“The daughter put them onstage,” Peabody pointed out.
“Yeah. Yeah. What does it take?” Eve paced away from the body. “All you have to do is cross that stage. Everyone’s used to seeing you, handling details, being around. Who’s going to say: ‘Yo, what are you doing?’ Nobody. You just check the water, that’s all. Making sure the lids are loose for good old Jimmy Jay. And you tip in the cyanide.”
She paced back. “The water’s on the table, behind the drop,” she remembered. “Smarter to do it when the singers are al
ready out there—what do you call it—upstage. In front of the drop. Vic’s in his dressing room, most everyone is except the ones onstage. It takes a minute, if that. Sealed hands, maybe thin gloves, like a doctor’s. I bet there’s a medical on staff. Smart, pretty smart. Still, maybe stupid enough to toss the sealant or gloves, the empty poison container in one of the arena’s recyclers. Why wouldn’t you? It’s just going to prove what you want us to find out anyway. Somebody poisoned him.”
Morris smiled at her. “As Reverend Jenkins and I are now so intimately acquainted, and you appear to know who somebody is, share.”
“His name’s Billy Crocker. And it’s time we had another chat.”
11
THEY TRACKED BILLY DOWN AT THE TOWN HOUSE on Park. The attractive brunette who opened the door looked pale and wrung out—and surprised. “Detective Peabody. Is there—do you have news?”
“No, ma’am. Lieutenant Dallas, this is Merna Baker, the nanny.”
“Oh, hello. I’m sorry, when I saw you on the security screen, I thought . . . Please, come in.”
The foyer was short and wide, narrowing to a hallway Eve noted bisected the house. Merna stood, puffy-eyed, in her calf-skimming dark skirt and blue blouse. Her short hair curled around a face that showed no signs of enhancements.
Wouldn’t have been Jenkins’s type, Eve thought.
“We were told Mr. Crocker was here,” Eve began. “We’d like to speak with him.”
“Oh. Yes, he’s here. He’s back with Jolene and some of the family. We’re . . . It’s such a hard day.”
“We’ll try not to make it any harder.”
“Yes, of course. If you’d just wait here a moment.”
She walked down the hall, knocked on a door. When it opened, she spoke in a voice so quiet it didn’t carry. But Eve heard Jolene’s voice spike up inside the room.
“The police? Do they know what happened to my Jimmy? Do they—”
She came out fast, pushing her way through. She wore a long pink robe, and her hair bounced like tangled springs on her shoulders. Both her feet and face were bare, and Eve had a moment to think how much prettier she was without the layers of glop she painted on.
“Jimmy Jay.” She gripped Eve’s arms, long, pink nails biting in, as several people poured out of the room, into the hall. “You’re here about Jimmy Jay. You found out what happened.”
“Yes, ma’am, we did.”
“It was his heart, wasn’t it?” The words hitched on sobs. “That’s what I’ve been telling everybody. His heart, it was just so big, so big and so full. It just gave out, that’s all. It gave out, and God called him home.”
There was a plea on her face, a terrible need in her eyes.
What was worse than telling someone their loved one was dead? Eve thought. Telling them their loved one was murdered.
“No, I’m sorry. Mr. Jenkins died of cyanide poisoning.”
Her eyes rolled back. Even as the small army of people rushed forward, Eve caught her, held her upright. And Jolene’s eyes blinked, went clear. Went cold. She slapped back at the hands reaching for her, kept those cold, clear eyes on Eve.
She went from zero to sixty, Eve thought. From fragile matron to avenger.
“You stand here, and you look me in the face, and tell me you know—absolutely, without a single doubt—that someone poisoned my husband. You look me in the eye and tell me that’s God’s own truth. Can you do that?”
“Yes. Someone poisoned your husband.”
Around them, family broke into sobs, into calls for Mama, or Mama Jo. When they pressed in, reached for her, Jolene spun around.