Chapter 33
33
NOW
Aimee stares at the woman standing in the doorway of what she had thought was Cathy’s house. Cathy doesn’t live here. It was all a lie. Bile rises in her throat. She feels like she might be sick. What has she done?
“Can we come inside?” Gwen says from behind her. She feels Gwen’s hand at the small of her back, gently nudging her forward. “We need your help,” Gwen continues, “and my friend here has had a really big shock. She needs water.”
“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 several times, 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’t be 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?”
Jean recoils. “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s so irresponsible,” Aimee says. “You didn’t even know her.” It hits her that those were the same words Lisa shouted at her last Friday at dinner. Lisa had been right. Aimee had made a terrible mistake. She had allowed her daughter to spend time with a complete stranger, just as Jean Brewster had allowed one into her home. They were both taken in by Cathy’s gentleness, duped into thinking that an older white woman in chunky glasses who drank tea could not be a threat.
Outside, Sababa barks, once, then again, then a series of short ones like the staccato of a machine gun.
“My friend’s husband is missing,” Gwen says. “This Cathy woman might know where he is. Do you have any idea where she might be? How did you pay her?”
“Through Venmo. I can give you her email if it helps.”
Sababa lets off another round of barking.
Gwen turns to Aimee. “You stay here and get the Venmo information. I’m going to go check on Sababa.”
Aimee waits on the sofa, leg shaking with impatience, as Jean fumbles with her phone. A wave of nausea washes over her. She’s trapped inside a maze, and every way she can turn seems like a dead end. When she needed her wits the most, she froze. But Gwen stepped in. She feels so confused, furious at her friend for her betrayal, yet grateful that she is here now.
Jean looks up from her phone. “I don’t know if this will be of much help, but I also have a picture of her. I remember now that she was not very happy when I took it, but I told her I like to have photos of all my contacts, so when I get calls at work I know straight away who it’s from.”
“That could be helpful.” She tells Jean her number and waits for her to text over the photo and a screenshot of Cathy’s Venmo account. When they both appear on her phone, Aimee examines them but finds nothing helpful. The photo Jean took of Cathy sitting on the floor holding a black-and-white kitten only confirms that there is nothing scary or sinister about her.
“Thank you for your help.” Aimee stands. “You should know I will be going to the police, and they might come by to ask you some questions. It looks like Cathy Stocker fooled us both.”
Jean walks her out to the front porch, but there is no sight of Gwen or the dog.
“Where did they go?” Aimee asks. She walks around the porch to the side of the house, where she spots Gwen standing below them next to the BMW, a strange look on her face.
“What is it?” Aimee calls from up on the porch.
“Sababa got loose and got into that barn,” Gwen says.
Aimee follows her gaze, and sure enough, she can hear the dog scratching. Aimee starts toward the staircase, a sense of dread growing in her.
“He must have found a gap where the door hasn’t fully shut,” Gwen says. “But can’t get out now.”
“An animal might have gotten in there,” Jean offers. “That happens a lot. I had a raccoon family take up residence there last year.”
“The ground is really muddy, and I’m wearing slippers,” Gwen says, looking down at her feet. “Jean, do you have boots I can borrow?
Aimee is already halfway down the wide steps, her heart thumping wildly. “What’s in the barn?” she calls to Jean. “Besides possibly raccoons?”
“Nothing. I don’t use it. You have to manually heave that door open. It’s very heavy.”
“Then why are there tire tracks going up to it?” Gwen asks.
“That’s impossible,” Jean says. “No one uses that barn. It’s not structurally sound.”
Aimee stops short next to where Gwen is standing and looks down. Gwen is right: in the mud leading to the barn are two lines of fresh tire tracks.
Her chest seizes. She knows what she has to do. She slogs through the thick, sticky mud to the barn door. She puts her shoulder against the immense wooden door and heaves, but it barely moves. The frustration swells in her. She has to get inside. She straightens up, trying to get her footing in the slippery mud, and then leans against the door once more. This time, she senses Gwen behind her, pushing as well. For a few seconds, nothing happens, and then the door begins to slide open with a low rumble. Once it’s open, Aimee straightens up, breathing heavily, nerves jangly. She takes a tentative step inside the large space, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. Dust mites dance in the air, and Sababa runs out, yapping, happy to be free.
And parked in the middle of the barn is Scott’s car.