In Death 10 - Witness in Death

I was coming up, and two of my cousins are actors. Live stage work and small screen stuff. And my great-grandmother was a performance artist in San Francisco before she retired. Then there's my -- "
    "Okay, all right." Shaking her head, Eve clattered down the stairs. "How did you stand all those people crowding into your life?"
    "I like people," Peabody said cheerfully.
    "Why?"
    Since it wasn't a question that required an answer, Peabody gestured to the left as they came to the bottom of the steps. "You like them, too. You just pretend to be snarly."
    "I am snarly. If and when I cut Mansfield loose, or she lawyers, I want you to stick with her. If she goes home, settles in, call for a couple of uniforms to watch her place. We've got enough for a surveillance clearance. I want to know where she goes and what she does."
    "Want me to run the background check on her now?"
    "No, I'll take care of it."
    Eve pulled open the door to the lounge. As with anything Roarke had his fingers in, it was far from shabby. Obviously he wanted the talent comfortable and had spared no expense to insure it.
    There were two separate seating areas with plush sofas flanked by serving droids. The room bent into an ell, with the short leg offering an AutoChef she assumed was fully stocked, a clear-fronted friggie holding a variety of cold drinks, and a small, separate table with a slick little computer setup.
    Roarke sat, cozily to Eve's mind, beside Areena in the sitting area on the right, swirling a snifter of brandy. His gaze; that lightning-strike blue, shifted to his wife's face, gleamed there, and reminded her of the first time she'd seen him, face-to-face.
    He hadn't been baby-sitting a murder suspect then. He'd been one.
    His lips curved in a lazy, confident smile. "Hello, Peabody," he said, but his eyes remained on Eve's face.
    "I have a few more questions for you, Miss Mansfield."
    Areena blinked up at Eve, fluttered her hands. "Oh, but I thought we were finished for the evening. Roarke's just arranged my transportation back to my penthouse."
    "The transpo can wait. Record on, Peabody. Do you need me to refresh you on your rights and obligations as pertains to this investigation, Miss Mansfield?"
    "I -- " The fluttering hand landed on her throat, rested there. "No. I just don't know what else I can tell you."
    "Recognize this?" Eve tossed the sealed prop knife onto the table between them.
    "It looks like..." Her hand, still restless, reached out, then fisted, drew back. "It's the dummy knife. It's the prop that should have been on the set when... Oh, God. Where did you find it?"
    "In your dressing room, buried in red roses."
    "No. No." Very slowly, Areena shook her head from side to side. She crossed her arms over her breasts, fingers digging into her shoulders. "That's not possible."
    If it was an act, Eve mused, it was damn good. The eyes were glazed, the lips and fingers trembled. "It's not only possible, it's fact. How did it get there?"
    "I don't know. I tell you, I don't know." In a sudden spurt of energy, Areena leaped to her feet. Her eyes weren't glazed now, but wild and wheeling. "Someone put it there. Whoever switched the knives put it there. They want me to be blamed for Richard. They want me to suffer for it. Wasn't it enough, God, wasn't it enough that I killed him?"
    She held out her hand, a Lady Macbeth, staring at blood already washed away.
    "Why?" Eve's voice was cold and flat. "Why not just toss the prop away, into a corner, a recycling bin. Why would anyone hide it in your dressing room?"
    "I can't think... who would hate me so much. And Richard..." Tears shimmered, fell gorgeously as she turned. "Roarke. You know me. Please, help me. Tell her I couldn't do this terrible thing."
    "Whatever the answers are, she'll find them." He rose, letting her come into his arms to weep as he watched his wife over her head. "You can be sure of it. Can't she, Lieutenant?"
    "Are you her representative?" Eve snapped back and earned a lifted brow.
    "Who, other than yourself, has access to your dressing room, Miss Mansfield?"
    "I don't know. Anyone, really, in the cast and crew. I don't keep it locked. It's inconvenient." With her head still resting on Roarke's shoulder, she drew steadying breaths.
    "Who sent you the red roses? And who brought them into the room?"
    "I don't know. There were so many flowers. My dresser took the cards. She would have marked the type on each. One of the gofers brought some of the deliveries in. People