Clean Sweep

by Jane Heller

  Chapter 20

  Sleeping in jail, I discovered, was next to impossible. For one thing, the guards left the lights on all night. For another, they spoke in ridiculously loud voices, just the way nurses in hospitals do. And for a third, the mattress on my cot was so thin the bed springs practically bored a hole into my back. But I must have dozed off at some point, because I was awakened with a start by the sound of clanking against the bars of my cell.

  “Breakfast,” boomed a policewoman named Rita Zenk. She had a mop of curly, dyed-red hair and wore a thick layer of clownish white makeup, the result of which was that she looked more like Ronald McDonald than a police officer.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “About seven,” she said as she slid a tray of food through the narrow slot in the bars.

  “Thank you,” I said, getting out of bed to receive my breakfast. “I wasn’t expecting room service. Nice touch.”

  “Yeah, and you don’t have to pay for it. The taxpayers pick up the tab.”

  Breakfast consisted of powdered eggs, stringy bacon, toast that was burned beyond recognition, and black coffee.

  “They forgot to give me a knife and fork,” I told Officer Zenk when I saw that the only utensil on the tray was a plastic spoon.

  “Oh, sorry. You can’t have a knife and fork,” she explained in a much gentler tone than her colleague, Officer Dancy, would have used. “You aren’t allowed to have anything in the cell that might be used for self-mutilation.”

  “I see,” I said, digging into the eggs with my plastic spoon. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch and I was famished.

  “People don’t realize it but those plastic knives and forks are sharp,” Officer Zenk continued. She was chattier than Officer Dancy too. “Last year a guy used one of those knives to cut off both his ears. There was blood everywhere. Every time I go in that cell now, I can still see the stains.”

  So much for breakfast. I set the tray down on the bed, closed my eyes, and tried to transport myself out of that jail cell, onto an American Airlines DC-10 bound for Saint Martin, onto the little eight-seater that gets you from Saint Martin to Anguilla in six minutes, into the taxi that navigates Anguilla’s narrow roads, up to the lushly landscaped entrance of the Malliouhana, the scene of my most memorable Caribbean vacations with Sandy. I tried to imagine us eating breakfast on the patio of our favorite deluxe villa at the hotel, munching on croissants and muffins, mangoes and papayas, omelets and smoked fish, admiring the hibiscus and bougainvillea below, soaking up the sun, inhaling the sea breezes, discussing which of the island’s many activities we would take advantage of that day. Ah, bliss, I sighed. Sheer bliss. No matter how bitter I was about Sandy and the way things turned out between us, we did live well. The money was great, while it lasted. Freedom was great, while it lasted.

  “Not gonna eat that?” Officer Zenk asked. I was so caught up in my reverie I’d forgotten she was still there.

  “No. Thanks anyway though.” I hoped she wouldn’t take my rejection of her breakfast tray personally.

  “You’re probably too nervous,” she said. “I hear they’re settin’ your bail this morning.”

  “I guess so. If I can make bail, I won’t have to go to the state facility in Niantic, right?”

  “Right. But from what everybody upstairs is sayin’, they’re goin’ for a high bail.”

  “Because of the cocaine?”

  “No. Because they think you murdered that celebrity author. They don’t want you skippin’ town while they’re gettin’ their case together.”

  “But I didn’t murder anybody,” I wailed. “I’m not a cocaine dealer either. I’ve been set up. I haven’t done anything wrong. This is all one great big miscarriage of justice.”

  Officer Zenk looked at me sympathetically. “You got a good lawyer?” she asked.

  “Louis Obermeyer,” I said proudly. “He’s very famous.”

  “I didn’t ask you if he was famous. I asked you if he was good.”

  I thought for a second. “Yes, I believe he is. He’s had tremendous success defending insider traders.”

  “You were arrested on a drug charge. What’s that got to do with insider trading?”

  “Well,” I said, “lawyers are lawyers. And besides, Mr. Obermeyer is a member of my mother’s country club. That makes him practically one of the family.”

  “Has he ever handled a murder case?”

  “You really think I’m going to be arrested for murder?”

  “Corsini’s pretty close to gettin’ a warrant. He’s just waitin’ for some lab reports.”

  “That’s insane,” I said, louder than I meant to. “All Corsini has on me is the fact that I was Melanie Moloney’s maid, so I had access to her house. And he thinks he’s got his motive after seeing cocaine in my refrigerator—cocaine that was planted there. I’ve never used or sold cocaine in my life.”

  “You forgot one other thing Corsini’s got on you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The murder weapon.”

  “He does?” I was about to make a joke about how dangerous the family-size Windex bottles were, but thought better of it. These cops were a tough audience.

  “Yeah. The lady you worked for, Miss Moloney, was killed with one of her books. The hardback kind.”

  One of her books? Smacked on the back of the head with one of her exploitative biographies? Bludgeoned to death with one of her filthy, sleazy, reputation-sullying bestsellers? The irony did not escape me.

  “Which of Melanie’s books was it?” I asked Officer Zenk, the Layton Police Department’s very own Liz Smith. Was it the book on Ann-Margret that sent Melanie’s head crashing into the desk? Or was it the Charlton Heston tome? Or maybe the 700-page monster about Merv Griffin? Either way, the answer was sure to wind up in a future edition of Trivial Pursuit.

  “I can’t tell you exactly which book it was,” she said. “But I can tell you that somebody in forensics saw it lying on the floor next to the corpse the day after the homicide. The book jacket had a grease smudge on it, where it made contact with the head of the deceased.”

  “A grease smudge?”

  “Well, not grease. Gel. Mousse. Stuff you put on your hair. Miss Moloney must have been into gels and mousses.”

  Sure, Melanie was into gels and mousses. How else do you put a sheen in hair that has been bleached so many times it’s drier than the brushes of a broom?

  “Forensics checked out the smudge, and it was consistent with whatever hair product Miss Moloney had used that day. They also sprayed the book jacket with ninhydrin.”

  “Sounds like a new nasal decongestant. What is it?”

  “It’s a toxic chemical you spray on paper materials to detect fingerprints. Several prints turned up on the book jacket, most of them yours. That clinched it for Corsini. He’s sure you killed your boss.”

  “What is he, nuts? Of course my fingerprints are on that book jacket. I was the woman’s housekeeper. I cleaned her office. I touched her things all the time. So did Todd Bennett, the guy who wrote the books with her.”

  “Yeah, I know. His prints are on the book too.”

  “Why doesn’t Corsini arrest Todd then?” I asked. “He hated Melanie as much as I…as much as I loved her.” That was close. You never could tell if Corsini and Michaels were taking all this in on their little suicide camera.

  “Mr. Bennett didn’t have an ounce of cocaine in his refrigerator. You did.”

  “I was set up. I already told everybody that.” Stay calm, Alison. This cop is trying to be helpful. Get as much out of her as you can. Don’t blow it. “You mentioned that there were several fingerprints on the book. Who else’s were on it?”

  “Your boss’s, for starters. Then there were some that haven’t been identified.”

  “Haven’t been identified? Isn’t it possible that that person’s the real killer? Instead of locking me up, why don’t you guys go out and find the person with the mystery fingerprints and ar
rest him? Or better yet, arrest Todd Bennett. He has no alibi for the night she was murdered.”

  Okay, I was a snake to throw suspicion on poor, wimpy Todd, but for all I knew, poor, wimpy Todd killed Melanie and planted cocaine in my refrigerator. If he was so good at getting the inside scoop about celebrities, maybe he was also good at getting inside someone’s house, planting drugs, and tipping off the police.

  “Look, I know this is tough on you, your first offense and all,” said Officer Zenk. “But try to cheer up. The state of Connecticut has a death penalty, but they haven’t executed anybody in years.”

  My bail hearing was scheduled for ten o’clock that morning. At nine-thirty, I was put in the Department of Corrections van and driven to the state courthouse in Jessup. When I arrived, I was taken to something with the quaint name of a “holding pen,” a large area where women from every town in the county were incarcerated while awaiting their turn with the judge. There were prostitutes and drug dealers, an arsonist, a shoplifter, even a woman accused of slicing her husband to death with a Veg-o-matic.

  There I was, Alison Waxman Koff, Mistress of Maplebark Manor, locked up with the dregs of society. What had I done in a past life to deserve this? I wondered. What had I done in this life to deserve this? Spend a lot of money? Rack up a lot of debt on my credit cards? Buy a house that was obscenely expensive and way too large for two people? Was I getting my just deserts for my excesses? Was it payback time for the greed-is-good eighties?

  After an hour or so in the holding pen, an officer came to escort me to my appointment with the judge. I bid farewell to my fellow prisoners by telling them to have a nice day. One of them reciprocated by telling me to go fuck myself.

  I walked into the courtroom and took my seat at a table next to my lawyer, who seemed even more out of sorts than he’d been the night before.

  “My indigestion. It’s killing me,” he said, taking a swig of Maalox.

  I waved to my mother and Cullie, who sat in the first row of the courtroom. They smiled. Cullie gave me the thumbs-up sign. My mother did too.

  “All rise,” a voice boomed as the judge entered the room.

  We rose, we sat. Then the judge addressed us. His name was the Honorable Judge Wilson Pickett. He was black and bald and stern-looking. I wondered if he was named after my favorite soul singer or if my favorite soul singer was named after him. I tried to imagine him singing “Midnight Hour.” I could not.

  I spotted Detectives Corsini and Michaels sitting at a table with another man, who turned out to be a prosecutor by the name of Fred Goralnik. It was Mr. Goralnik who spoke to the judge first. He explained that his detectives had found an ounce of cocaine in my refrigerator and were recommending that the judge ensure my future court appearances by setting a bail of—get this—$50,000.

  “Can they do that?” I asked Mr. Obermeyer. “I won’t be able to come up with $50,000. Maybe my mother can, but I don’t want to ask her for it.”

  “Keep quiet,” my lawyer snapped. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  I took a deep breath and prayed that Louis Obermeyer knew what he was doing.

  “Your Honor,” he said. “I’d like to see the bail reduced for the following reasons. First, my client was arrested falsely. The police had no warrant. They forced their way into her home, acting, they claim, on a tip from an informant. They deceived her into opening her refrigerator door, where the cocaine was found. Their conduct and the circumstances surrounding the arrest were questionable at best.”

  Mr. Obermeyer clutched his stomach, belched, muttered an “excuse me,” and took another swig of Maalox.

  “Furthermore, your Honor,” he continued, “my client has no prior record of criminal behavior. Not an arrest. Not a parking ticket. Nothing.” He paused to check his notes. “She has never failed to appear in court because she has never had to appear in court. She’s an upstanding citizen. She has an unblemished record of service to her community. She pays her taxes. She’s gainfully employed.”

  I cleared my throat to get Mr. Obermeyer’s attention. He leaned over and I whispered in his ear. “I don’t want you to perjure yourself or anything,” I said. “So I think I should tell you: I’m not gainfully employed. And I’m not sure I can pay my taxes either. Not this year.”

  He scowled at me. “Sorry for the interruption, your Honor. As I said, my client is a fine citizen with no criminal record whatsoever. While she is no longer employed, due to the recent death of her employer, she has ties to the community. Her mother is a longstanding member of Grassy Glen Country Club, as am I, and I can assure you that she will not fail to appear in court, thereby invalidating the need for an extraordinarily high bail.”

  “Good work,” I told Mr. Obermeyer when he had finished his little speech.

  It was very good work. The judge decided to reduce my bail from $50,000 to $1,000.

  “Alison, dear. You’re free,” my mother wheezed after she wrote a check for $1,000 and gave it to Mr. Obermeyer to give to the appropriate law enforcement official. I hugged her tightly. All was forgiven. She had just kept me out of the State Correctional Facility in Niantic. I was so grateful that I was willing to put aside all my gripes against her, for the time being anyway.

  “Oh, Sonny. I’m so happy,” Cullie said, kissing my cheeks, my forehead, my lips. “It won’t be long before this whole nightmare is over.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” barked Mr. Obermeyer. “We’ve got a trial to prepare for. Then there’s the murder charge they want to pin on you.”

  “Now Louis,” my mother scolded my lawyer as if he were a little boy. “Let Alison and her beau have a few moments of happiness, can’t you? They’ve had so much with which to deal. Give them some peace.”

  “Thanks, Doris,” Cullie said, patting my mother’s arm. “You’ve been great. Sonny and I appreciate it.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  I was flabbergasted. Cullie and my mother genuinely seemed to like each other.

  “Your mom just kept you out of jail,” he whispered when he saw my reaction. “That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, I guess it does. You came through for me too Cullie. I’d like to show my appreciation as soon as they let me out of here, okay?”

  “Your berth or mine?”

  “Yours. It’s closer.”

  Cullie and I spent the night on the Marlowe. I felt as if I were home—really home.

  “Will you take me sailing again?” I asked as we undressed and climbed into the V-berth. “Our last trip didn’t exactly cut it.”

  “No, it sure didn’t,” he laughed. “If I remember correctly, everything was going just fine until you accused me of murder.”

  “Please forgive me,” I said, snuggling up against him. “I’ll never doubt you again. I promise.”

  “Promises, promises. You did enjoy the sailing, though, didn’t you? You seemed to.”

  “Oh, I loved it. When can we go again?”

  “Maybe next week. It’s April—finally. Great sailing weather.”

  “Cullie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Then make love to me. Make me forget all the terrible things that have happened. Make me forget everything except your taste, your smell, your touch. Make me for—”

  Cullie pressed his lips on mine and plunged his tongue into my mouth. I felt a stirring in my groin and surrendered to the sensation. Within minutes, any thoughts of Melanie’s murder and my impending arrest melted away, and I slipped into the kind of sweet oblivion only a woman in the arms of the man she loves can know.

  Chapter 21

  Cullie brought me back to Maplebark Manor early the next morning. He said he was taking the day off to help me with whatever I needed help with. I needed help with everything I told him. He said our first order of business was to find out who planted the coke in my refrigerator and how the person who did it got into my house—a mystery that was partially solved by a te
lephone call from Janet Claiborne.

  “Mrs. Koff, I’m so terribly soddy about last night,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said, assuming she meant my unfortunate arrest and even more unfortunate stay in jail.

  “It really was all my fault,” she went on.

  “My getting arrested was your fault?”

  “Arrested? I was speaking of your burglar alarm, dear.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I forgot to reset it after I showed the house last evening. I disarmed it when I arrived, but completely forgot to arm it again when I left. Forgive me.”

  “You were here last night? You showed my house?” Janet hadn’t showed my house once in all the months she’d had the listing.

  “Indeed I did show your house. And to a very significant member of our community.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. You know how these people like to maintain their anonymity. Let’s just hope we get an offer.”

  Hope was beside the point. Desperation was the point. “So let me get this straight. You forgot to arm the security system when you and this significant member of the community left the house?” I had given Janet the code for the alarm as well as a key to the house when we’d signed the listing agreement.

  “Yes, dear. And I am truly soddy. The customer was in quite a hurry—you know how impossible people of consequence can be—and I must have been a trifle scattered.”

  The customer was a person of consequence? I was dying to know who had come and looked at Maplebark Manor while I was at my mother’s house sorting out her love life. Figures, I thought. Janet finally produces a live one and I’m not around to see it.

  At least now I knew how the cocaine planter got into my house. He broke in after Janet and her consequential customer left. It was easy enough to break into a person’s house, I supposed, but not so easy to disarm a security system—unless, of course, the system wasn’t armed in the first place.

  “Well,” I said. “I’m very encouraged about the showing. Let me know if your customer wants to come back and see the house again.”