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graciously. “Which one was your favorite, dear?” 
    She shook her head. There had been so many and it had been so long ago. “I guess Chloe Goes to School . I remember my mother reading it to me the day before I went to first grade so I wouldn’t be scared.”
    “And did it help?”
    “It did.” She glanced down at the drafting table. “I saw your name on the case file, but I didn’t make the connection,” she said absently. “Are you still writing Chloe books?”
    “Of course!” she said, excitedly, her voice cracking from the effort. She picked up one of the stagecoach pictures. “Chloe’s about to take a trip to the old west. This will be her thirty-third adventure. She should’ve been dead about six times over since chameleons have such a short life span, but only a few children have ever commented on that. She just keeps going. Like me.”
    “Wow.”
    She leaned over a worktable and studied several discarded sketches. A supply cart sat nearby, overflowing with markers and trays of watercolors. She was so tempted to scavenge through the contents of the drawers that she gripped her briefcase tighter to prevent herself.
    “Do you work exclusively in watercolor?” she asked.
    “For Chloe, yes. Her adventures have always been watercolor, but I dabble in other mediums. Are you an artist, dear?”
    She shook her head. “No, not an artist. I’ve just always liked to draw. I did it in school.” Completely lost in the moment, she added, “I invented my own character because I loved Chloe so much.”
    Viv touched her heart. “I’m flattered, my dear. You’ve paid me the ultimate compliment. If I die today, it will be with a smile on my face.”
    “Viv!” Penn groaned.
    “Maybe you could show me your character sometime?”
    She blinked, suddenly remembering why she was here. Her gaze fell on Penn, leaning against a filing cabinet, her chin resting in her palm.
    Viv grabbed her by the arm. “How about some tea and pie?”
    They followed her through a completely updated home. She expected a seventy-year-old woman to have dark oak furniture with doilies and knickknacks scattered about the tops of multiple hutches, buffets and tables, but there was none of that. The floors were bamboo, the walls adorned with contemporary art and the furniture minimal and functional. Viv’s tastes mirrored her own, not her grandmother’s. She thought of Grammy’s Iowa townhouse, a mausoleum filled to the brim with family history. Viv was the exact opposite. Two framed black-and-white photographs sitting on a sideboard were the only traces of personal memories.
    They sat down on a leather couch facing a sixty-inch flat screen TV, while Penn went and retrieved the tray of refreshments. 
    “That’s for watching my Cardinals play,” she said.
    “Your house is beautiful. I love what you’ve done with it.”
    Viv leaned closer and whispered, “It wasn’t always this way. It took me a while to realize what I wanted in life.”
    “I’m still figuring that out,” she said.
    She patted her arm again and offered a smile full of wisdom. “You’re young, sweetie. It takes time.”
    She immediately decided she liked Viv very much. Her clear blue eyes were kind, and CC could still see her outward beauty between the age spots and wrinkles. It made it that much harder to do what she had come to do. Her gaze wandered to the far corner of the room. An oil painting of a young African-American woman wearing a white dress was the only piece of art on the wall and a display light hung over it. Alone, it looked important.
    “That’s an exquisite painting,” she said. “Did you do it?”
    “Yes, it’s the only oil I’ve ever finished.”
    “It’s exceptional. No wonder you’ve displayed it so prominently.”
    “No dear, that’s not the reason. I’ve displayed it as such because of her .”
    Penn reappeared with a tray while CC opened her briefcase and withdrew a file. “I’m here on behalf of the Rubenstein family.