Francie spread her hands. “We’re family here.”
Which didn’t answer the question, but told Eve what she wanted to know.
“Mr. McEnroy stayed in New York while you, his wife, and children went to Tahiti on vacation. Is that usual?”
“Due to his work, and his business travel, Mr. McEnroy often joined the rest of the family at some point during a holiday. Or traveled alone. I came on as tutor so that the girls—though Breen was a bit young for schooling when I started—could continue their education while traveling. Most usually between New York and London, but we often accompanied Mr. McEnroy on other extended trips.”
“Or didn’t,” Eve put in. “Meaning Mr. McEnroy was often without his family here in New York, or in London, or Paris, or wherever his work schedule took him.”
“Of course.” Francie folded her hands with their pretty pink nails, set them on her knee. “It was the nature
of his business. As a result, the girls are excellent travelers. I want to add Mr. McEnroy was devoted to his daughters. He often juggled his very demanding schedule to be with them, or bring them with him for birthdays, Christmas, and so on. He was a loving, involved father.”
“Was he a loving, involved spouse?”
Francie shifted, took a moment, then looked straight into Eve’s eyes. “I would prefer you discuss any marital business with Ms. McEnroy.”
“I’m asking you—and you’ve stated you’re family—your opinion on the nature of the McEnroys’ marriage.”
“I won’t gossip about my employers, or my family.”
“This is a murder investigation, not gossip. You were aware McEnroy had numerous and habitual sexual … encounters outside his marriage.”
Francie’s face went blank, but the knuckles of her folded hands whitened. “You’re pushing me to say ugly things about a man who provided me with family when I had none.”
“I’m asking you to tell me the truth about a man who was murdered to assist in the investigation. To help find who killed your employer, who robbed a woman you’re clearly fond of of her spouse, and the children in your charge of their father.”
Tears blurred Francie’s hazel eyes. “Their private life should be private.”
“It stopped being private when he was tortured and killed by an individual who accused him of multiple rapes.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “That’s a vicious thing to accuse anyone of, and he’s unable to defend himself from such a vicious thing.”
“I’ve confirmed the rapes, Ms. Early. Multiple. He kept records.”
“Oh God, oh my God.” She rose, hands pressed to her face as she walked to the wide window, back again, glanced toward the stairs. “You’re saying to me I’ve worked for, lived with, spent my holidays with a man who …”
“You knew he cheated. I imagine his wife confided in you even if you didn’t see the signs yourself.”
“There’s a wide, wide difference. I don’t have to approve of adultery, but can say and mean it’s not my business. It’s between husband and wife, and for them to deal with. Or not. But rape isn’t … They could be lying.”
She whirled back. “Lying to try to extort money.”
“He kept records,” Eve repeated. “He had a routine, and he had a type. We also confiscated date rape drugs he kept in a locked cabinet in his office.”
She folded her hands again, and those knuckles stayed bone white. “You’re saying … oh, if you’re lying to me, I’ll have your badge. You’re saying Nigel drugged and raped women. It will destroy her, Geena. She’s already shattered, but this … Can you not tell her? She loved him, and she believed he’d stopped.
Stopped cheating. She’d believed it before, but this time, she was so sure. She was so happy.”
“There’s no way to keep this from her, and due to the multiple women involved, there’s no way to keep it from coming out in the media.”
“Keep what from me?”
At the top of the stairs, Geena McEnroy stood with one hand gripping the polished rail, the other pressed to her heart. She wore a straight, simple black dress. Its mourning color accentuated her delicate beauty. Everything about her read fragile, from the quiet brown hair swept back in a knot, to the long neck, to the slender build. Her eyes, soft blue, were swollen from weeping; her lips, unpainted, trembled.
The only bright point came from her nails, glowing in hot red.
“The girls?” Francie asked.