Blanche Cleans Up: A Blanche White Mystery (Blanche White Mystery Series Book 3)

by Barbara Neely

  She closed her eyes and opened them only when she was sure the questions bouncing off the inside of her brain wouldn’t make her scream out loud: How would things be different if she’d told Miz Barker about Ray-Ray sneaking into the Brindle house? Or how crazed Allister Brindle had been over his missing tape? Or the tone of his voice when he’d ordered Samuelson to find the tape? Would Miz Barker still be alive? Would Ray-Ray?

  “So sorry, so, so sorry,” she whispered as regret permanently etched those awful questions on her heart.

  She drained the capers and folded them and a bit of their juice into the sauce. The least she could do now was to find the tape they’d died for and try to make somebody pay. She wanted to at least know who had killed them. She doubted Samuelson had dirtied his own hands, but didn’t he have a couple of goons with him at the lead poisoning meeting? “I need to talk to Pam,” she muttered, relieved to have something to do. She wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the phone. But she didn’t use it. Miz Barker had just died yesterday. She’d call tomorrow. She washed and dried the pears for poaching. She also needed to decide what exactly to say to Pam.

  Felicia’s four friends were as interesting as three-day-old meat loaf. Blanche immediately nicknamed them The Nices: They had nice—not too long, not too short—haircuts; nice navy, green, or gray, or quiet plaid skirts; light-colored blouses or sweater sets; sensible-looking pumps or high-end walking shoes. They had nice voices, too. None of them laughed loudly or leaned too far back in her chair. Of course, no one raised her voice, brought up sex, money, or their husbands’ prostate problem. And Blanche was sure if she squinted just so, she could see right through them. They talked about some benefit auction they were working on. It all sounded so very nice, Blanche didn’t bother to listen. She figured that by the time she served coffee, they’d need it to keep from boring each other to sleep.

  Felicia came to the kitchen after lunch. “Lovely meal, Blanche. The pears were heavenly.” She added that she and the girls were off to do some impulse buying.

  Blanche made quick work of the after-lunch cleanup, put the last of the dishes away, and went upstairs to see what she could see.

  It was Allister’s rooms that interested her. She didn’t expect to find a note on his bedside table explaining what was on the tape or what he had on Samuelson. Still, there might be something she could use.

  She put on her rubber gloves and opened Allister’s door. Of course, the vibe in there didn’t suit her. She decided to work up to it by checking out Felicia’s rooms first. She didn’t expect to find anything useful. Felicia didn’t know as much about Ray-Ray and the tape as Blanche did. But she’d figured a quick look around Felicia’s rooms would put her in a searching frame of mind.

  She’d already seen the bedroom, so she opened the door to the dressing room: a chest of drawers, a vanity table, and at least ten feet of clothing and shoe racks behind mirrored sliding doors. She went in the bathroom and opened the door to the sauna. A part of her longed to get undress and climb in, but the rest of her knew this was not a house to get naked in. She opened the door on the far side of the bathroom expecting a closet, but found an exercise room—Nautilus equipment, an exercise bike, two workout benches, and a massage table. A stereo and small refrigerator sat in one corner, a chair in another. She closed the door and turned back to covet Felicia’s bathroom for another minute. She lingered in the dressing room, a favorite hiding place of women she’d worked for. It was as if they thought this room was a good hiding place because no one but them and those they thought they controlled entered it. She checked the walls for a safe: behind a round mirror with a frame made of ceramic tiles painted with miniature scenes of mountains and lakes, fields of flowers, and snowy countryside scenes; behind the clothes in the closet; and behind the dresser. Nothing.

  Even though she was wearing her rubber gloves, she used a long nail file from the vanity to stir the contents of the wastebasket: puffs of cotton stained with beige makeup and a cream that smelled of vanilla; a half-finished copy of the schedule of household events and meals they’d talked about a couple days ago; a postcard telling Felicia when the suit she’d ordered from Chez Simone would be delivered; a postcard from someone called Bibi—“Having a grand time! Such gorgeous waiters!”—on Mustique. Were foreign waiters favorite boy-toys among Felicia’s set? She’d like to be a fly on the wall when the waiters talked their side of things.

  Carrie did a good job of keeping Felicia’s clothes in order. Blanche looked at, but didn’t disturb, the bureau drawers full of creamy satin and lace-edged underwear, nightgowns, and so forth. The bottom drawer held a black dildo with a strap and two vibrators of different sizes. Blanche chuckled at an image of Carrie opening this drawer and breaking out into instant prayers for Felicia.

  On the desk in the alcove was the first picture of all the Brindles that Blanche had seen. Within the silver frame, younger versions of Allister and Felicia stood side by side. A young man who had to be Marc had his arm around Felicia’s shoulders. Marc looked to be in his teens. He had his mother’s eyes and his father’s chin. They were all laughing. Blanche put it back. She needed to move on to Allister’s room, but she was halted by the feeling that there was something here. But what? She took another walk through. The door to Felicia’s exercise room seemed to glow in the corner of her left eye. This time she went inside.

  One long wall was paneled floor to ceiling with mirrors. She walked to the end of the room, turned sideways, and looked at herself. Oughtta put all this butt on that bike. Probably can’t touch my knees, let alone my toes. So, of course, she had to try. She leaned over and was at least able to reach her calves. On the way up, she noticed a small button beside the last wall mirror. She pushed it. A door popped open to reveal a closet. Sweats, sneakers, bath sheets, a big fluffy terry-cloth robe. Blanche pushed the hangers aside. Halfway down the back wall was a cubby door—the kind that housed plumbing and electrical stuff. Blanche pulled the handle, and the whole door fell away. There were large elbow pipes behind it. Wedged behind them was a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag—a heavy bag that clanked and clinked as she lifted it out of the closet.

  She’d never seen an Olympic medal up close before. There were three gold medals and three silver ones. There were also six trophies, all for swimming contests. All of them had saxe winton engraved on them. The newspaper had said Saxe’s medals and trophies were missing. Maybe Saxe gave them to Felicia before he died. But why? She tried to think of a way Felicia could have gotten Saxe’s things without having anything to do with Saxe’s death. She didn’t have any success. Shit! She’d been really glad Felicia wasn’t involved in Ray-Ray’s death. Now this! Still, her having these things didn’t necessarily mean Felicia had killed Saxe. And if she had, why take his trophies? The answer came to her almost before she’d finished the question: to make it look like a robbery. But why kill him in the first place?

  She took the last item out of the shopping bag. A packet of photographs. Twelve of them. Pictures of Saxe leaning against a boat deck, about to dive off the side of a boat, lolling in a deck chair in oversize sunglasses and an undersized G-string. He was alone in all of the pictures, except the last one. Blanche looked at it closely. It sent her back to the picture on Felicia’s desk. Yes. The young man standing with Saxe was definitely Marc Brindle.

  Saxe was looking directly into the camera, smiling that same closed-lipped smile that promised to top your best sexual fantasy. Marc was beaming at Saxe and leaning toward him in a way that reminded Blanche of lips puckered for a kiss. She turned the picture over. Nothing on the back, not even a date. But it wasn’t when it had been taken but what it showed that mattered.

  If Felicia really looked at it, she had to know how Marc felt about Saxe. Unless, like Mick had said about Miz Inez, she didn’t want to know. Blanche held the picture under the lamp shade and looked at it under direct light. Oh shit! Were they really…? She brought the picture closer
to her eyes. There was a shadow between Marc and Saxe, which is why she hadn’t noticed it at first. But there was no doubt about it: Saxe and Marc were holding hands. Damn! She could feel heat rising from the picture. She thought back to the afternoon Saxe had come back looking for his photographs. Had Felicia seen this picture the day Saxe lost it? She’d been plenty down in the mouth when she went out that afternoon. It wasn’t every day you found out that your son and your lover had a thing going on. Blanche could certainly see herself taking a swing at some dog who was screwing her and her child. But self-defense was the only reason to kill anybody.

  There was such a thing as knowing too much about your employer’s business. But maybe she was wrong. Felicia wasn’t the only one with reason to want to hurt Saxe. There was Marc, too. Maybe that was why Felicia was so anxious to talk to Marc. Maybe she knew that he…No. How would Felicia get the trophies and medals from Marc if she hadn’t seen him in months? And if his mother was helping him cover up a murder, wouldn’t Marc have at least asked to speak to her when he called the house? Blanche remembered how Felicia had stopped making eye contact after Saxe was killed. And hadn’t Allister said something about her disappearing from some reception the day Saxe was murdered? She really wished she hadn’t found this stuff. She put it all back in the bag, put the bag back where she’d found it, and closed the closet door. She went downstairs and made a cup of tea. Her hand shook as she poured the water.

  “I don’t have to do jackshit about this now,” she told herself. She was half sure this was a lie. But was the truth? She knew she wasn’t going to call the police and tell them Felicia had Saxe’s trophies and medals. She knew she wasn’t going to get in Felicia’s face about things she had in her closet. She thought about Felicia chastising her for having poked Samuelson. Woman had plenty of nerve. Blanche finished her tea. Miz Barker and Ray-Ray first, she told herself. She went back upstairs.

  Allister’s rooms were the same size and layout as Felicia’s. His bedroom was full of dark mahogany furniture that probably belonged to his great-grandfather and looked to Blanche like big hunched creatures crouching around the room. Duck prints hung on the walls; silver-backed brushes caught the light from the window. Everything in the room—furniture, rug, picture frames—were done in either hunter green or dark brown, with a little baby-shit mustard thrown in. A room that said “I’m a missionary-position kind of guy.” She wondered if it was true. Did he and Felicia still have sex, or was he screwing someone else, too? Cream silk pajamas and a much-used paisley silk smoking jacket hung from hooks on the back of his dressing room door. He seemed to own every man gadget that ever came down the pike: a wooden valet station with a pants holder and jacket hanger, an electric nose hair trimmer, a Bose Acoustic Wave radio, a lighted notepad with a pen attached. She pushed the button on his tie rack. A light came on and the ties marched around in a circle. She liked his silver-and-black bathroom better than Felicia’s blue-and-green one. He, too, had his own Jacuzzi, shower, and sauna setup. There were weights in his exercise room, as well as a rowing machine and a big black punching bag on a stand with buttons in the base like it had a computer built into it. She looked around his dressing room but didn’t touch anything. She felt the walls of this windowless room inching toward her, as walls did when she was in enemy territory. She left the dressing room without looking around. It was her experience that men and women hid things differently. In addition to safes, women seemed to look for places that weren’t really hiding places—like coat pockets and shoes. Men seemed to like trick hiding places: a secret panel in a wall, a desk with a hidden drawer, suitcases with false bottoms. She’d once found a shallow compartment built into the seat of an employer’s desk chair. He’d kept pictures of naked children in it. She’d poured ammonia on the pictures and never went back.

  A bookcase, an easy chair, and an end table occupied the alcove that in Felicia’s room held her desk. Blanche circled the furniture, fighting her way through Allister’s vibe as she walked among his things. It was a large armchair—big enough for two. Its dark wooden arms and feet shone from Wanda’s labor. It was a chair Allister liked. The back cushion showed a slight darkness where Allister’s head rested and just the barest indentation from his butt in the seat. The arms were wide enough to set a glass or cup on or to lean on and write. Blanche gathered herself to herself, took a deep breath, and sat down. Experience also told her that men liked having their hiding places in sight. If it was behind a picture, it was a picture in front of rather than behind their favorite chair so that they could keep their eye on it. She scanned the room from where she sat, then rose to inspect the pictures on the wall, all of which were just that. She went back to the chair and looked closer in: From the corner of her left eye, she saw the bookcase; in front of her, the footstool; on the other side, a table. She sat up and pulled the footstool to her. It was heavier than it looked. She ran her hand around the edge of the cushion until she felt a small hinge. She pulled at the cushion. It rose to reveal a small safe that was of no use to her without the combination. Or to anyone else.

  She looked down at the gray combination lock. If this was where Allister kept his film, how had Ray-Ray gotten into it? She shut the cushioned lid. As she got up, her hand slipped from the arm of the chair, down into the space beside the seat cushion. Her fingers automatically snagged the item she felt there: a matchbook. A familiar-looking matchbook: le club was stamped on it in raised silver letters on a slick black background.

  She’d found one just like it in Ray-Ray’s bureau drawer. She went downstairs and called Joanie at the hospital where she worked. She played with the shiny black matchbook while she waited for Joanie to pick up the phone in the dieticians’ office.

  “Hey, girl. I know you’re busy. I just want to know if you’ve heard of a place called Le Club.”

  “Never heard of it. Is it a nightclub?”

  “Maybe. I don’t really know.”

  “I just wish I had some nightclubs in my life! I can’t remember the last time I was in a club. But I bet Lacey would know.”

  Blanche hesitated, wondering if Lacey would even remember her.

  “Give me your number. I’ll tell her to call you,” Joanie said.

  Blanche didn’t hang around the library while the Brindles had their drinks. She could hardly look at Felicia. The minute she saw the woman, she could feel the weight of that bag of trophies and medals. And she couldn’t stop herself from feeling bad about what that bag likely meant. As for Allister, just being in the room with him soured her stomach. She could tell from the way he watched her without seeming to that she wasn’t brightening up the world for him either.

  “Blanche, you sly fox, I had no idea,” Lacey said when she called. “Of course, I’d love to sponsor you, honey. My, my, you are a one.”

  Blanche gave Lacey a couple seconds to clear her throat of that I-know-your-business chuckle before declaring that she didn’t know what kind of a place Le Club was.

  “If you don’t know anything about it, why do you want to go there?”

  “I’m superstitious,” Blanche told her. “I’ve found two matchbooks from there—one in a place that surprised me.”

  “Superstitious and curious. Just where did you find these matchbooks?” Lacey wanted to know.

  Blanche didn’t answer.

  “Fine, if you won’t talk, I won’t tell you about Le Club. You’ll have to see the place for yourself.”

  Which was fine with Blanche. She agreed to meet Lacey the next afternoon while the Brindles went out. Lacey suggested she pick Blanche up to save time.

  Tongues came running up to Blanche as she got off the bus.

  “You’ll wanna be my girlfriend, now, un-hunh, you’ll give me a little kiss, too, Blanche, I know it. I know it.”

  She gave him a level look and waited for him to go on. It didn’t make sense to encourage him with a question until it was absolutely necessary.

&nb
sp; “I saved all your stuff, all of it. If it wasn’t for me, they’d a taken everything you got, so…”

  Blanche stopped walking. “What are you talking about, Tongues? What stuff of mine did you save?”

  “Everything! Blanche, everything you got. You gon’ be my woman now, I bet, un-hunh, un-hunh.”

  Blanche stopped herself from screaming at him to tell her everything right away. She didn’t want him to go off just now.

  “You mean stuff in my house, Tongues?”

  “That’s right, girl, now you talkin’, girl. I saved it all. Me, Tongues. You got to at least give me a hug, Blanche, ’cause…”

  Blanche willed herself to stay calm, to believe everything was fine. She gave his arm a gentle shake. “Maybe I will, Tongues, maybe I will. But first you gotta tell me what happened.” She was walking fast now, dragging him along with her.

  Tongues’s grin was wide enough for two. “Oh boy! I got me a girlfriend now, un-hunh, un-hunh.”

  Blanche felt her patience draining away quick as money from a gambler’s pocket. “Tongues, you gotta tell me what happened. Did somebody try to break into my house?”

  “Un-hunh, that’s right, un-hunh, un-hunh. Two of ’em. Big niggers!” He lifted his hands way above his head.