Page 88 of Thankless in Death

There was plenty of seating for just that—chairs, sofa, cushioned squares. Where most might’ve put that wall screen, she’d opted for shelves loaded with photos, fussy pieces, and several books.

“I like books,” she said, noting Eve’s gaze. “Pricier than discs or downloads, but I like holding them, looking at them.”

“My husband does, too.”

“Well, he can afford it. My kids give them to me for special occasions. You go ahead and sit down. I’ll get Mal, and he’s got Davey with him back there. I’m going to fix you a snack.”

“There’s no need to bother with that, Mrs. Golde.”

Mrs. Golde merely gave Eve that dead-on stare again. “I’m fixing you a snack.” She walked off in navy skids.

“We’re getting a snack.” Peabody grinned.

Eve shook her head. Mrs. Golde struck her as a woman who ran her home and her family, and had enough punch left over to run most of the neighborhood. It was mildly intimidating.

Mal came out with a shorter, beefier guy with a lot of brown hair. Eve recognized Dave Hildebran from his ID shot, and saw in both of them barely contained nerves.

“Um, Lieutenant.” Mal started to extend his hand, obviously wondered if he should, started to pull it back. Eve solved his dilemma by taking it for a brisk shake. “Mal. Mr. Hildebran?”

“Dave. Nice to meetcha.” Immediately, he flushed. “I mean...”

“I got it.”

“I asked Dave to come over when you said you wanted to come by. We’re both just... God, this is just fucking awful.”

“You watch your language in this house!” The booming order came from the back of the apartment, and had both men wincing.

“Sorry, Ma! Like I said, I’m going to stay here until...” He trailed off again. “And Dave’s staying with his folks, too. It just feels like we should.”

“The neighborhood can’t talk about anything else,” Dave put in. “People really liked Mr. and Mrs. R. And even if they didn’t, well, Jes... jeez,” he corrected with a quick glance toward the kitchen.

“They were good people.” Mrs. Golde came back in carrying an enormous tray.

“Lemme get that, Ma.” Mal muscled it from her, set it on the table in front of the sofa. In addition to little plates, glasses, a big clear pitcher of some sort of deep amber liquid, the tray held tiny sandwiches—basically a bite—cookies sparkling under a dusting of what must’ve been sugar, and a ring of carrot sticks circling some chunky white dip with green flecks.

“We could’ve come on back to the kitchen, Ma.”

“Living room’s for company.” In what Eve now saw as her no-bullshit way, Mrs. Golde hefted the pitcher, poured out glasses. “This is sassafras tea, and it’s good for you. It’s my grandma’s recipe.”

“My granny makes that.” Delighted, Peabody accepted a glass.

“Does she now?”

“Yes, ma’am.” After a sip, Peabody grinned like a child. “It’s got to be the same recipe, or close to it. It really takes me back.”

“What’s your name, girl?”

“Detective Peabody. My granny’s a Norwicki.”

“Polish.” On a wide, beaming smile, Mrs. Golde pointed an approving finger. “My grandma was, too. A Wazniac. She died just last year. A hundred and eighteen. Went skydiving two weeks before she slipped off in her sleep. Can’t say better than that.”

“No, ma’am.”

Eve supposed this was living room conversation, but they didn’t have time for it. “We have a few follow-up questions,” she began. “We believe Jerald Reinhold will target someone else.”

“I kept thinking, I don’t know, he just had some sort of breakdown. But after I heard about Lori, what he did to her.” Mal stared down at his hands. They held steady, but his voice shook. “I don’t know how he could do that. I don’t know how he could do what he’s done.”

“He’s a spoiled, good-for-nothing whiner, and always has been.”

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