“You could open a store,” I said. “What an array.”
“We combined two households. Neither of us wanted to give up our favorites. I had no idea what a difference a small kitchen would make.”
“Right.” I reached over and opened the oven. Sure enough, there were the dishes that had probably been in the sink just before I arrived.
She gasped. “I am so mortified.”
“Don’t be. I find that in fifty percent of my kitchen jobs. Of course, it’s only a matter of time until someone turns that oven on at the wrong moment. But you won’t have that problem after we finish.”
“Do you know every little trick I’ve tried?”
“Probably. But you might have tried something I haven’t seen before. I’m always ready to be surprised. You’ll relax a bit more when I’ve checked everything. There will be nothing to hide and we can move on.” I whipped over the first drawer. Jammed with cutlery. Three or four sets at first glance. The second, third, and fourth drawers were overflowing with utensils, enough for three kitchens. Typical when households merge.
Hannah’s cheeks were as scarlet as my sweater by this time. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ve seen all this many times.”
“I can’t believe I’m so disorganized. Makes me wonder how I can believe that I am capable of running a design business,” she said with a self-disparaging grin.
I paused. “What is your business?”
“UBER. We do contemporary furniture, lighting, and custom design. We are uptown in a converted house near the old Dutch church.”
“That sounds great, and if your home is anything to go by, you’re terrific at your job.”
“Except that I am a total incompetent here. That must be obvious.”
“Nothing to do with competence. Too much stuff, too little storage. That’s the problem. I can see that it’s isolated in the kitchen. That often happens when two households come together.”
“In this case, in one much smaller home.”
“Exactly, but it won’t take long to put it right if you decide to use my services. You could manage it yourself, I’m sure.”
“I want you to do it. Today if possible.”
“We won’t be able to do it today. But if you want to pursue the project, I can leave you with homework. I have some time available later in the week. We should be able to get everything done soon if I can round up my helper. Sound good?”
“Sounds like a relief.”
Five minutes later, we’d signed my simple contract and I’d gone over the basic plan. I’d asked Hannah to pick a charity to donate her surplus kitchenware to. She said, “I support the community kitchen. It helps needy families learn to cook inexpensive and healthy food. They might need items for the kitchen.”
“That’s a lovely idea. You’ll have plenty to give. In a kitchen like this you need to get rid of everything you don’t use and eliminate duplicate items. I saw about six spatulas.”
“I’m sure there are more.”
“You can get a head start with your utensils drawers. Figure out the most you’d need at a time. I’m guessing two. And give the rest away. It’s easier to wash a spatula occasionally than to dig through all this every day when you need something. It’s one of the easier decluttering jobs, because there probably won’t be that much emotion tied up in those utensils, but in case there is, be tough with yourself. And honest. There’s a huge payoff.”
“But I don’t have a spare minute to do it. I should be at the shop already.”
“Not a problem. We can find another slot time for our appointments. And we can always do the sorting for you, if we can agree on a few principles.” I whipped out my agenda.
“It has to be midweek evenings for me. I’m building my design business and I need to be there during the days. I use the evenings for in-home consultations.”
“Evenings are bad for me this week. I’m doing time-management workshops Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and I have a commitment on Tuesday night. What time do you open your shop? Perhaps I could come in before you go to work?”
Ten minutes later we had found enough common time to fix the first two appointments. Eight a.m. Tuesday and Thursday. Why not?
“It’s short notice, but I’ll try to arrange a helper and bins tomorrow.” I glanced around and realized the only place the bins could stay was in the flawless minimalist living room. Oh well. They wouldn’t be there for long. “I hope you will be able to stand the bins for the duration of the project. Short-term pain for long-term gain.” I knew Lilith Carisse, my all-around assistant, could use a bit of extra work to get her through the college term. Sometimes her three part-time jobs weren’t enough to support her. Lilith would love to see the inside of this jewel of a house. And she’d become faster and more efficient than I was in a purge.
I took the time to peer in all the cupboards and to get down on my knees with my digital camera to take shots of the shelves and their crowded contents.
As we said our good-byes, Hannah bit her lip. I’m used to that. There are often anxieties and second thoughts that surface after that contract’s signed. She said, “There are many things we don’t use often. I’d hate to get rid of them and then need them. Some have sentimental value. I have some of my mother’s cooking paraphernalia from back in the sixties.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll find a way for you to keep what’s loved and useful. As for the rest of it, if you choose a small kitchen and you don’t want any more cupboards, you have to be ruthless with the everyday items. You’ll be making the decisions, not me. And if there are utensils you use once a year, set them aside and we’ll find a place where you’re not tripping over them for the other three hundred and sixty-four days. We’ll take it item by item. Most of the items won’t have sentimental value. You won’t hate the process as much as you think and you’ll love the results.”
She managed a smile. I recognized that glimmer of hope.
I love this job.
As soon as I was back in the Miata, I left a message for Lilith Carisse and tried Mona again. No luck. And of course no answering machine picked up. I was home again soon enough, although the driving was slushy and miserable. Keep smiling, I told myself. No point in fussing about what you can’t change, like the weather. I was looking forward to my therapy-dog meeting.
I was surprised to find Pepper waiting for me in my driveway. She stepped out of the unmarked dark sedan that we called her detectivemobile. She wore a long black coat with a stylish cut and a flattering collar. Her new layered haircut suited her and her skin was glowing. Pepper was an excellent detective and she loved being a cop, even if she missed Little Nick during her shifts. Little Nick’s dad, “Nick the Stick” Monahan, for long, complicated reasons that gave me a headache, was taking leave to care for him.
I glanced at her feet. I was in the market for a new pair of winter dress boots now that the sales were on.
I waved and grinned. “Where did you get those great boots, Pepper? I—”
“We better talk inside,” she said grimly. “Over coffee.”
I felt my heart sink. I’d told Pepper about Mona’s outbursts. Had she been arrested? Or worse, had Pepper found proof that Mona was responsible for the hit-and-runs? Don’t jump to conclusions, I reminded myself. Pepper was still suffering from terrible headaches after her head injury the previous June. Or her mood might have to do with “Nick the Stick.” Her handsome and useless husband never failed to present a new challenge to Pepper, especially now that he was on suspension from the police force. Pepper’s official story was about Nick’s desire to be a stay-at-home dad. No one was buying that. Pepper was quiet on the way up, and the only sound was the clatter of our heels on the wooden stairs. The dogs greeted us with enthusiasm and joined Pepper on the sofa while I made the coffee. I found a stash of sugar cookies left over from the last batch my friend Rose Skipowski had made for me, and I put them on a plate.
When I arrived back bearing coffee and cookies, I n
oticed Sweet Marie and Truffle had burrowed in to cuddle Pepper, their faces resting on the thigh of her dark wool dress pants. She had a pained expression on her regal face. She’s not the type for pets.
“Don’t worry, I have an excellent lint brush,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Dog hair on your thigh. I thought that’s why you have that expression.”
“If only.” Pepper picked up her cup of coffee. She takes it black, no sugar. So do I. “Here’s the thing—”
I blurted out, “I am worried about Mona. I’d like to talk to her. Did you get a chance to talk sense into her?”
Pepper can’t lie to me. We’ve been friends far too long. She scrunched up her face. I knew she was toying with a fib, and thought the better of it.
“So did you?”
“Yes, I did. That’s why I’m here.”
“You found her?”
“Found her? She’s not lost. What are you talking about?” As much as I felt I owed Mona some loyalty, two people were dead. And Mona was in a state. I wasn’t a cop, as people kept pointing out to me, but Pepper was.
I said, “There was another hit-and-run.”
“Of course, I know that. I’m investigating the hit-and-runs. What do you think detectives do here in Woodbridge?”
“Do you think Mona is behind the hit-and-runs?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you think someone is trying to set her up?”
Pepper wrinkled her nose. “What do you mean?”
“She’s getting prank calls. And she thinks someone is stealing her stuff and has left the items at what she calls the ‘death sites’ to implicate her.”
“That’s just nuts,” Pepper said. But her expression told me that had hit a chord.
“Did you find a scarf or gloves? That kind of thing at either location?”
I could tell that they had. “Have you sent those items to the lab? Do you think they could implicate—”
Pepper held up her hand. It was enough to silence me. All that natural authority. “You don’t have to stick your pointed little nose into this situation. We are on top of it.”
“I’m glad you’re on top of it, Pepper, and I never doubted that.” This wasn’t entirely true, but it should have been. I realize I have to stop trying to control everything.
“If it puts your mind to rest, Mona had nothing to do with that second death, and I doubt if she was involved with the first one either.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was talking to Mona right around the time that Bethann Reynolds died. It was just a fluke that I ran into her in the women’s restroom at the station. And she was working the night shift when Tiffanee was killed. Present and accounted for.”
“That’s a relief. But you understand, Pepper, the way she talked about them, I had no choice but to follow up.”
“God knows she had reason to hate that gang, but she didn’t do it. Can you accept that?”
“But the second victim was Tiffanee Dupont, one of her tormentors. What are the chances?”
“I am well aware of who it was. Mona didn’t do that.” Pepper got to her feet and headed toward the door.
“And do you think that the two cases are connected? Do you think that Bethann was killed because she looked so much like Serena? It was uncanny. I saw her on television.” I kept talking as Pepper bent to put on her snazzy boots.
“Charlotte, pull yourself together. Bethann Reynolds had a superficial resemblance, shoulder-length blond hair, that’s it. She wasn’t glamorous like Serena. In fact, if you think back, she was bullied at St. Jude’s too. Right now, we’re not seeing a connection.” She slipped into her elegant coat and buttoned it.
“But you know it can’t be a coincidence. They would have gone to school together. Isn’t that too weird?” I didn’t let her narrowed eyes get to me. Not after all those years. I said, “This is very scary. I was so worried about Haley yesterday that Jack and I went out to check on her.”
“Why would you think that it would be Haley?”
“Because she was one of the original bullies.”
“And you got it into your head that Mona had decided to knock them off one by one. Well, she didn’t, so move on.”
“Fine, but something is very wrong with Mona. She’s not at home, she won’t answer her home phone, her message machine doesn’t pick up, and she’s not at work although she’s supposed to be.”
Pepper left me with a parting shot as I walked her down the stairs to the front door. “Don’t contact Mona. Don’t go by her house. Don’t call her cell. Don’t call her workplace. If there’s any other Mona possibilities that I have failed to anticipate or articulate, don’t do them either.”
“Fine. I have plenty to do. And I know you have things well in hand.”
“Right. Let’s see. Have I forgotten anything? Oh yes. Hit-and-run victims. Don’t walk down their streets. Don’t pat their dogs. Don’t do anything that might make me forget that I am sworn to uphold the law.”
The biggest time-saver of all is a two-letter word: No.
Practice saying it until you can get the hang of it. Make it a game and role—play with a sympathetic friend.
8
The dogs eyed me suspiciously. As Truffle and Sweet Marie are a bonded pair, I’d needed some kind of good plan to deal with separating them during the therapy-dog visits. I couldn’t leave Truffle alone in the apartment without a bit more trouble than usual. Luckily, Jack had agreed to have Truffle visit him at the shop, where there are endless buckets of dog treats as far as I can tell.
We dropped Truffle off quickly and made our way to Riverview Manor, a purpose-built facility near the river, in the rapidly gentrifying downtown sector. A few minutes ahead of schedule, we pulled up in the parking lot of Riverview Manor. Sweet Marie was adorable in her jaunty red scarf and the ID disc that announced I AM A WOODBRIDGE THERAPY DOG. She was still sulking over the bath and manicure, but she knew she looked good. Still, as it was once again snowing, I carried her until we reached the walkway. If she appreciated that, it wasn’t at all obvious.
At the door, once we signed in, a cluster of women in crayon-colored scrubs waited to welcome Sweet Marie. She took to them. She has learned over the years that ladies often have treats. Program director Bella Constantine was there as promised, arms outstretched, silver helmet of hair perfect. Tiny red-haired Candy Brinkerhoff stood smiling broadly behind her, happy doing her duty as the therapy-dog coordinator, integrating us into our first assignment.
Bella squealed, “So glad to meet you, Charlotte! We are so excited about having Truffle and Sweet Marie on board. I realize that you can only have one at a time, but I suppose you could alternate them.”
“Candy said you are in charge of a mild dementia unit?”
“Yes. Mostly Alzheimer’s patients.”
“Sweet Marie is a bit more cuddly and relaxed so I picked her to go first.”
I was glad that Candy was along to help me learn the ropes, as this was unlike any volunteer work I’d done before. She’d already given me some useful information about Alzheimer’s and its progress. Bella handed me a bit of homework: a sheet with instructions and advice to make visits go smoothly for the volunteer and the residents.
Once we were in the secure unit, Bella and Candy rigged up a small cart and blanket for Sweet Marie and pointed out the features of the unit. I was much more nervous than I expected to be. This was my first experience with any kind of dementia. Bella led the parade, exuding affection and competence. “Give it time. It may take a while for people to be able to see Sweet Marie. They may not react to you or me or the pooch today. Some people don’t like dogs so we’ll ask each person and take it from there.”
With Bella leading the way and introducing us, we made our way through the unit. Many of the residents were walking around, others sitting in chairs along the corridor. Some were watching old movies on a large-screen television. Others were wandering.
Family members seemed to pop in and out, sitting with their loved ones. I saw a number of volunteers smiling and having a good time. The walls here were decorated with bright canvases, acrylic paintings of flowers and animals, plus abstracts in vibrant colors.
“Done by our residents,” Bella said with pride. “We have an art program staffed by volunteer artists. Everyone loves it. We have an art show and sale. I’ll let you know when it’s on. I’m sure you’ll want to buy something to support us. You’ll notice the fabulous mural painted on the walls and door from the units. Our volunteer art coordinator did those. It makes it feel a lot less like a secure unit, although it is.”
I turned and glanced back at the wall and the door we’d come in. Sure enough the mural turned a bland bit of institution into a lush green garden surrounded by trees. It was quite a powerful transformation.
“I love it.”
Bella nodded. “Some things make a difference in how you perceive the world around you.”
Ten minutes into the job and already I’d learned something valuable. Bella laughed and enjoyed talking to the residents. She was free with the hugs. She spoke to everyone by name and was up-to-date on what was happening to each one.
Of course, she knew who the good dog candidates were. She told me not to worry if someone didn’t react to Sweet Marie or didn’t seem interested. “It can take a while, and dogs are not for everyone. Some never will respond. But you will be doing a lot of good for the ones who can interact with this little darling. She will leave good feelings swirling behind her.”
We didn’t get far before we hit pay dirt. A sprightly man with no hair and a smile as big as his chair lit up at the sight of my little dog. He reached out toward Sweet Marie, and Bella expertly guided his hands. Bella said, “Joe, this is Sweet Marie and Charlotte. They’re here to visit. Let’s see if she wants to be stroked.” She did. In fact, the pooch was a lot less nervous than I was. By the time we’d reached the end of the hallway and visited a few rooms, we’d met plenty of dog lovers and Sweet Marie had been patted and talked to. Her tail was still wagging. I had to admit the smiles were worth all the effort.
The Busy Woman's Guide to Murder Page 10
