“But I don’t know you—” the woman starts.
“I’m Gwen Khoury, this is Aimee Stern, and I’m afraid your cat sitter might be mixed up in something pretty serious.”
Aimee watches the woman’s face soften as she absorbs this information. She’s nodding slowly, but she doesn’t look convinced. Gwen keeps talking. “We’d really like to speak with you first, see if we can sort all of this out. But if not, I’m afraid we’ll have to call the police.”
“The police? Goodness. What is this about?”
“Can we come inside?”
“I suppose it’d be all right.” The woman steps back.
Aimee knows that it’s Gwen’s fortitude right now, both physical and emotional, that she is drawing on to keep going. Gwen’s hand on her back, her bodily warmth, is transferring strength into her own body, without which she feels like she might collapse.
“But the dog has to stay outside,” the woman says.
Gwen ties Sababa to the porch railing, and she and Aimee follow the woman inside. Aimee has been in the house severaltimes, but now she sees it with fresh eyes. The bohemian decorations, such as wooden masks and small sculptures, had once suggested Cathy was a sophisticated world traveler. Now it strikes Aimee that she had made a series of assumptions about Cathy based solely on these superficial clues. The decor, the NPR playing in the background, the Subaru in the driveway. She had assumed Cathy was a certain kind of woman—educated, wealthy. But maybe none of it was true. She doesn’t know the first thing about Cathy. Well, she knows one thing. Cathy lost a son, or at least claimed she did.
“My name is Jean Brewster,” the woman says, sitting on the edge of a wingback chair across from Aimee and pushing a lock of orange hair behind an ear. “And I have lived in this house for twelve years. Now, what is this about my cat sitter?”
“May I get a glass of water for my friend?” Gwen asks.
“The kitchen is right through that door.” Jean nods and Gwen disappears. A few moments later Aimee hears the faucet running in the kitchen. Jean sits across from her, her shoulders square, her head held high as if she were testifying in court. Aimee recognizes the gray silk blouse the woman is wearing—she’s seen it on Cathy.
As she examines Jean more closely, she realizes she’s also seen Cathy wearing the clear, acrylic necklace around Jean’s neck. Now Aimee wonders about Cathy’s signature chunky black glasses. Maybe they weren’t even real glasses, simply part of the act.
Gwen returns with a glass of water and hands it to Aimee, who takes a long sip. Her throat is dry, and she struggles to find her voice. “Ms. Brewster—”
“Jean, please.”
“All right, Jean, like my friend said, my name is Aimee Stern and I am a landscape designer. I was hired by a woman, she told me her name was Cathy Stocker. She gave me this address and when I showed up, she said she wanted me to replace the azaleas with native plants—”
“My azaleas!” Jean puts her hand to her chest.
“I didn’t do it, of course.” Aimee gestures to the window, annoyed at the interruption. “The azaleas are still here. She never wanted to get started on the project. She kept delaying. At the time, I thought she was lonely and was really looking for a friend. But now I think it was a ruse. Now I think what she wanted…”
Aimee’s voice trails off. What does she think Cathy wanted? She still has no idea.
“Now we think there may be something more sinister at play.” Gwen leans forward. “May I ask, how did you come to hire Cathy as a cat sitter?”
“There’s a site for pet sitters.” Jean is soft-spoken and deliberate, and clearly uncomfortable with conflict. She has the air of a librarian who prefers books to people. “I have a cat, and she’s fine on her own. But she became pregnant and gave birth. Three adorable kittens. I work as an educational consultant and I have to travel a lot. I knew I would be gone a lot this month, for weeks at a time, actually, and I wanted someone who could come in and look after Zelda, that’s my cat, and the kittens.”
“And that’s how you met Cathy?” Gwen asks. “Did she have references?”
Jean purses her lips together, as if she might stop the ugly truth from tumbling out.
“Jean?”
“Well, no, not references, exactly.” She hangs her head a moment. “But I met her, and I liked her right away. She’s a retiree, a former teacher, she moved here to be closer to her son and grandchildren.”
“Is that what she told you?” Aimee asks. “Because she told me her son died years ago.”
“Well, that’s what she said. And I just liked her. I felt more comfortable with an older woman. I knew she’d be responsible. No drugs, no drinking. Some of these other applicants…” She clucks her tongue. “One girl with blue hair, another who couldn’tbe bothered to take out his earbuds the entire time he was here. One reeked of pot. I couldn’t trust them with the house. Cathy seemed trustworthy. I remember when she came for the interview, I just liked her. We drank Earl Grey together, and it turns out that we both love Ann Tyler. You know, the writer?”
“Where did she say she lived?” Gwen asks.
Jean waves her hand in the air as if this is irrelevant. “Somewhere in Rockville. Maybe Silver Spring? I honestly don’t know.”
“And that’s it?” Aimee asks. “You give the keys to your house to a complete stranger because she likes Earl Grey tea and Ann Tyler?”