Free The Kindness of Strangers by Katrina Kittle

all the soccer games—lay on the floor in a plastic bag. A fancier camera, on a tripod, was draped in plastic, too.
    “You can sit down if you like,” Kramble said. Sarah hesitated before the giant white couch, covered now in plastic sheeting. “It’s okay,” Kramble assured her. She sat, too stunned to remain standing.
    “Oh, my God. Is . . . are . . .” She had no clue where to begin. “Look, I’m not comfortable answering questions until I talk to Courtney. Does she know you’re—”
    “Yes. Dr. Kendrick gave us permission to search,” Kramble said. “How long have you been catering for the Kendricks?”
    “Um . . . for nearly three years now.”
    “And how did you first begin to work for them?” The stocky wrestler scribbled notes. The pouting woman leaned against the wall. Rodney kept stacking what looked like videotapes and DVDs into a fourth storage bin. Sarah heard the sounds of rummaging and drawer opening from rooms down the hall.
    “We’re friends. Our kids go to school together. She worked with my husband. She knew I catered, and she called me for a party. She liked my work. I’ve been working for them ever since.”
    “About how often would she use you?”
    “It varies. Two, sometimes three times a month.”
    The woman officer made a small sound, like disgust. Rodney shook his head as if Sarah’s answer were a shame. “Look,” Sarah said, her patience wearing thin now that her pulse had returned to normal, “you need to tell me what’s going on.”
    “Yes, I will. But first, Mrs. Laden, can you tell us what your husband does?”
    She felt as if this man had just walked in on her naked. She looked at Rodney for support, but he kept stacking and labeling videotapes. “My husband is dead.” She enjoyed the wince that wrinkled Kramble’s face. “Why am I being questioned this way?”
    “I’m very sorry for your loss. Could you tell me when your husband died?”
    She glared at him and considered storming out of the room and up the stairs in search of Courtney. They couldn’t force her to sit here and answer these questions.
    “Mrs. Laden?” Kramble’s face looked gentle, but Sarah didn’t buy it for a minute.
    “Two years ago, in February. Two years and two months.” Her eyes burned. Damn it, she would not cry in front of these people. She pointed at Rodney. “He was at the funeral.” Rodney nodded. Then he stood and carried a box out of the room.
    “I’m sorry,” Kramble said again, and paused, looking up at the ceiling, as if offering a moment of silence. Sarah listened to the bubbling of the aquariums. Finally he cleared his throat and resumed. “You sound as though you were friendly with Dr. Kendrick.”
    Sarah noticed and was troubled by his persistent use of the past tense. Was this investigation related to what happened yesterday, or was Courtney having to deal with an additional crisis on top of her son’s overdose? “Yes, we’re friends. She’s probably my best friend.”
    Kramble looked genuinely sad for a moment, sadder even than when she’d told him Roy was dead. “What sort of parties did you believe you were catering?”
    Believe? “What are you suggesting? Mark entertained clients. For his PR firm.”
    “And what was your impression of his clients?”
    “They were nice people.”
    He frowned. “So you were here, at the parties?”
    “Yes. Look, what are you getting at?”
    “For the duration of the parties? Did you see the guests leave?”
    “Yes. I’d serve and clean up. I have two part-time staffers who help me with bigger events like that, and the occasional wedding and bar mitzvah. They were here, too.” What the hell did that have to do with anything?
    He chewed his lower lip.
    The pouting woman said, “Some of the checks were for much smaller amounts. What would be the difference in your work for a hundred-fifty-dollar check and one for five hundred dollars?”
    “Sometimes they’d just have small dinner parties. Not clients.