Golden in Death(5)

“Hold that thought,” Eve advised as they approached the gray door of the entrance to 1A.

Decent security, she noted, but nothing fancy. She pressed the buzzer.

The woman who answered looked pretty good for eighty-one. She had a bubble of ink-black hair Eve figured wouldn’t move in a hurricane, lips freshly dyed stop-sign red, rosy cheeks, and eyes heavily shadowed and lashed.

She wore a deep blue cocktail dress with a high neck, long sleeves, and gave Eve and Peabody a frowning once-over from nut-brown eyes.

“We’re not buying.”

“Not selling,” Eve said, and held up her badge.

Brendina’s face went sheet white under the rosy. “Joshua!”

“No, ma’am.” Peabody spoke quickly. “It’s not about your son. Mrs. Coffman’s son Joshua’s on the job,” Peabody told Eve. “It’s not about Sergeant Coffman, ma’am.”

“Okay. Okay. What is it then?”

“If we could come in for a moment,” Eve began.

“We’re leaving—if Roscoe ever finishes primping.”

“We’ll try not to take much of your time.”

With a nod, Brendina stepped back to let them straight into a tidy living area. So tidy, Eve thought, dust motes must run in fear. The furniture was old, like owned since their marriage began, and polished to within an inch of its life. A half dozen fancy pillows smothered the sofa.

A small piano against one wall with family photos crowded over it.

The air smelled of lemon.

“Is that your needlepoint, ma’am?” A craftsman to the bone, Peabody admired the pillows. “It’s beautiful work.”

“My daughter-in-law got me into it, and now I can’t stop. What is this about?”

“Mrs. Coffman, did you overnight a package to a Kent Abner, for delivery this morning?”

“Why would I? I don’t know any Kent Abner.”

“Your credit account was charged for the shipment.”

“I don’t see how when I didn’t send it.”

“Maybe you’d like to check on that, while we’re here.”

“Fine, fine. Roscoe, we’re going to be late again. Been waiting for that man for decades. He never can get anywhere on time. It’s our daughter’s twenty-fourth wedding anniversary,” she said as she walked to a—very tidy—little desk and sat down at the mini-comp on it. “Married a Catholic. I never figured it to last, but Frank’s a good man, good father, and he’s given her a happy life. So we’re— Well, son of a bitch!”

And there you have it, Eve thought as Brendina turned.

“I’ve been charged for that shipment. That’s a mistake—it says my account was charged at ten last night. I was sitting in bed watching Junkpile on-screen at ten—or trying, as Roscoe snores like a freight train. I keep good records, so I know what I spend and how I spend it. I was a bookkeeper for more years than either of you have been alive!”

“We don’t doubt any of that, Mrs. Coffman.”

But Brendina’s ire hadn’t yet peaked.

“Well, GP&P is going to hear from me, you better believe.” She fisted her hands on her hips, her eyes shooting daggers at Eve as if she’d been responsible. “And they’d better make this good. I’d like to know how somebody got my information, if that’s what happened, or if some careless finger at GP&P hit the wrong key.”

“We believe it’s the former, ma’am.”

“I’ll be changing my codes asap, you can be sure of that! And I’m going to have my boy look into this. He’s a police officer.”

“Yes, ma’am. You can have your son contact me, Lieutenant Dallas at Cop Central. In the meantime, can you tell me who would have access to your account?”

Brendina stabbed a finger in the air, then tapped it between her breasts. “Me, that’s who. And Roscoe, but he has his own, and only has my codes in case something was to happen. Same as I have his. Roscoe!”

“Stop yelling, stop yelling. Heavens to Murgatroyd, Brendi, I’m coming, aren’t I?”

When he came out, dapper was the word that sprang to Eve’s mind. He wore a pale blue suit chalked with white stripes, a white shirt, and a bright red bow tie with a matching pocket square. His hair, candlestick silver, was slicked back and shined like moonlight on water. His silver moustache was perfectly trimmed and groomed.

His eyes matched his suit.

“You didn’t say we had company.” He beamed at them.

“Not company, cops.”

“Friends of Joshua’s?”

“No, sir,” Eve said. “We’re here about a package that was delivered this morning. The shipment was charged to your wife’s account.”

“What did you send, Brendi?”

“Nothing! Somebody got into my account.”

He looked at her with affection, and mild surprise. “How’d they do that?”

“I don’t know, do I?”

“Ms. Coffman, do you have your ’link?”

“Of course I have my ’link. I was just changing purses when you buzzed.”

She marched into what Eve assumed was the bedroom, marched back out with a gargantuan shoulder bag in vivid purple and an oversize evening purse in glittery red—to match Roscoe’s tie, Eve assumed.