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Jennifer hesitates again but finally departs.
Once the door shuts behind her, Cathy says, “Agent Love, would you like some coffee? I just put on a fresh batch of this glorious chocolate peanut butter blend.”
“You had me at coffee but add the chocolate and peanut butter, and I’m all yours.”
She grins and motions for me to follow her.
And Jay thinks I’m scary.
I glance around me, noting the high-end texturized walls and the glitz of the overhead chandelier. The hardwoods are glossy and freshly done as well. Business must be good.
Cathy peeks back around a corner and motions me onward. “This way.”
And here we go. Into the den of the old lady.
Is there a serial killer old lady?
Chapter Thirty-Four
I should saypleasant, old lady, serial killer.
Because Cathy is a pleasant person and I don’t find a lot of people pleasing, not the least bit flustered by my badge or my lingering behind a bit. In my experience, that means either the person has nothing to hide or they are so broken, their emotional chip doesn’t work quite right.
Considering all, Cathy’s mental condition is to be determined.
I end up at a fancy grey table with a wood finish and expensive chairs. I claim one and wait on her, wondering if there is a serial killer who kills with chocolate peanut butter coffee, because he was likely the most successful of them all.
“What do you take in your coffee?” Cathy asks, popping her head out of what looks like a kitchen galley of sorts, just off the dining area. This is a fairly common setup in a city of small spaces, where people pay millions for fifteen hundred square feet in the right zip code.
“Powder creamer and Splenda if you have it,” I say.
“That’s exactly how I take mine,” she declares, her face lighting up with this shared preference. “Coming right up.”
I glance up at an enlarged framed photo of a tiger on the wall, facing me. Cathy returns and spies me looking at it. “My husband and I bought that in South Africa. We took a safari there in the early 2000s.” She sets a cup beside me and sits down at the end of the table to my left, her own cup in hand. She sips. “He died two years ago, and it’s been a rough ride. My daughter kept pushing me to find a hobby but I needed a purpose.”
“Is that how Cathy Does Stuff started?”
“Yes. Joe—that was my husband—he always said, ‘Cathy does stuff,’ because he said I was a busybody. He inspired me to do stuff.” She laughs. “I started my business last year. I always feel like he’s watching me and helping me. And staying busy has helped me, but oh, my, I hate the idea that I’ve found myself in the middle of a problem.”
I don’t explain my visit just yet. “I’m sorry for your loss. How long were you married?”
“Thirty years and the last five years of his life we were retired. We really enjoyed our time off together. But I do think all that quality time made it harder to lose him.”
“What did you both do before retiring?” I ask.
“I was always a housewife. He brought home all the money. He was a CPA for a stockbroker here in town.”
I sip the coffee and decide if I’m going to die, this is a good way to go. “This is delicious.”
“It is, isn’t it? And the brand donates to animal charities. I enjoy every cup a bit more for that reason. Do you like animals, Agent Love?”
“I do, actually,” I say, and silently add, they don’t judge you for getting stabby. “They’re unconditional in their love.”
“They are. I want to get another dog. I lost Jojo, my poodle, about the time I lost my husband. I just can’t decide if I will live long enough to be fair to a new dog.”
“I think you have a lot of years on you, Cathy.”
“Do I? I think I’m ready to hear why you’re here.”
