“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. Rosco
e!”
“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.
“I was just taking out what I need for tonight,” she said, and dug in.