Down the Rabbit Hole

“Maybe it’s like internal VR, or brainwashing. Brainwashing is a true thing. Documented.”

“I’ll give you brainwashing,” Eve said as she looked for a parking space on Charles and Louise’s pretty street. “Internal VR makes no sense. But some form of brainwashing paired with drugs. When Cerise Devane jumped off the Tattler Building a couple years ago, and I sat there on the ledge trying to talk her in, she was perfectly lucid. She knew who I was, who she was. But she was compelled to fly off that ledge—thought I’d enjoy going with her. So maybe that sort of mind-control paired with drugs, with brainwashing. Maybe a whole new fucked-up way to make people die.

“But why—that’s a key. What’s gained?”

“A lot of money’s at stake now.”

“Yeah, and greed’s a favorite for a reason.”

Eve looked down the street toward Louise’s home when they got out of the car.

The doctor and the former licensed companion were building a good life here, a happy, settled one. On the surface, it had looked the same for Darlene and Henry. Nice house, comfortable and settled.

As shattered now as Darlene’s bones.

“Sometimes people get off on fucking things up. Not much of a motive,” Eve said, considering. “But some people do.”

“Somebody who had a grudge against Darlene or Marcus or Henry Boyle,” Peabody speculated. “Or the Fitzwilliamses in general.”

“Possible,” Eve said as they walked. “The parents—straight accident. I checked it in and out, so their deaths aren’t connected—not in an overt way. But months later both of their children are dead, so . . .”

“A family member who wants more, taking advantage of Darlene’s vulnerability.”

“Yeah. You’ve got to look at it.” She went through the little gate, down the short walk through what had been a garden in the summer, and up to the front door of the dignified brownstone.

Louise answered. She wore leggings and a black sweater—and shadows under her eyes.

“Dallas, Peabody. You have news?”

“Not really, but some questions.”

“We’re in the back. Charles and I cleared our schedules for the next couple of days. We want to be here for Henry. Marcus’s uncle’s on his way here from Europe. The family has a pied-à-terre here, and there’s the estate on Long Island. Gareth and Bria’s New York home,” she explained. “It came to Marcus and Darlene. That was one of the things they were to talk about . . . God.” She rubbed her hands over her face. “Sorry, none of that matters. Come on back.”

“It all matters. Were they going to sell the Long Island house?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s been in the family five, maybe six generations.”

The kitchen and great room sprawled over the back of the house with views of the patio beyond through wide glass doors.

Henry pushed up from his chair, misery and hope warring on his face.

“You know what happened? You know who did this?”

“We’re investigating, Mr. Boyle. We have more questions.”

He sat again, shoving his hands through his hair. “Henry, just Henry. When I woke up, there was a moment I didn’t remember. I could smell her hair. I could smell her. Then I remembered, and it was gone. Even that was gone.”

Louise bent over, kissed the top of his head. “I’ll make fresh coffee.”

“I’ll get it.” Charles brushed a hand down her arm, crossed over into the kitchen.

“Henry,” Eve began, “did Darlene own a pair of dressmaker shears?”

“Dressmaker shears? No. She didn’t sew.”

“Maybe she—or you—had a pair for some other project. You did a lot of the rehab on the townhouse yourself, right?”

“Yeah. I helped design it—with plenty of input from Darli. She had definite ideas about how it should look. We did some of the painting, refinished the floors—we wanted our stamp on it. But we didn’t use anything like shears. The only specialty shears we have are poultry shears. Darli bought them last year when she got it into her head to try making coq au vin.” His eyes lit for a moment. “That was a disaster. Fun, but . . .” The light died. “They’re in the kitchen somewhere, I guess.”

She’d seen a weird pair of scissors in a kitchen drawer.

“Maybe she had something like that at work.”

“I can’t think why. I don’t see what . . .” He trailed off as Louise took his hand. Eve saw when realization hit him. “Is that . . . That’s what killed Marcus.”

“Would he have had a pair?”

“For what?” Color flooded back into his face—anger now. Denial was over. “He didn’t sew. He didn’t make things. For Christ’s sake, I bought him a set of screwdrivers as a joke, because as smart as he was, he could barely change a lightbulb. They weren’t handy people, Dallas. They were good people. Generous people. Loving. If you’d spend five minutes listening to me, you’d know she didn’t do these things. Why aren’t you—”

“Henry.” Louise said it softly, drawing their joined hands up to her cheek. And he deflated.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know you have to ask questions. I just . . . I smelled her hair. Now I can’t.”