Fatal Connections

Chapter 29

When Amara finally brought Lupe to the phone, she seemed amenable to meeting me halfway. The optimistic lilt in Lupe's voice matched Amara's. Perhaps it was a genetic trait.

"There's a cute little place I've heard about, just off Georgia Avenue in Silver Spring," she said. The name she gave me rang a bell. "I'd love to give it a try. We could meet for coffee at, say, eleven?"

"Works for me," I said. "You sure you don't mind making the drive? The parking around there can be . . . ." I left out all the pertinent expletives.

"No worries. I've been meaning to go there anyway to check out the old neighborhood."

The following morning at ten to eleven, I entered Perk Central, glad that I had added 30 minutes to my ETA, most of which was consumed in finding a place to park. After Lupe and I had finished our conversation, I realized the coffee shop's name was the one from Friends.

I saw no sign of Joey, Chandler, or Ross. Nor did I see Rachel, Monica, or . . . what was her name, the goofy one? Phoebe! The six pals were not scrunched together on a couch in some kind of alternate-reality version of New York where twenty-somethings have enough time and money to hang out and trade jokes with each other endlessly.

However, the decor suggested that the owner might have purchased the show's set from the studio. Was this supposed to create the illusion that we were equally cool and funny?

Along with the (apparently) obligatory sofa-dominated conversation pit, small round table-and-chair sets dotted the seating area. About half were taken by people on laptops or tablets. Or scrolling through their phones. I noticed one woman reading an actual hardcover book. I suppressed the urge to run over to her and congratulate her and throw my arms around her or do anything equally weird in favor of placing an order for a cappuccino and staking out a spot with a clear view of the front door.

At 11:00 am, on the dot, a petite woman wearing yoga pants and a loose-fitting, long-sleeved T-shirt entered and looked around. Lupe Steinberg? From a distance, she appeared to be in her mid to late 40s, blonde hair tucked up into a loose top-knot. Okay then. Name: mixed ethnicities. Appearance: all WASP.

I raised my hand like a kid in school. Yes, hello. Present. That caught her eye. She smiled and approached the table. As she got closer, I stood up. We did a standard "you must be" name exchange and extended our hands to shake. Lupe's handshake had a comforting firmness and a certainty to match her optimism.

We quickly exchanged introductions. So, yes, this was Lupe. And now that she was closer, I upped my estimate on her age a bit. The worry lines about the eyes, the parenthetical creases around her lips were a touch beyond faint. Plus the blond hair was run through with nearly imperceptible strands of gray.

After Lupe bought her own coffee plus a muffin the size of a small melon, we sat together. She offered to split the muffin and pushed the plate my way. I thanked her and tore a small chunk off the side. Lupe picked up a plastic knife and sawed the thing in half, then set the dish right between us.

"I really appreciate your coming here to meet me," I said. Despite having mentally practiced meeting this woman, I still struggled for just the right words to ask her about Amy Harcourt and her dead parents.

She flashed a bright smile at me. "No problem. I really did have plans to visit this area." Lupe waved an arm, raising a merry jingle from the silver bangles she was wearing. Then her expression turned serious. "I was just crushed to hear about the Harcourts."

"When did you last work for them?"

She squinted, thoughtful. "My goodness. It's been nine or ten years since I sold my cleaning service." A woman-owned business. Cool. I hoped to be able to retire from one of those—someday.

"How long did you work for the Harcourts?

"About two years." She squinted. "Two years and three months."

"What were they like?" I asked.

"Very nice."

I waited for her to offer more, but the only thing she offered was another smile. No teeth this time.

I swallowed hard to keep from laughing before I asked, "Could you expand on that just a bit?"

Lupe straightened in her seat. Had my question taken her by surprise? Or was it merely that, like me, she suffered a bad back?

"I only meant that they were very nice to have as clients," she said. "Very reasonable. Generous, even," she added, rattling her bracelets some more.

I cringed inwardly at her response. Were Lupe's impressions going to be unvarnished or candy-coated? Was Lupe holding back out of fear of speaking ill of the dead?

"Did you get to know them on a more casual basis?" Something between a mere business arrangement and out-and-out BFFs. "I mean, as more than just clients." Which I'm assuming is perfectly fine. Certainly not forbidden by law or the Cleaning Ladies' Code of Ethics.

She nodded and seemed to steel herself. "When I was going through my divorce, they were kind enough to have me over for dinner now and then." This time her smile was wistful, eyes glistening. "It was a tough time, and they were there for me."

This was a side of the Harcourts I hadn't heard about yet. "Did you ever get the sense that the Harcourts had any serious enemies?"

She leaned toward me so suddenly, I had to check my impulse to stiff-arm her back. "That's what I don't understand. Now, I'm not going to claim that they were saints, but some of my other clientele could be—I'm sorry—damn snooty. Apart from their online lifestyle, Ron and Marian lived like most other people. And, like I said, they were thoughtful. Why would anyone want to kill them?"

Sure. They lived a simple life in an ordinary house in the suburbs. And hired enough assistants to satisfy a legion of rock bands and A-List celebrity actors. I also wanted to ask her how most people lived.