Chapter 1
Suds Sutcliff
“Are you the detectives?” A half-frozen, gray-haired woman stands in the sleet and points to the sign painted on our second floor window.
My partner steps over a puddle, holds out her hand, and smiles. “That’s us. I’m Samantha Russo and this is Sebastian Sutcliff.”
“I’m Martha Rossini. Nice to meet you both.” Judging from the icicles on her hat and coat, I’d estimate she’s been standing on the sidewalk in front of our building for over an hour.
Goodbye hot-sex, so-long football, and bye-bye nap. Remembering my manners, I reach my elbow forward.
Gnarled fingers grip my forearm and her wrinkled face leans in. “I think I may have witnessed a murder.”
Samantha raises her eyebrows. Our hours are clearly printed on our front door and on Sunday, we’re closed. I’d say comeback tomorrow except for the age of our potential client. She might be suffering from dementia and wandered away from a senior center. Who knows how long she’s been out in the elements?
My gorgeous, somewhat waterlogged partner unlocks the front door and points up the steep flight of stairs. “Our office is on the second floor but we can talk down here, if you’d rather.”
“No problem, young lady. I’m not dead yet.” The woman lets go of my bicep, grabs hold of the banister, and spryly trots up the steps.
Grinning, Sam shoots me a glance and runs up behind her. I follow them as they pass through the waiting area and into our office/living-space.
“Coffee? Tea?” Sam unzips her parka in the kitchen space.
“Do you have anything stronger?” The stranger stuffs leather gloves in her pocket, slips out of her soggy wool jacket, and looks around for someplace to put it.
Taking her wet wrap, I hang it on a coat tree and do the same for Sam before directing the lady to the couch. Once seated, she removes her hat and shakes her gray curls free of water.
Holy shit, I’m no expert but recently I’ve been searching for an engagement ring and have a pretty good idea of the cost of those earrings. If they’re real, they’re worth a small fortune.
Whoever this old bird is, she has enough dough to afford us. Too bad she’s probably suffering from Alzheimer’s.
Ice cubes clink, Sam pours a shot of whiskey, and I sit next to our client on the sofa. “Ma’am? If you saw a murder, why not call the police?”
“Why does anyone come to a private detective agency?” Unsettling, intelligent, blue eyes search mine.
Then she cackles. “I came to you because they don’t believe me.”
Ah, shit. Another nutcase.
With a wave of my hand, I point to the ’fridge. “Bring me a beer, would you please, sugar?”
I need to wash down my disappointment. Bills piling up, it would’ve been nice to have a wealthy client.
My partner, the eternal optimist, tosses her blond locks and smiles and clunks a glass down on the coffee table. Sitting on the far end of the sofa, I read her mind. Unlike me, she’s not giving up.
I’m about to put my foot down when from out of nowhere, a yellow ball of fur zooms across the room putting her paw in my beer.
“No kitty. Get down.” With me momentarily distracted, Sam gets the upper hand.
“Why not start at the beginning, Mrs. Rossini?” Eyes bright, my pretty lady kicks off her boots and tucks her stocking feet under her butt.
Hell no, we aren’t getting comfortable.
“You can call me Martha, dear.” Wrinkled fingers wrap around her whiskey and she begins before I can put an end to this nonsense.
“It happened last Wednesday. I’d already gone to bed when I heard a car across the street. Curious, I got up and observed out my front window. An old woman can’t be too careful, don’t you agree?”
I try to butt in but Samantha bobs her head. “Wholeheartedly. Please continue.”
