Page 43 of Random in Death
“Upstairs, to the right, second door on the left. I know my way around the kitchen well enough to get coffee if you want it.”
“No, but thanks.”
With Peabody, she went up. A glance up and down the wide hallway showed her every door closed.
It made her itchy. She understood the desire for privacy with cops in the house, but as a cop she’d have preferred a quick look behind those closed doors.
She opened the door on the left.
“Well, wow.” Peabody’s eyes popped. “It’s like a music studio with a bed. And the wall color, that’s an energy color.”
Though posters—Avenue A, Mavis, and other music luminaries—covered most of it, what Eve could see looked like the color you might get from crushing ripe purple grapes.
The bed stood on one side, covered with a white duvet, mounds of pillows in various colors, and a couple of stuffed animals she figured made the teen cut from childhood.
As Peabody said, the rest of the room Jenna devoted to her dream.
The computer desk held two screens. A guitar stood on a stand, a keyboard on a smaller counter with headphones beside them. Yet another counter held more equipment, another set of headphones.
“This is prime stuff,” Peabody told her. “It’s smaller scale and lower end than what Mavis has in her studio at the house, but it’s prime. This is serious stuff, and it says her parents supported her with this. A kid couldn’t afford all this.”
She walked over, tapped some control board.
“This one? She could mix various instruments, record her voice and overdub, and all that.”
On that, Eve took Peabody’s word. “It’s organized, clean. Cooler in here than the rest of the house.”
“For the equipment. It should stay cool, and you don’t want dust and crumbs, liquids getting into it.”
Eve opened a door. “Okay, closet. Not as clean and organized.”
She opened another. “Small bathroom, clean, but with all this hair and face stuff all over the counter.”
“Getting ready for the big night.”
“Yeah. You know more about the equipment, so you start there. I’ll take the closet and the bathroom.”
Eve studied the closet. Like many females Eve knew, Jenna had a thing for shoes. Skids, kicks, booties, sandals, fancy shoes, clunky shoes. High-tops, low-tops, airboots.
She hadn’t stinted on clothes, either. Mostly pants—baggies, jeans, crops. A handful of dresses, more skirts, some barely longer than a dinner napkin, others that would’ve hit her ankles.
Skinny tops, oversized tops, flowy, clingy—and everything in between.
She found nothing in pockets, nothing tucked secretly in the toes of footwear or in any of the half a dozen handbags—all small, all cross-body style.
As she worked, music filled the room behind her.
“I found some recordings,” Peabody called out. “This is a mash-up with Avenue A’s ‘In the Dark’ and one of hers she titled ‘Going Down.’ It’s good, Dallas. It’s really good. Listen to her. She overdubbed so she’s singing harmony with herself. She had a serious range.”
Eve heard the voices wind around each other, blend, a kind of defiant, edge of angry mix that suited the lyrics about booting someone out of her life.
Then Avenue A took over, crashing guitars, and yeah, defiant and angry male voices.
Same theme, she realized, different viewpoints.
“She’s got mash-ups in this section.” Peabody pointed toward the screen. “Another area for originals. Another where she’s done covers. And one more for works in progress.
“She’s got a laptop, put away. It looks like it’s strictly for schoolwork. At least that’s all I found on it with a quick scan. Nothing’s passcoded.”