Reunion in Death

«Yes.» Phoebe nodded in approval. Her eyes, dark and direct, stayed on Eve's.

And as something in that quiet, knowing stare made Eve want to shift in her seat, she decided Phoebe would be an ace in Interview.

«Making a difference is why we're all here.» Phoebe lifted her glass, gesturing with it before she sipped. «Some do it with prayer, others with art, with commerce. And some with the law. People often think Free-Agers don't believe in the law, the law of the land, so to speak. But we do. We believe in order and balance, and in the right of the individual to pursue life and happiness without harm from others. When you stand for the law, you stand for balance, and for those individuals who have been harmed.»

«The taking of a life, something I'll never understand, makes a hole in the world.» Sam laid a hand over his wife's. «Dee doesn't tell us much about her work, the details of it. But she's told us that you make a difference.»

«It's my job.»

«And we're embarrassing you,» Phoebe said as she lifted her wineglass. «Why don't I change the subject and tell you what a beautiful home you have.» She turned to Roarke. «I hope after dinner we can have a tour of it.»

«Got six or eight months?» Eve muttered.

«Eve claims there are rooms we don't even know about,» Roarke commented.

«But you do.» Phoebe lifted her brows. «You'd know all of them.»

«Excuse me.» Summerset stepped in. «You have a call, Lieutenant, from Dispatch.»

«Sorry.» She pushed away from the table, strode out quickly.

She was back within minutes. One look at her face told Roarke he'd finish the evening's entertaining on his own.

«Peabody, with me. I'm sorry.» She scanned faces, lingered on Roarke's. «We have to go.»

«Lieutenant? You want me to tag along?»

She glanced back at McNab. «I could use you. Let's move. I'm sorry,» she said again.

«Don't worry about it.» Roarke got to his feet, skimmed his fingertips down her cheek. «Take care, Lieutenant.»

«Right.»

«Occupational hazard.» Roarke sat again when he was alone with Phoebe and Sam.

«Someone's died,» Sam said aloud.

«Yes, someone's died. And now,» Roarke said, «they'll work to find the balance.»

*** CHAPTER 3 ***

Walter C. Pettibone, the birthday boy, had arrived home at precisely seven-thirty. One hundred and seventy-three friends and associates had shouted «Surprise!» in unison the minute he'd walked in the door.

But that hadn't killed him.

He'd beamed like a boy, playfully scolded his wife for fooling him, and had greeted his guests with warmth and pleasure. By eight, the party was in full swing, and Walter had indulged lavishly in the enormous and varied spread of food the caterers provided. He ate quail's eggs and caviar, smoked salmon and spinach rolls.

But that hadn't killed him either.

He'd danced with his wife, embraced his children, and dashed away a little tear at his son's sentimental birthday toast.

And had survived.

At eight-forty-five, with his arm snug around his wife's waist, he lifted yet another glass of champagne, called for his guests' attention, and launched into a short but heartfelt speech regarding the sum of a man's life and the riches therein when he was blessed with friends and family.

«To you,» he said, in a voice thick with emotion, «my dear friends, my thanks for sharing this day with me. To my children, who make me proud thank you for all the joy you've brought me. And to my beautiful wife, who makes every day a day I'm grateful to be alive.»

There was a nice round of applause, then Walter tipped back his glass, drank deep.

And that's what killed him.

He choked, his eyes bugged. His wife let out a little shriek as he clawed at the collar of his shirt. His son slapped him enthusiastically on the back. Staggering, he pitched forward into the party guests, tipping several of them over like bowling pins before he hit the ground and starting having seizures.

One of the guests was a doctor, and pushed forward to lend aid. The emergency medical technicians were called, and though they responded within five minutes, Walter was already gone.

The shot of cyanide in his toasting flute had been an unexpected birthday gift.

Eve studied him, the slight blue tinge around the mouth, the shocked and staring eyes. Caught the faint and telling whiff of burnt almonds. They'd moved him onto a sofa and loosened his shirt in the initial attempt to revive him. No one had swept away the broken glass and china as of yet. The room smelled strongly of flowers, wine, chilled shrimp, and fresh death.

Walter C. Pettibone, she thought, who'd gone in and out of the world on the same day. A tidy circle, but one most human beings would prefer to avoid.

«I want to see the doctor who worked on him first,» she told Peabody, then scanned the floor. «We'll need to have all this broken shit taken in, identify which container or containers were spiked. Nobody leaves. That's guests and staff. McNab, you can start taking names and addresses for followups. Keep the family separate for now.»