In the aftermath of a significant personal tragedy, Cat Collier must find a way to pick up the pieces of her shattered life and move forward, not so much for herself, but for her children. Moving back to Heaton Valley, Ohio is the first step.
Excerpt:
My name is Cat Collier. Well, Mrs. Mary Catherine Collier Paxton,
to be more precise. I run a research service called Red Cat Investigation from inside the beautiful Palazzo Castellano. It’s a high-end hotel and long-term residency in the small, quiet, picturesque town of Heaton Valley nestled in northeastern Ohio. I live in the penthouse apartment.
Up until recently, I had a second office in the Cardinal Park area of New York City called Cay Cosa Investigation Service. When shopping in Italy, sellers will ask you ‘Che cosa?’ (pronounced Kay Ko-za). It means what thing, or what are you looking for, what do you want to buy. So, when I was naming my new office in the middle of an old Italian neighborhood, I thought it fit. What thing do you need me to find out for you? What thing do you want to know?
Most of my work is online research. Almost everything is available online. There is no such thing as privacy anymore. Do you want some background information on that new guy you’re dating? Give me a name, an internet connection, some time, and a little luck and I can get you his address, phone number, age, marital status, driver’s license number plus year, make, and model of his vehicle, any criminal record including traffic citations, his taste in music, his job history, hobbies and interests, his social media relationships, and what brand of toothpaste he buys.
But occasionally I have to do some actual physical investigating that involves stakeouts, tailing suspects, eavesdropping, and disguises. And sometimes, the work can be dangerous.
My life has just recently been turned upside down. My children, Poppy and Dougie, and I recently moved back to Heaton Valley. I sold my interest in New York City office to my business partner Matteo Skampotti. Our life in New York is over and I never want to go back. My sweet, handsome, lovable, blond Scandinavian husband, Spencer Paxton, was gunned down in the street near our home by his batshit crazy sister.
October 28. I will hate that day for the rest of my life. It was the worst day I was ever forced to endure. Detrick Bittmor threw himself a giant masquerade ball to celebrate his seventy-fifth birthday at the Palazzo Castellano in Heaton Valley. At the party, I was abducted by a couple of professional assassins. There was a shoot-out. A bullet grazed my forearm. But Detrick’s son and only child, Erick ‘Carter’ Larsen, was shot and seriously wounded defending me.
Carter and I, well, you could say we have a history. I was madly in love with him. There is an outside chance I may still be, but I ignore it as best I can. We were engaged to be married. He had sex with his ex. In his office. On his desk. Four feet away from the door adjoining our two offices. With that adjoining door open. And me standing there. To say the least, it ended badly. I was crushed. Heartbroken. I wanted to die. Carter refers to this episode as ‘the thing.’
The day after the shooting at Palazzo Castellano, while recuperating from my arm wound and with Carter still in serious condition in intensive care, I got the call that my husband, Spencer Paxton, had been shot. His condition was critical. I flew to New York immediately.
My husband was older than I am. Seventeen years older, to be exact. He was my landlord. I met him when I went up to his penthouse apartment to ask him for some modest improvements in the office I was renting in the Paxton Building in Cardinal Park in New York City. Simple things, like cleaning the dirty, dingey hallway and replaced the broken light bulbs so my clients could feel safe and see where they were going.
At first, he was surly and defensive. But the more I got to know him, the more I found him to be a warm and wonderful man. No, not the sexy heart throb of my life who turned my brain to mush like the marvelous, gorgeous, take-my-breath-away Carter Larsen. But unlike Carter Larsen, Spencer Paxton understood the meaning of the word ‘faithful.’ His behavior wasn’t ruled by his sexual appetite. He was honest and dependable and he never cheated on me.
He was also moody and reclusive. He never left the penthouse apartment that was his childhood home. He suffered from severe panic attacks. His father was a wealthy textile tycoon. Although Spencer had siblings, he alone inherited everything because of a horrific childhood incident orchestrated by his older brother. He spent his days managing his stock portfolio and watching the financial channel on TV from the safety and comfort of his home office.
I’m the one who coaxed and encouraged him to leave the safety of his castle. I’m the one who ignored warnings that he might still be in danger from berserk family members. I’m the one who wanted him to ‘be normal.’ So, I feel I’m the one who got him shot.
I carry that guilt around with me like a bag of rocks tied to my neck. Speaking of rocks, the last two years with Spencer were anything but smooth sailing. He filed for divorce. He filed for custody of the Poppy and Dougie. His slick New York lawyers slipped in here, handed me a fistful of papers, and scooped up my kids, even though my hot shot lawyer Detrick Bittmor was standing at my side. I was helpless. Hopeless.
The lesson I learned that horrible day was simple. Never do battle with a millionaire who’s one goal in life is to punish you, because no matter what it costs him, he will win.
But in the hospital that night, right before he died, he told me he didn’t want the divorce. He told me he wanted us to be a happy, little family again. He told me we’d live together as a family wherever I wanted. He told me he loved me. And then he died.
The nightmarish events that transpired the night of his death were a gut-wrenching blur of grief and agony. I wanted nothing more than to drown myself in that bottle of scotch I kept in the bottom drawer of my office desk and never, ever come up for air.
But I have two adorable, brilliant, beautiful children. And for the sake of my two kids, I needed to pull myself together and give them the emotional stability they needed. After all, they just lost their Daddy.
Lucky for me, I have a deep and loving emotional support system at the Palazzo Castellano in beautiful Heaton Valley, Ohio. It’s the best hotel with the swankiest bar in town. It has long-term residency on the upper-level floors. Retired lawyer Detrick Bittmor, owner of the hotel and the best legal mind I’ve ever known, is always in my corner. My family: my parents, my sister Pat, and my brother Dane, are always there for me. And my friends. That’s what’s nice about small town living. Everyone shows up for you in your hour of need.
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