff presenting a neat appearance."
"Was she old, young, tall, short?"
"I don't know. She looked like one of the servers, that's all. And they all look the same, really."
"Did your husband speak to her?"
"He said thank you. Boney's very polite, too."
"He didn't appear to recognize her? The server," Eve added quickly as Bambi's mouth began to purse on what surely would have been another "Who?"
"Why would he?"
No one, Eve decided, could pretend to be this level of idiot. It had to be sincere. "All right. Do you know anyone who'd wish your husband harm?"
"Everyone loved Boney. You just had to."
"Did you love Boney while he was married to his first wife?"
Her eyes went bigger, rounder. "We never, ever cheated. Boney didn't even kiss me until after he was divorced. He was a gentleman."
"How did you meet him?"
"I worked at one of his flower shops. The one on Madison. He used to come in sometimes and look at the stock, and talk to us. To me," she added with a trembling smile. "Then one day he came by just as I was getting off and offered to walk me home. He took my arm while we walked. He told me how he was getting a divorce and wondered if I'd have lunch with him sometime. I wondered if it was just a line—guys say stuff like that, you know, how they're leaving their wife, or how she doesn't make him happy, and all sorts of things just to get you to go to bed with them. I'm not stupid."
No, Eve thought, you redefine the word.
"But Boney wasn't like that. He never tried anything funny."