Closet Confidential
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1 - Show me your closets and you show me your secrets.
Chapter 2 - Before you start your closet project, select a favorite charity ...
Chapter 3 - Ditch your mismatched hangers. Invest in inexpensive sturdy ...
Chapter 4 - Don’t overlook your public library as a great source of organizing ...
Chapter 5 - Don’t overlook the dollar store and variety store containers to ...
Chapter 6 - Clip photos of closets and storage solutions that appeal to you ...
Chapter 7 - Love your collection of shawls and oversize scarves? Use swing-arm ...
Chapter 8 - Make space. Move out-of-season clothing to another location. Don’t ...
Chapter 9 - If it doesn’t make you feel good, it definitely doesn’t belong in ...
Chapter 10 - Label all boxes and storage containers in your closet to save ...
Chapter 11 - Don’t give up on favorite items with small problems: An ...
Chapter 12 - Inexpensive over-the-door shoe racks keep shoes visible and the ...
Chapter 13 - Hang all jackets—even suit jackets—together in color order. Do ...
Chapter 14 - No matter how long the dress you wore to the homecoming dance ...
Chapter 15 - Consider your quality clothing in a new light. Can you update ...
Chapter 16 - Invite a friend to help you de-clutter your closet. The buddy ...
Chapter 17 - Play classic rock when you are cleaning out your closet! The ...
Chapter 18 - Stop buying items that are almost identical to those you already ...
Chapter 19 - Every spring and fall, take everything out of your closet and set ...
Chapter 20 - Attach an inexpensive double-hanging rod to your existing closet ...
Chapter 21 - It may sound simple, but keep the items you use most often in the ...
Chapter 22 - Have a party, update your wardrobe free, and clean your closet at ...
Chapter 23 - When decluttering, hang on to these basic wardrobe foundations as ...
Chapter 24 - Keep a basket handy to your closet. Toss stained, torn, or ruined ...
Chapter 25 - Frustrated by fumbling for clothes in the dark confines of your ...
PRAISE FOR
Death Loves a Messy Desk
“Fast and breezy, Death Loves a Messy Desk is a pleasant mystery . . . Organizing tips at the head of each chapter offer little reminders on how to make our lives more organized to have more time to read mysteries.”
—The Mystery Reader
“A carefully crafted mystery with enough red herrings to be truly satisfying and enough cliché poking to be wickedly humorous as well.”
—ReviewingTheEvidence.com
“This is a fun book . . . [A] pleasant way to spend a lazy afternoon.”
—Gumshoe Review
The Cluttered Corpse
“Talented author Mary Jane Maffini has crafted a clever and fun tale . . . Red herrings and surprises await the reader [and] complexities of the plot make for a worthwhile read.”
—New Mystery Reader
“Charlotte is feisty, funny, and determined to help people, whether it’s organizing their mud room or clearing them of a murder charge . . . Delightful.”
—I Love A Mystery
“Amusing . . . enjoyable.”
—The Mystery Reader
“We all should have a Charlotte Adams in our lives.”
—ReviewingTheEvidence.com
Organize Your Corpses
“A comedic, murderous romp . . . Maffini is a relaxed, accomplished, and wickedly funny writer.”
—The Montreal Gazette
“Maffini provides a first- rate, well-organized whodunit . . . A new series that is fun to read.”
—Midwest Book Review
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Mary Jane Maffini
ORGANIZE YOUR CORPSES
THE CLUTTERED CORPSE
DEATH LOVES A MESSY DESK
CLOSET CONFIDENTIAL
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
CLOSET CONFIDENTIAL
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Mary Jane Maffini.
All rights reserved.
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BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
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For my parents, who believed in the magic of books
Acknowledgments
I owe thanks to the capable and generous community of organizers—a truly helping profession for our cluttered era and one which has led me to choose that as a career for Charlotte Adams, the lucky girl. As always, I am very grateful to Mary MacKay-Smith, Linda Wiken, and Victoria Maffini who made time to offer valuable insights on the manuscript for Closet Confidential. I must also thank my sons-in-law, Barry Findlay and Stephan Dirnburger, for knowing the most amazing things and not being afraid to share them. No one else can bring much-needed humor to the darkest moment the way my husband, Giulio, can. My friend Chris Myers was very helpful as usual, and I would be lost without his time and expertise.
Once again, Tom Colgan, Niti Bagchi, and Megan Swartz of Berkley Prime Crime and my agent, Kim Lionetti, did a terrific job of smoothing the process and soothing the author. Closer to home, I’m also indebted t
o Ottawa Therapy Dogs for allowing my spoiled princess dachshunds to bring joy to others. Let’s hope they can inspire Truffle and Sweet Marie.
Last but not least, hats off to the legions of cozy fans and authors who make this such an entertaining genre to write and to read.
You cannot hide from me.
I will know everything about you as soon as your closet door swings open and I peer in.
If you are having an affair, I will see the signs.
Terrified of getting old? I’ll know in a minute.
Going broke? Ditto.
Letting the people in your life walk over you? Won’t take me long to figure that out.
Every closet disaster masks some hitch in life—minor or major—even if it’s simply being overscheduled. I’m a professional organizer and when I do my job well, my clients feel better able to tackle whatever else is troubling them. At best, they change their lives to feel happier. At worst, the results are murder.
—Charlotte Adams
1
Show me your closets and you show me your secrets.
Lorelei Beauchamp would not react well to the suggestion that anything in her beautiful life and her spectacular home was less than perfect. I took care not to let the phrase “closet makeover” slip past my Dior lipstick.
Lorelei issued a languid, silvery laugh. “Charlotte dear, you are most certainly not your mother’s daughter.”
Whatever that meant, it would be the first of many digs. Lorelei and my mother went all the way back to high school when the competition for homecoming queen transformed their friendship. The passage of nearly forty years hadn’t changed their status as fabulous frenemies. Their air kisses on the rare occasions they met had all the genuine warmth of dry ice.
I reminded myself that Lorelei had seven closets, jammed with designer clothing and accessories, and I intended to keep our minds on them rather than the rivalry between her and my mother as we sifted through her pricey clutter. Lorelei might also have more money than God, but I wasn’t planning to crawl over broken glass to earn my fee.
I produced a smile that my mother would have been proud of. “No, I am myself.”
If Lorelei had not lost her only daughter, Anabel, several months back, I might not have been in her home on a cool but sunny Sunday afternoon in June. But Anabel Beauchamp had drowned on a Woodbridge construction site, a freakish accident that left her friends, co-workers, and the young people she worked with badly shaken. I had liked and admired Anabel, and after all, our families had a shared history. I still felt guilty that I’d been in Europe and unable to attend the funeral. All to say, I was prepared to cut her grieving mother some slack.
Lorelei’s husband, Harry, shot me a sympathetic glance. He was the only soft, comforting element in the vast glass, stone, and steel living room. Harry and I would probably both be glad when this ritual was over. And Lorelei would be happy when she’d put my mother—who hadn’t even lived on the same continent for the last twelve years—in her place. Senior year in high school? I figured it was a shame to let their distant past blight her life.
Lorelei must have been six feet tall, slender and elegant, with perfect bones and flawless skin. That face had gazed out from hundreds of magazine covers over the years. This was the woman who had snagged the role of spokesmodel for Face It cosmetics at the age of forty-five and in many ways had changed the way America regarded women as they hit midlife. She had the confidence that would come naturally to someone with a perfume named after her. I had noticed the soft exotic scent of Lorelei as soon as I’d arrived. Lorelei’s personal tragedies had not marred her classic features. The tiny lines that were visible when you sat next to her never made it into the advertising shots, but even if they had, they didn’t diminish her beauty.
She tucked a strand of her silver blond hair behind a perfect ear. “Hmm. You’re still single?”
“Happily so.”
“What happened to what’s-his-name? That young man you were engaged to in Manhattan? Didn’t he give you a lovely ring? I seem to remember Esme raving on the subject the last time I saw her. She was very excited about it.”
My mother had indeed been over the moon about both what’s-his-name and the ring. And when I told her I’d tossed the square-cut diamond solitaire into the swirling dark waters of the Hudson, she’d been devastated. After four marriages and countless near misses, she was used to the idea that the man you loved could be a cheating hound. But it had been a new experience for me, and I had no plans to get used to it.
“Didn’t work out. Sometimes a person needs variety.” I grinned to leave the impression that I’d been the variety seeker. I was glad I’d taken care in choosing my outfit. My crisp white shirt had a flattering row of ruffles, and my venerable black pencil skirt was perfect with it. I’d splurged on a pair of open-toed red patent platform heels and a pedicure. When you’re barely five feet tall, shoes matter.
With the large pair of gold hoop earrings on long-term loan from my mother, my classic wide woven leather belt, and a vintage lapis lazuli bracelet I’d scored at a garage sale, I could pass the Lorelei test, barely.
“I suppose.” She produced a soft smile. “Although Harry has never sought variety in thirty-five years.”
“Never have, never will, Lorelei darlin’.” Harry still hadn’t shaken off his soft southern drawl after more than thirty years in the Hudson Valley.
I knew he was telling the truth. I’d never seen a man quite so besotted by his wife. A couple of my mother’s husbands had been head over heels, but none of them lasted past five years.
“In fact,” Harry said as he got to his feet, “I think it’s time to celebrate that with a champagne cocktail. That’s the current house specialty, Charlotte honey.”
Of course it would be the house specialty for Lorelei Beauchamp. The color was right for one thing. Same pale shimmer as her famous hair.
As Harry was talking, Lorelei turned and stared out the expanse of fourteen-foot-high windows; her mind had drifted elsewhere. I didn’t know what part of Harry’s comments had triggered a troubling thought.
Harry glanced her way, then mine. “I have a special technique. Want to step into the kitchen with me and see how I do it?”
“With pleasure.” Actually I was very happy to step away from Lorelei. Maybe she needed to be by herself. Harry had always functioned as Lorelei’s white knight, manager, and protector. Now apparently he’d added mind reader to his résumé.
I followed him along the stark minimalist hallway to the mostly concrete and stainless steel kitchen. This house had been featured twice in major architectural magazines. The kitchen had scored a full page in both, although I couldn’t imagine anyone cooking anything in it. Harry stopped at an immense cooler designed especially for white wine and, I supposed, champagne.
This seemed like a good time to tell Harry that I don’t drink much and never when I’m working. I need my wits about me.
Harry grinned and nodded toward the cooler. “New toy. It keeps the bubbly at a perfect forty-two degrees.”
Harry opened the door and produced a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. No cheap and cheerful sparkling wines for the Beauchamps’ champagne cocktails. He grinned as he twisted off the foil and eased the cork out with the gentlest of pops. “We’re having mimosas today. Does that work for you, Charlotte?”
He took down three crystal flutes from the bar cupboard and set them on the glossy counter.
“Not for me, Harry. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll stick with the orange juice.”
“Charlotte honey, that’s no problem with me. I squeezed the juice fresh just before you got here. I’ll go easy. I imagine you’ll need your wits when you tackle those closets.” He stepped over to a refrigerator that was bigger than my entire kitchen and reached in.
More like when I tackle Lorelei, I thought. Most closets are a piece of cake for me. These seven would come with stacks of Louis Vuitton suitcases and tons of emotional baggage.
“How is she doing
?” I asked, nodding back toward the seemingly endless living room where Lorelei sat staring out the wall of windows and seeing nothing.
Harry paused, still bent over. “Ah well.” He picked up the pitcher of fresh orange juice. “Not too good.”
“She seems so sad.”
“She can’t believe it. Anabel being gone. Like that.” He straightened up and snapped his fingers. “One day she’s our perfect girl, the next . . .” His eyes filled.
Sally had shown me the newspaper coverage of the tragedy when I returned from my trip, and I’d been shocked by the image of Anabel’s covered body being carried from the muddy construction site where she’d drowned. It still distressed me when I thought of it. I hoped that wasn’t the picture that stayed in Harry’s head. I felt a catch in my throat as I watched Harry struggle to control his emotions.
“We were lucky to have her. So lucky. At least we have those beautiful memories.”
I understood what he meant. Anabel was five years younger than me, but I always remembered her open smile and sturdy good nature. Harry’s girl for sure.
“She was wonderful. Everyone loved her.”
“Thank you, Charlotte honey.” He turned his attention to the flutes and poured in the orange juice. “Juice first. The alcohol mixes down.”
“And she was lucky to have you. You gave her a very joyous life.”
At least Harry had.
“I hope so.”
“Trust me.”
Harry had been a wonderful parent, warm, uncritical, yet no pushover, the master of the gentle correction and the quiet life lesson. Anabel must have felt loved and cherished every day of her life. As for Lorelei, she hadn’t been unkind, merely remote and always all about Lorelei. But then again, you can’t have everything.