“But—” Esteban gestured at the body, face upward, black hair glinting in the wash of moonlight. “The gun is in her hand. Surely you cannot mean—”
“She was murdered.”
“But that is impossible!” Esteban protested. “It is so obvious, Mr Templar. It is suicide.”
“Lida wouldn’t have killed herself!” Patricia said hotly. “She was so — so alive. She wouldn’t, I tell you!”
“Madame,” Esteban said sadly, “you do not know. She lose much money tonight at the gaming table. Perhaps more than she should.”
“How much?” Simon asked bluntly.
Esteban shrugged.
“We do not keep accounts. She buy many chips for the roulette table.”
“A few minutes ago you thought ‘perhaps’ she had been losing at blackjack. Now you seem to know different.”
Esteban’s shoulders rose another inch.