by Mary Feliz
I sighed heavily, unaware until then that I’d been holding my breath. I bit my lip and fought back tears. It seemed like tempting fate to ask about the wisteria window, but I sat up straight, squared my shoulders, and asked.
“Wisteria window?” Jason said.
“That stained-glass window in the stairway. Mom loves it,” David said.
Jason shook his head and my heart sank. If only I’d taken a picture of it; we could have found an artist to re-create it.
He must have read my expression. “Maggie, I’m not saying it’s destroyed. I don’t know. Chances are your stained glass is fine. It survived the last attack, didn’t it?”
I nodded and wiped tears from my eyes. I felt ridiculous crying over an endangered window. My kids were safe. The animals were fine. No one was hurt. Our house was mostly undamaged and definitely livable. The barn was something we could rebuild.
“What about the cameras?” I asked. “Did the security cameras show who did this?”
Jason frowned. “We took a quick look at the footage. We could see a hooded figure dressed in black who faced away from the camera. The techs are taking a closer look, but for now we can’t see enough to identify anyone.”
Stephen refilled my coffee mug and flipped three pancakes from the pan to my plate.
“I’m sorry, Maggie,” he said. “I’m not doing a very good job of protecting your family.”
“That’s ridiculous, Stephen, of course you are,” said Jason at the same time I said, “I shudder to think where we’d all be without your help, Stephen.” I glanced at my two boys and tears filled my eyes. I didn’t want to say any more in front of them. I didn’t want them to know how worried I was, nor how close a call it had been. I wanted Stephen to know, however, that I owed him everything.
He must have gotten the message, because he put his hand over his heart and bent his head in a combination of a nod, a bow, and a benediction.
David looked at the clock. He lurched from the table, nearly upending a pitcher of orange juice. “I’m late for band practice. We’ve got to go now. I need my trumpet and water bottle and sunscreen and I need to change. I’ll boil in sweats—it’s like a million degrees on that fake grass on the field. I need to call my section leader and explain why I’m late.”
I offered David my phone, but he didn’t know the older boy’s number by heart. He’d programmed it into his phone, which he’d left at home.
I took two bites of my pancakes, thanked Stephen, and confirmed with Jason that we could get back into the house. The boys and I hit the bathroom. Stephen offered to keep the cats until I could bring their carriers down. Within seconds we were headed back home.
“No exploring when we get to the house. No sightseeing. Brian, you’re staying in the car. David, you’re getting your band stuff, changing, and coming right out. I’ll grab the cat carriers. Pretend it’s a timed race-car pit stop. Go.”
We were in and out in record time. David plugged his phone into the car charger and checked in with his section leader. Brian and I dropped him off and were back home in time to meet Jason and the fire department’s investigative team.
The wind blew steadily from north to south, carrying any lingering barn smoke across the creek toward the hills. I opened the downstairs windows while Brian tackled the ones upstairs. I climbed the front staircase, pausing on the landing to check the wisteria window. Small chips and cracks were visible in the vines, but the majority of the window remained intact. I took a picture of it with my phone, guarding against another attack. For now, though, I took comfort from its beauty, and from its strength in withstanding assaults that had twice destroyed the window beneath it. I made a note to find an expert to repair the damage.
I knelt to brush my fingers across soot stains left on the stairs from the smoke bomb. From what I could tell at a quick glance, the bomb hadn’t damaged the stairs or the finish. The walls and ceiling, however, were marked with stains that smeared under my fingers. We could try washing them down with trisodium phosphate like we had the mailbox, but I suspected that might only be a prelude to painting. I sighed.
I was tempted to sit on the stairs and wallow in my misery, but we had work to do. I turned on the attic fan. From the small window overlooking the backyard, I could see Brian talking to the firefighters and poking at the edges of the burned beams with a stick.
Walking down the hill to the barn, I got the full impact of the devastation from the fire. Black splotches marred the hillside where sparks had tried to start a wildfire. Firefighters had done an amazing job of limiting the damage to the barn, protecting our house and the Open Space District. Autumn in California was fire season. Hillsides and wooded areas were tinder-dry and would stay that way until the winter rains dampened them sometime near Halloween.
“Morning, ma’am,” said one of the firefighters, turning a soot-stained face toward me. “Are you the homeowner?”
I nodded. “Maggie McDonald. Is it still burning?”
He periodically sprayed the wreckage.
“I’m Jackson. Those hay bales are still smoking. We’re using water and a wetting agent to make sure they’re out. There are hot spots that need cooling before our chief can clear the site.” He nodded to an older, heavier man talking to Jason and taking photos on the other side of the wreckage. “He’ll want to ask you some questions.”
The chief looked up, waved, and he and Jason walked toward me.
Jason introduced us.
“I’ve got a few questions for you, when you’re ready,” the chief said.
“And I’ve got questions for you too. I’m sure you’re thirsty. Would you like lunch?”
“I wouldn’t say no to iced tea if you’ve got it, but no lunch. And if we could sit on your steps there, I could keep an eye on the fire.”
I nodded. I was happy to turn my back to the devastation. Last night, I’d mourned the loss of everything—the house, the barn, the soothing view, and the plans Max and I had made. Today, I was angry. And I was determined to do something about it.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Hey Babe,
Jason sent me a note about the barn. I’m so sorry. He also told me that none of you were hurt, thank God!
Oh, Mags, I can’t shake the feeling that if we’d stayed in Stockton, none of this would have happened.
Please be careful. We can talk about moving back. The good news is that I will definitely be home within the week. Details to follow!
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
What a mess! I’ve got tons to do, so I’ll keep this short.
I’m thrilled you’re coming home and so are the boys. We’re managing fine without you here, but I know we’ll all feel more secure once we’re all together under one roof. It’s been one thing after another around here and we’re all exhausted.
I’ve thought a lot about moving back, but I’ve decided I don’t want to. This house is amazing, the boys love their schools, and we’re all making friends.
The barn is a disaster, but maybe that’s a good thing. I know you talked about providing housing for a Stanford student the same way Aunt Kay used to do. Maybe we can rebuild the barn with that project in mind. Or an office, or even a business office, studio, and showroom for Simplicity Itself. Don’t worry, I’m not galloping ahead with plans. I’m just looking for an upside among all the soot and ashes.
See you soon!
Love,
Maggie
Chapter 29
When you consult a professional, be honest with them and with yourself. It does no good to have a doctor prescribe treatment you refuse to follow. The same goes for a professional organizer. If I suggest a plan that my client doesn’t embrace, I hope he will let me know so I can make adjustments. If he doesn’t, he’s wasted his money and my time.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing
Saturday, September 13, Midday
The fire chief confirmed that the fire was arson. Someone did not want us in Orchard View. That much was certain. Maybe someone was threatened by my meager investigations into Javier Hernandez’s death, Miss Harrier’s death, the vandalism, and the embezzlement. But scare tactics and a campaign to oust us from our home made it clear they didn’t know me very well. I was more determined than ever not to give in. Maybe I didn’t know the town, or the people, or what they were hiding. But my ignorance was not going to make me give up.
What did Max’s Aunt Kay say? “Play to your strengths.”
I was best at bringing order from chaos. I’d done it for friends, strangers, hoarders, and hopelessly disorganized professors. I could do it with what I’d learned during my investigation. And if I couldn’t, following familiar procedures would soothe me. While Adelia’s team wiped down and repainted the staircase, Brian played video games and I ran our smoky-smelling clothing and bedding through the wash; I pulled out my colored index cards, my colored markers and highlighters, and got to work.
I made cards for the key players, along with wild cards for persons unknown. Flora, April, Pauline, Dennis, Tess, Elaine, Stephen, and Jason each had a card. I didn’t want to think that anyone I knew could be hiding the kind of anger and desperation that would lead them to arson or murder, but I made cards for everyone and hoped I’d soon be able to rule them out.
I wrote the locations on cards too—the school buildings, our house, the barn, and the foundation that had taken a hit in the embezzlement scheme. I didn’t have any details on the fraud and I wasn’t even sure that any of these things were connected, but I wrote them down anyway. Elaine had suggested I follow the money. I added cards for the other sources of school funding: PTA, the DeSoto Foundation, the Orchard View Foundation, and regular state funding. If one pocket of school funding had proved lucrative for a crook, I wanted to try to make sure they weren’t all vulnerable. I knew that school districts near New York and Chicago had been the victims of comprehensive frauds that took advantage of lax accounting and auditing practices. I didn’t know enough about the Orchard View school-district administration to rule that out, here.
My organizing process required taking a good, hard look at everything my client was dealing with, so that we could make realistic improvements and changes, creating a system the client could maintain. I was literally putting my cards on the table, or in this case, laying them out in a riot of color on my living-room floor.
I made cards for the times when we thought each crime had occurred. That was the hardest part. Everything that had happened since we’d arrived seemed to have run together into one major nightmare. Separating them made me face each event individually, including those that might or might not be accidents.
As I’d hoped, when I reduced each horrifying episode to a few words that fit on a cheerful pink 3-by-5 card, they seemed much more manageable.
I moved the cards around based on who could have been in each location at the time the crimes had occurred. I made duplicate cards for the key players, making each one a different color: red for the Tess cards, green for Flora, blue for Dennis, etc.
If I was positive that someone had access to a crime scene and had no alibi, I put their card below the crime-scene card. If their presence was possible, I put their name above the scene.
I still didn’t know much about the events of the past two weeks or the secrets that people were hiding. But patterns were emerging. Both Tess and Dennis had easy access to all the crime scenes. I clung to the concept of Tess’s innocence, so I focused on Dennis.
Dennis had proximity to our house. Of all the suspects, he lived closest. He’d offered to sell our house, which seemed to indicate he’d be happy to see us go. His brother ran the DeSoto Family Foundation, and Dennis was the PTA treasurer. He’d told me himself that he was an active volunteer in a wide variety of school organizations. His son, Diego, had seemed uncomfortable when we gave him a lift home. Unlike the others, Dennis offered no help with our brainstorming sessions after the vandalism at the school and Miss Harrier’s death. Miss Harrier had been asking for his PTA treasurer reports and Flora said he’d seemed reluctant to provide them.
I’d told Flora days ago that I’d pick up the reports from Dennis. Making good on my promise would be the perfect excuse to visit him and ask him a few more questions.
If two weeks in Orchard View had taught me one thing, though, it was that baked goods were currency. If you were saying thank you, asking for help, apologizing, or saying hello, unwritten Orchard View rules dictated that cookies be provided. My cupboards were nearly bare, but I still had the cookies Flora had given me earlier in the week. I’d frozen them when I’d been under the temporary delusion that we had more than enough cookies to last us into next spring.
I pulled them from the freezer and arranged them on a plate. While they thawed, I picked up the piles of index cards, set them aside, and went to tell Brian I was going to the DeSotos’.
But when I checked on Brian, I found him sprawled on his bed, fast asleep, with Belle curled up next to him. His breathing was still raspy, but it was more relaxed and even than it had been. I left a note for him on the bathroom mirror and left Belle to keep him company.
I walked down the driveway and checked the mailbox. I still wasn’t sure when our mail was delivered. Like the vandal, the mail carrier came and went without me seeing him. The box was empty.
Overhanging live oak branches shaded Briones Hill Road and made the walk toward Dennis’s house cool. I drew my sweatshirt around me and felt alone.
My calves burned from the steep climb by the time I reached the ostentatious lampposts that marked the end of the DeSotos’ driveway. Dennis had made it clear that he thought of our house as a dump, so I felt free to entertain snarky comments about his house, as long as I kept them to myself. The drive itself was paved with sand-colored stones that probably had a special name, but I didn’t know what it was.
I tried not to let the house intimidate me, but it wasn’t easy. When I walked past the fountain, I wondered how I’d missed seeing the front door when we’d dropped off Diego. A two-story entryway with double doors and the largest brass doorknobs I’d ever seen dominated the courtyard. Through clear sidelights and windows above the door, I could see a staircase that curved upwards, encircling a giant chandelier. I wondered who dusted it.
I felt very small, as if I should be selling Girl Scout cookies. I reminded myself I was more than forty years old and a mother of two. I stood as tall as I could in my jeans and sneakers and rang the bell, which was so large I had to hit it with the heel of my hand instead of my finger.
Chapter 30
Magazines work hard to sell the idea that women need to develop a personal style for their hair and clothing. The same principle works for organization. What works for one person might be ridiculously onerous for the next.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Saturday, September 13, Afternoon
Elisabeth/Demi answered the door. I introduced myself and stepped into the marble-tiled front hall, asking if Dennis was available. Elisabeth called up the stairs to him and we chatted in the circular room, which was notably barren of skates, balls, rackets, shoes, books, backpacks, and any other evidence that five children lived in the house. I assumed that there was another dumping ground for kid paraphernalia at the back of the home, probably closer to the kitchen.
“Of course, you’re the new neighbor,” Elisabeth gushed. “For a second there I was sure that Laura Linney, the actress, was standing on my doorstep. Has anyone told you that you look just like her?”
I rubbed my hands over my face, unsure how to reply. I assumed Elisabeth was being sarcastic and trying to tell me I still had smears of soot on my face.
Elisabeth wore full makeup and was carefully coiffed, wearing a tailored butter-yellow shift and matching heels. She asked about the
fire and expressed relief when I told her no one had been hurt. We waited for Dennis . . . and waited for Dennis . . . and waited some more for Dennis.
“I’m not sure where he is,” she said. “Come through to the kitchen and I’ll give you coffee while we wait. He may be on the phone. I’ll text him.”
Text him? In his own home? Elisabeth led me down a narrow hallway filled with school pictures, framed awards, and bookcases filled with sports trophies. I relaxed a little, more comfortable here than I’d been in the cold and showy front hall.
Elisabeth invited me to sit at a large square table in the corner. A right-angled cushioned banquette provided seating on two sides of the table. Diego sat at one end, supporting his head with his left hand and slurping Cheerios from the spoon in his right.
“Hi, Diego,” I said. “No soccer today?”
Diego looked up through his thick bangs and I gasped.
“Oh, honey,” I said. “I’m so sorry. What happened to your eye?” A dark purple bruise covered the left side of his face, and his eye was swollen closed.
I put down the plate of cookies I’d made up from the batch that Flora had given us, and hoped they’d had time to thaw.
“Have a cookie,” I said, looking up at Elisabeth to confirm that it was okay to offer her son a treat. She nodded, staring at her phone. She was waiting, I assumed, for an answering text from Dennis.
“Tried to catch a soccer ball with his face,” Dennis said from the hall. He came in to the kitchen holding a sparkly purple leash in his left hand.
