“This is the psychic who saved me, you guys,” the girl announced, going in for another hug.
Spontaneous applause broke out around the cafe, and Riley felt her face turn ketchup red. The patrons started to crowd around their table.
“Just smile and wave,” Jasmine advised without moving her lips.
“Let’s get out of here,” Kellen said, picking up on the vibe of the crowd.
“Hey, psychic! What number am I thinking of?”
“Did you get my letter about my gerbil, Ms. Thorn?” shouted a woman in a maxi dress. “I just need to know if he blames me for the cat eating him!”
“Yeah, I’m going to need you to let go of my friend’s neck,” Jasmine told the barista, who was sobbing into Riley’s shoulder.
Together, Jasmine and Kellen led her toward the door.
She felt like a celebrity on the verge of a nervous breakdown with a half-dozen cell phones recording her while coffee drinkers young and old hurled questions at her.
“Should I quit my job to start a lip balm business?”
“Who really killed JFK?”
She was definitely never coming back here.
Riley’s Jeep was surrounded by people.
“Leave it,” Kellen advised. “You can come back for it when they’re not so caffeinated and excitable. Step away from the psychic, people!”
13
9:31 a.m., Friday, August 14
Titus Strubinger’s house was squished between two other homes of the same approximate size and shape. His was painted an avocado green and had metal awnings over every window. Apparently natural light had been considered a bad thing in 1970s architecture.
Kellen raised his hand to knock, but Riley grabbed his arm. “Wait, what are we going to say? ‘We’re sorry, but we think your son was connected to a murder victim’?”
“I was thinking something more like ‘We have a few questions about your son.’”
“Oh. Okay. That’s probably better,” she agreed.
Nervously, she patted her hair. She’d done her best to scrape it back into some semblance of a ponytail in Weber’s car. But she couldn’t do anything about the rest of her rumpled, sweaty self.
Kellen’s knock sounded official and made her anxious.
It took almost a full minute before the front door creaked open, and they found themselves looking down. Way down. The woman peering at them through round tinted lenses didn’t even clock in at five feet tall. She was wearing a velvet smoking jacket, distressed jeans, and white sneakers. Her gray hair was wrapped tightly in curlers.
“Mrs. Strubinger? I’m Detective Kellen Weber with the Harrisburg Police. I have a few questions regarding your son.”
“Some detective. My son’s dead,” she announced gruffly.
“I’m aware of that,” Kellen said.
Mrs. Strubinger gave Riley a suspicious once over. “She with you?”
Kellen turned up the charm. “She’s a civilian consultant.”
“Looks like trouble.” The woman leaned forward and sniffed. “Smells like it too.”
“I had a busy morning,” Riley said defensively.
