The Squeaky Clean Skeleton
Page 1
The SqueakyClean Skeleton
Haunted Housekeeping, Book 1
R.A. Muth
© 2020, R.A. Muth
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Proofreader: Alice Shepherd
Cover Designer: Lou Harper, Cover Affairs
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Sweet Promise press
PO Box 72
Brighton, MI 48116
Dedicated to the Boys’ Club
Jimmy, Jarod, and Stephen
And to my Blueberry Bay siblings
Molly Fitz, Emmie Lyn,
S.E. Babin, and FM Storm
Contents
About This Book
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
What’s Next?
SNEAK PEEK: The Deadly Dust Bunnies
Acknowledgments
More Blueberry Bay
More R.A.!
About This Book
Hi! I'm Tori Madison, and I hate scrubbing toilets, which is unfortunate because my BFF Hazel and I own Bubbles and Troubles, Blueberry Bay's premier cleaning service. When Mrs. Livingston asked us to sort through the contents of her attic, however, we thought our toilet-scrubbing days were over. That is...until we found her corpse.
As if finding our client's body stuffed in a steamer trunk wasn't enough of an upset, someone needed to save her cat from being sent to a local high-kill animal shelter. That person, as it turned out, was me. I had no sooner set up the critter's litter box in my guest bathroom when he revealed another side. A six-foot-four, hunky, Irish side that only I can see.
Before I could come to grips with my new feline friend's secret, Mrs. Livingston's relatives, eager to claim their inheritance, asked Hazel and me to solve the murder. And the amount of the reward was many times over what their aunt owed for the job she hired us to do. Soon we had a plan that included Rune, my new housepet-turned-houseguest.
The more I got to know Rune, the more I wanted to confide in Hazel. But was I risking our lives by keeping my cat's secret as we went through with our crazy plan to catch a killer? Unfortunately, I didn't have a choice.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for taking a chance on THE SQUEAKY CLEAN SKELETON. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
From the moment Melissa Storm asked me if I’d like to write a series set in the fictional area of Blueberry Bay, Maine, I saw the small town of Cooper’s Cove laid out like the setting of a Hallmark mystery movie. As I wrote, the characters came to life and they went from being words on a page to voices inside my head. You’re going to love where their adventures take them next!
I love to hear from readers and, if you'd like, you can reach me at author@beckymuth.com or AuthorBeckyMuth on most social media networks as well as AuthorRAMuth also on Facebook.
Happy reading,
Becky
aka R. A. Muth
Chapter 1
A whiff of caramel wafted through the air as I secured the lids onto two travel mugs filled with coffee. I left the house with the cups and my tote bag, locking the door behind me. As I dashed across the dooryard, the tiny garden in the space between the kitchen door and the driveway, one foot skidded on the damp grass. I somehow managed to remain upright and reach the van without falling face-first onto the lawn.
“Thanks for driving,” I said as I slid into the heated passenger seat and handed Hazel, my business partner, one of the mugs so I could close my door, its outer shell bearing our company logo--a feather duster over the name “Bubbles and Troubles” in bright pink.
“Good morning! Are you as wicked excited about this job as I am?”
“Absolutely! I did some research last night about Mrs. Livingston’s interior design trends through the decades. If she’s kept all the stuff she’s ever bought for that house, then we can expect a generous commission.”
“Mhmm. Estate jobs like this come along once in a blue moon.”
“And it sure beats scrubbing toilets.” I shuddered. “If this works out, we’ll never have to clean other people’s houses again.”
“We can only hope and pray,” Hazel agreed.
After our most recent client, a busy mom with six sons and two daughters, I was glad not to have children of my own. Who knew that kids were so messy! Before my husband died, we entertained the thought for a hot minute but now, I was glad Hazel and I were taking our business in a new direction.
For the rest of the drive, Hazel and I reviewed our game plan, and soon my bestie navigated the van up the mansion’s long driveway, slowing to a stop a bit past the front door.
The excitement of whatever waited for us inside pulled me from my seat and I gathered my share of the supplies before exiting the vehicle. Hazel stepped through the majestic columns at the front of the home and I followed, unashamedly gaping at the home’s ornate features.
“Close your mouth. You look like this guy.” Hazel tilted her head toward a brass, salmon-shaped door knocker. She pressed the doorbell and a muffled chorus of The Grand State of Maine, our state song, chimed through the inside of the home.
I pressed my lips together and watched as the cracked glass of the enormous iron lantern overhead cast reflections of the early morning sun onto the columns.
A few seconds later, the thick wooden door opened to reveal our client on the other side. As with our initial visit to her home, she was dressed to the nines, this time in a black wool pencil skirt and a white silk blouse. As usual, a stylish hat sat perched atop her silver hair.
“Hello, girls! I’m so glad you’re here. Now, as I told you before, I haven’t been into the attic since a decade or so before my late husband’s funeral. I’ve forgotten so much of what’s there. Out of sight, out of mind. Do you have any questions before you get started?” Christine Livingston chatted. Her stilettos click-clacked on the wood floor as she took a few steps back. “Well, I suppose you don’t. Let me show you to the attic so you can get started.”
Like giddy schoolchildren on a field trip, Hazel and I entered the home. The door clicked shut behind us as we followed the olde
r woman down a long hall.
“Mrs. Livingston? Do you mind if I take photos for our website? I’ll be happy to give you a preview so you can approve or reject as you see fit,” I offered.
With a look over her shoulder, the older woman smiled. “Be my guest, and you’re welcome to post whatever content to your website that will help draw attention to the items we’ll send to auction. The more I get, the more you get. Isn’t that how this all works?” She didn’t wait for an answer but continued onward.
Hazel and I silently fist-bumped behind our client’s back.
After what seemed an eternity of leading us through the labyrinth of hallways and staircases, Mrs. Livingston stopped at an ancient wooden door which she unlocked with a skeleton key. She wrestled with the doorknob a little before throwing it wide open. She gestured toward the stairs like a game show hostess who revealed a fabulous prize and beamed a smile. “It’s all yours! There’s a guest bathroom in the hall, and if you have any questions, I’ll be in my study.”
“Thank you so much,” I gushed and grabbed her hand with both of mine. I gave it a few pumps and continued, “This means so much to us.”
Mrs. Livingston delicately pulled her hand from mine and nodded. “It means so much to me that you girls are willing to sift through God-knows-what I’ve sent to be stored there through the years. Every time I decorate, the new pieces arrive, and the old ones go into the attic. Well, I won’t keep you any longer.” With a final reminder to tell her if we had any problems, she disappeared the opposite way we arrived.
Hazel and I hurried up the narrow stairs as much as we dared, as they were not only steeper than the other stairways in the home, but they also lacked a railing. When we reached the top, it felt like we’d time-traveled into the past.
Oil paintings leaned in a neat stack against one wall, their edges collecting thick layers of dust. The top half of a dressmaker’s dummy lay tucked inside an antique cradle. Dolls from a bygone era sat piled atop the form, the edges of their lace dresses tinted with yellow and their porcelain faces split with hairline cracks. Luggage, hat boxes, old trunks, and wooden shipping crates collected in every nook and cranny, and I could not even begin to imagine what treasures they held.
“Where in the world do we start?” I asked. A narrow path snaked around the items.
Hazel fanned herself with the fingers of one hand and pointed to the far wall with the other. “First, help me open that window. It’s wicked stuffy in here.”
“Sounds good.” On my way to the window, I passed an antique fan. “This might help, too.”
“Ooh, my grandma had one like this! Every summer, when we visited her blueberry farm, Gavin and I would talk into it to make our voices sound like robots. Gotta love the lack of technology back then.”
Ignoring Hazel’s reference to her brother, I unlatched the window and struggled to raise the bottom half. By the time it complied, beads of sweat had dripped from my forehead, and I welcomed the chill of the breeze coming through the six-inch opening.
“Good work!” Hazel plugged the fan into an outlet on the wall beneath the window, and the blades whirred to life. “Be careful. These things are sharp, and the last thing we need is for someone to lose a finger.”
Chapter 2
With the fan in place, Hazel synced her iPad with my phone so we could collaborate with the use of inventory management software which allowed us to share notes and photos in the cloud.
“Okay. You start with those containers against the wall. I’m dying to see what’s in this shipping crate.”
“Sounds good!” I agreed and got right to work. In no time at all, I had dismantled the pile and was sorting and cataloging the contents. Fossils, rocks, and minerals filled a faded green hatbox. A second covered in pink silk held Revolutionary War items. A Grecian urn lay cradled within a third. I marked each with a sticky note labeled “M” for “museum” and stacked them into a more organized pile against the wall.
A set of mismatched luggage held vintage cameras, a ladies’ gold and diamond Cartier wristwatch, a quilted Chanel purse, and a silver chalice marked Tiffany & Co. These pieces were bound to bring a small fortune at auction. Leaving the items in their makeshift containers, I marked each with a sticky note marked “A” for “Auction.” Leather-bound books formed another stack with a sticky note marked “T” for “Tattered Pages,” a rare bookstore over in Dewdrop Springs. The proprietor there would assess their value and make recommendations.
Tattered Pages was one of my havens in the weeks after my husband, Duffy, passed away. I spent many mindless hours indulging in the coffee and sweets while pretending to read.
After I oohed and ahhed repeatedly for the first half-hour, Hazel asked, “So, does the job live up to your expectations?”
“Yeah, it’s wicked cool. This attic is ginormous! Is it possible that it’s bigger than the whole house? You’ve outdone yourself, girlfriend.” And I meant it. Hazel negotiated the jobs with new clients. When Mrs. Livingston called us a few weeks ago, I never dreamed we’d see the inside of the mansion, much less dig through the contents of the attic.
“Thank you.” Hazel beamed and turned back to the massive wooden shipping crate she’d unearthed from heaps of old newspapers.
I turned my attention to a pyramid of boxes taller than I was and used my fingertips to inch them forward. Although I tried to be super careful, the smallest box toppled from the top of the stack and tumbled toward my head.
With lightning reflexes, ones I wasn't aware that I had, my hand darted out and caught the box before it hit the ground. I cast a surreptitious glance at my friend and breathed a sigh of relief that the near-mishap failed to catch her attention--and that she couldn't hear the sound of my heart pounding like a jackhammer inside my rib cage.
Surprised the smaller box wasn't tucked into a larger container, I lifted the lid to reveal an ancient-looking bottle. The dust-clouded words on the metal label affixed to the glass were unclear, so I rubbed the grime away with my fingertips until the text became legible.
"Rua le tionchar na farraige, Beidh mé i gcónaí faoi cengal duit," I read aloud.
All at once, the metal shocked my fingertips, as if I'd scuffed my shoes on the carpet to generate static electricity before touching it. I pulled my fingers away from the label and called, "Hey, Hazel, what's this mean?"
"What's what mean?" she asked, focused on the contents of the crate. When I re-read the text, her head sprang up, and she peered in my direction. "I dunno. What'd you find?"
"Some old bottle. Maybe for medicine?" I held the object up. The color grew on me the longer I kept it in my palm.
"Could be the bottle of poison Mrs. Livingston used to kill her husband." Hazel punctuated the thought with a snicker.
"Come on now. You know the poor man died in his sleep." I pulled the cork from the top and gave it a sniff.
Some unseen creature scurried behind the other boxes in the stack and distracted me, but a quick look around failed to reveal the source of the movement. I took a moment to pray. Please, don't be a rodent.
A ray of sunlight filtered through the partially open window, and I followed it to the green aura it cast around the metal label. I announced, "There's no odor."
"Most poisons don't have a distinct smell, Tori. Put that away and let's get back to work."
"Fine," I conceded with an exaggerated exhale. "I'll see if I can find details about it online tonight."
After I returned the bottle to its former confines, I replaced the lid and tagged it with a sticky note marked "R" for research.
No sooner had I taken my fingers from the box when a shadow fell across the wall. I glanced around but saw no one except Hazel, who was still occupied with the contents of the crate.
The rest of the day passed without incident, and before we knew it, the sky through the window held tinges of dusky purple.
"Wow. What time is it?" I asked. A glance at my iPad allowed me to answer my question with two more. "Twenty minutes
after five? Already?"
Hazel stood and rubbed her lower back. "Yeah. We got a lot done today, but the rest will have to wait until Monday. All I want to do is go home, eat dinner, and soak in the hot tub with Sven."
I wish I had someone who waited for me at home, I thought, but instead of lamenting about going home to an empty house, I plastered on a smile. "My clawfoot tub is calling my name. Tonight might be one of those nights where I order Chinese food and eat it from the container while soaking in the tub and listening to an audiobook." Even as the words left my mouth, the mere thought of the activity had me feeling almost as optimistic as I sounded. When Hazel didn't reply at once, I asked, "What?"
"You're doing okay? I mean, we don't talk about it, but..." She stopped and looked at me, one eyebrow raised.
I didn't have to ask to know she referred to my late husband. When I was finally ready to clear his belongings from the house, Hazel's help was what inspired us to branch out into estate cleaning.
On the second anniversary of his death a few weeks ago, I celebrated by setting fire to the divorce papers that I discovered among his things. I wasn't sure which I grieved over the most, the death of my husband or the death of our marriage.