The centerpiece of the room was a large white stone fireplace with photographs in shiny silver frames spaced equally along the surface of the mantel. A sixty-inch television screen hung above the fireplace on the wall. Iris told Jessica to make herself comfortable while she went to find her employer.

Alone in the room, Jessica wandered over to the bookshelves and studied the titles but saw no books or authors she was familiar with. Not one James Patterson or Dan Brown. She went over to the fireplace and looked at the photos but found them to be only slightly more interesting than the books.

There were black-and-white shots of a young couple on their wedding day and a small blonde child on her own. A more recent photo showed a middle-aged woman wearing tennis whites and clutching a bronze trophy. The same woman was also in a photo with two friends. They were all holding aloft champagne flutes and sitting around a cake decorated with a “50” candle and sparklers.

Jessica perched awkwardly on the edge of one of the chesterfields just as the woman in the photographs swept into the room in a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

Like the house, Catherine Tavernier was a tasteful mix of old and new. As given away by the birthday celebration photo, she was in her fifties, but there were definitely parts of her that weren’t even close to seeing a half century yet.

Her nose was a perfect straight line, and her breasts, although small, were perkier than those of a twenty-year-old. Her complexion was bright and fresh, as though she enjoyed regular expensive facials or had the number for one of Beverly Hills’ top cosmetic surgeons on speed dial.

She wore a sleeveless black dress that showed off broad shoulders and tanned, supertoned arms. Her silver-blonde hair looked like it had just been professionally blow-dried at the salon. Even so, she struck Jessica as a woman you would describe as handsome rather than beautiful or pretty.

Catherine strode confidently across the room, and Jessica rose to accept her offer of a handshake that was way more robust than her housekeeper’s flaccid effort had been. It wasn’t a bone crusher but not a weak-assed lady pump either—a handshake that had clearly been honed over many years of boardroom meetings and business deals.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me, especially at your home,” Jessica said. “I had assumed our meeting would be taking place at your office.”

Catherine smiled. “I’m winding down toward semiretirement, so I mostly just work mornings now. And I thought the house would be a more pleasant environment for a chat.”

“It’s a beautiful home,” Jessica said, mainly because she felt like she had to acknowledge the lavish surroundings. But it was true—the place did have the wow factor. For a prime piece of real estate like this, she figured there wouldn’t be much change left over from $4 million.