The New York view dominated the living area through a wall of glass doors. Inside, a long, narrow fireplace snapped with light and flame under a large painting of a poppy field.
A U-shaped sofa in pale, shimmery blue faced the fire.
More seating—chairs, sofas—arranged in conversational groups picked up that shimmery blue and the poppy-red.
More art—lilies, overblown roses, and something that speared in purple that Eve couldn’t name—turned the walls into a garden. Obviously Berkle liked flowers.
A series of clear, floating shelves held what Eve assumed were expensive trinkets. In one corner stood a white piano with a trio of thick silver candlestands.
“Ms. Berkle will be right down. Let me take your coats.”
“We’re fine,” Eve told her.
“Please, take a seat. Be comfortable.”
Instead, Eve held out the photo. “Do you know this woman?”
“Yes, of course. Ann. She’s Ms. Berkle’s seamstress.”
“When did you see her last?”
“The beginning of this month when she delivered some alterations for Ms. Berkle.”
“How do you contact her?”
“I … have a ’link number.”
“I need that.”
“I, ah … Ms. Berkle.” Relief pumped off Earnestine as Berkle descended a sweep of glossy white stairs.
She didn’t look sixty-eight, Eve thought, but she did look rich.
Diamond studs glittered at her ears, and a fatter diamond weighed down her left hand. She wore those flowy pants, silver gray with the sheen of silk, matched with a draping blouse that showed off the diamond heart around her neck.
Icy blond hair swept back from a face with long-lashed blue eyes, a straight sharp nose, and a wide mouth dyed as red as the poppies on the wall.
She let out a quick trill of laughter and held out both hands to Roarke.
“What a lovely surprise!” She kissed both his cheeks.
“And you, Natalia, lovely as always.”
“You should’ve seen me three minutes ago.” She laughed again. “But I’ve had decades of practice in the art of illusion. And this must be your very impressive wife.”
“Lieutenant Eve Dallas, Detective Delia Peabody, the always lovely Natalia Berkle.”
“I’m simply delighted to meet both of you. Isn’t this exciting! Dru will be right down. You’ve met my daughter, Dru, haven’t you, Roarke?”
“I have, yes.”
“Wonderful. Let’s sit down, have some wine.”
“Ms. Berkle,” Eve interrupted. “This is official police business.”
“Yes, I assumed, which is part of the excitement. Oh, no wine then,” she said as she took Roarke’s hand and led him to the sofa.
“I’d love some,” he told her. “But it would be coffee for the lieutenant and detective.”