Celebrity in Death

I had Hollywood stars in my eyes because I didn’t notice. But you’re right. It must be rough to work with somebody so closely, have to pretend you like and respect each other, and you really don’t.”
    “That’s why they call it acting.”
    “Still. Oh, and I think the other me has a bigger ass.”
    “No question about it.”
    “Really?”
    “Peabody, I didn’t actually look at her ass, and I rarely have occasion to look at yours. But I’m willing to say her ass is bigger if it makes you happy and we can stop talking about the Hollywood people.”
    “Okay, but just one more thing. The other me is also a lying sack. She told me she had to go prep for her next scene, but when I cut across where the trailers are to get to the VIP lot, I saw her—and boy, I heard her. Banging on one of the trailer doors, yelling, ‘I know you’re in there, you bastard, and open the fucking door.’ Like that.”
    “Whose trailer?”
    “I don’t know, but she was pissed, and didn’t care who heard because there was crew milling around.”
    “It’s like I’ve always said. You’re a bitch with a nasty temper and no class.”
    Peabody sighed, smiled. “But not an underling.”
    “With that settled,” Eve said as she pulled behind a black-and-white, “maybe we can check out this DB.”
    “A visit to a vid set, a DB, and dinner with celebrities. It’s a really good day.”
    N ot for Cecil Silcock.
    His day had ended early on the leopard-print tiles of his elaborate kitchen. He lay there, blood from the head wound running river to lake over the black-spotted gold. It made the floor look a little too much like a terminally wounded animal, in Eve’s opinion.
    Cecil was definitely terminally wounded. Blood also soaked into the tissue-thin white cashmere robe he’d put on sometime before his head had made contact with a blunt object of some weight, then the unfortunately patterned tiles. From the gash down his forehead, Eve figured Cecil also made contact with the edge of the gold-topped black cooking island.
    The rest of the kitchen, the dining and living areas, master bedroom, guest bed and bath were as spotless, accessorized and
arranged
as an upscale home decor showroom.
    “No sign of forced entry,” the officer on the door told Eve. “We got the vic’s spouse in the bedroom there. He says he was out of town the last two days, got home—early, wasn’t supposed to come in until this afternoon—and found the body.”
    “Where’s his suitcase?”
    “In the bedroom.”
    “Let’s get the security discs.”
    “The spouse said the security was off when he arrived. He claims the vic often forgot to set it.”
    “Find their security station, check anyway.” Eve tossed her Seal-It back in her field kit and crouched by the body. “Let’s confirm ID, get TOD, Peabody. He took a hard blow here, left side of the head, across the temple, eye socket. Something wide, heavy, and flat.”
    “Vic is confirmed as Cecil Silcock, age fifty-six, of this address. Married to Paul Havertoe, four years. He’s the owner/operator of Good Times—party planning company.”
    “No more good times for him.” Sitting back on her heels, Eve looked around. “No forced entry. And the place looks like it’s been cleaned and fluffed by magic fairies. He’s wearing a—bet it’s platinum—wedding band with a big fat diamond. Robbery unlikely as a motive here. The jewelry, plus I can see plenty of easily carried top-scale electronics.”
    “TOD ten-thirty-six. Dressed like this, no forced entry, he had to know the killer. He let the killer in, walked back here, maybe to make coffee or something. Whack, and Good Times Cecil is no more.”
    “Could be just like that. Or could be, dressed like this, Cecil had company while his spouse was out of town, which out-of-towning we will confirm. Comes out to make a nice breakfast, company whacks him. Or spouse returns, realizes Cecil has not been a good boy, whacks him.”
    The uniform came back in. “The security’s been off for twenty-eight hours, Lieutenant. We’ve got nothing for last night or this morning.”
    “Okay. Start the knock-on-doors. Let’s see if anyone saw anything.”
    Fitting on microgoggles, Eve took a careful study of the body. “Cecil’s as clean as the house. Smells like lemons.” She leaned her face to the face of the dead, took another sniff. “But there’s a little coffee here, too. Had himself a shower and a cup before the whack. No visible