Clean Sweep

by Jane Heller

  “Oh, absolutely. As I told you, this customer is a veddy important person in our little town,” Janet said proudly. “That’s why I was willing to show the house at such an odd hour. I don’t believe that houses show best at night, but a showing is a showing. At Prestige Properties, we do our veddy best to bring buyers and sellers together.”

  Yeah, right. The woman was in the twilight zone. “Oh, Janet,” I said. “There’s something you should know. I’m planning to have a tag sale. I’ve asked the woman from Second Hand Rose to sell all my furniture, fixtures, everything. The house probably won’t show as well when it’s empty.”

  There was silence on Janet’s end of the phone. Then a deep sigh. “If you must, you must,” she said finally. “Everyone in town knows of your difficulties, so there’s no surprise there. As a matter of fact, all that business about your being Melanie Moloney’s housekeeper should work to our advantage.”

  “How?”

  “You’re a professional maid, Mrs. Koff. Prospective buyers will assume your house is spotless.”

  Somehow, between consultations with my lawyer about my impending drug trial, visits to the Layton Bank & Trust Company about their threatened foreclosure of Maplebark Manor, and brainstorming sessions with Cullie about the identity of Melanie’s murderer, I managed to schedule the dreaded tag sale. It was held on a rainy, dreary Friday. The weather was so depressing I feared that nobody would show up, despite Second Hand Rose’s impressive, full-page ads in the Community Times. I also feared that lots of people would show up and track mud all over my spotless house.

  My fears (the latter ones) were realized—everyone in the state of Connecticut came to my tag sale. By the end of the day, my floors, which were the only things left in the house after virtually every piece of furniture except my bed was carted off, were covered with sludge. But at least I had raised enough cash to satisfy my creditors and keep my Porsche filled with gas.

  “I’ve never seen such a turnout,” raved Second Hand Rose after the last item had been sold.

  “People have admired this house for years,” I explained. “I guess they thought there would be some valuable pieces for sale.”

  “Valuable, yes. But not in the way you mean,” she said “They didn’t come because of the house. They came because of you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “They wanted to be able to tell their friends they bought a lamp that was once owned by Alison Koff, the woman who murdered Melanie Moloney.”

  “I didn’t murder anyone,” I snapped.

  “That’s not what they’re reporting in the Community Times. That newspaper has you tried and convicted.”

  Enough was enough. I was sick and tired of being portrayed as Jill the Ripper in Alistair Downs’s pathetic excuse for a newspaper. It was time I had a little chat with its managing editor. I dismissed Second Hand Rose, changed my clothes, and drove over to the paper.

  Once inside the building, I headed straight for Bethany’s office, but found it empty when I got there. Fine, I thought. I’ll wait.

  I sat on the sofa and fidgeted. Then I looked up at the portrait of Alistair and Bethany that hung on the wall. What evil deeds have you two been up to? I asked myself. Did either of you kill Melanie? Did either of you plant cocaine in my house and try to implicate me in her murder?

  I checked my watch. Where the hell was Bethany? I knew she was in the building, because I’d seen her ice-blue Mercedes in the parking lot.

  I got up and paced. I walked over to her pigsty of a desk, which was piled high with papers and littered with doughnut crumbs, and began to snoop the perfect way to kill time when you’re waiting in somebody’s office. I was about to sneak a look at a memo written on stationery that read, “From the Office Of Senator Alistair P. Downs,” when I heard someone enter the room.

  “Koff! What are you doing here?”

  I was relieved to find Julia Applebaum, not Bethany Downs, standing before me.

  “Oh, hi,” I said. “It’s nice to see a friendly face. I’d shake your hand, but mine is sticky from all the sugar on Bethany’s desk.”

  “That’s what you get for sticking it where it doesn’t belong,” she laughed. It was great to see her smile. The last time we met, she’d acted like I was a murderer. But then so did everyone else in town.

  “How have you been?” I asked. She looked wonderful. Slimmer and more fashionable. Perhaps it was the haircut. The long braid had been chopped off in favor of a stylish, shoulder-length ’do.

  “Pretty good. Can’t complain. How about you, Koff? You surviving your ordeal?”

  “Barely.”

  “Sorry about that,” she said sheepishly.

  “If you’re so sorry, why haven’t you called me? It’s been months since we got together. You never struck me as one of those women who dumps her girlfriends the minute a man turns up.”

  “I’m not—usually. Look, we really need to talk about this.”

  “So you admit you’ve been seeing someone.”

  “Sure, she’s been seeing someone,” Bethany interjected. Neither Julia nor I had heard her come in. She was wearing jodhpurs, riding boots, and a white shirt unbuttoned down to her cleavage, and her blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail bound with a perky red ribbon. She wasn’t dressed for success in the board room; she was dressed for a tryst at the Hunt Club.

  “Hello, Bethany,” I said. “I came to talk to you.”

  “So I see. You don’t look so good, Alison. Bad cocaine trip?”

  Okay, so Bethany was going the bitch route. Two could play that game. “No, Bethany. No bad trips. Just bad newspaper coverage. There’s this local rag that keeps churning out articles implicating me in Melanie Moloney’s murder. Know anything about that?”

  She shrugged. “We get all our information from the police reports. What can I tell you?”

  “Bullshit.” I paused to appraise Bethany’s riding habit. “Or should I say horse manure?”

  “Get to the point, Alison.”

  “The point is, you’ve been out to get me ever since you found out I went to work for Melanie Moloney, your father’s intrepid biographer.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? Julia, remember when Bethany gathered us all together in her office and told us if we didn’t stay away from Melanie she’d spank us with her riding crop?”

  “Yeah, I remember, Koff. What’s that got to do with the murder?”

  “Guess who fired me when she found out I was Melanie’s maid? And guess who told me she’d rehire me if I told her what was in Melanie’s book about Alistair?”

  “I did no such thing,” Bethany said.

  “Don’t try to deny it. You told me you’d take me back at the paper in a second—for twice the money I was getting before—if I’d hand over the manuscript or tell you exactly what was in it. You were desperate to know what Melanie wrote about your dear old dad and you assumed I could help you.”

  “You must be as drugged out as they say,” Bethany sneered. “You’re not making the least bit of sense. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a newspaper to put to bed.” She pushed her way past me to get to her desk.

  “A newspaper to put to bed?” I said, not budging. “Don’t make me laugh. Your only experience with beds is sleeping with every married man in town.”

  “Now just a minute, you, you…”

  “Hey, take it easy, you two,” Julia refereed. “Try to act like adults, would you?”

  “Speaking of sleeping with men,” Bethany said, curling her lip and drawing her face close to mine. “How’s that mother of yours, Alison? Still pining for my father?”

  “Your mother knows Alistair?” Julia asked.

  “Yeah, they were an item for years, and it drives Bethany crazy,” I said. “She likes to have her daddy all to herself.”

  “Don’t listen to her, Julia,” Bethany said. “She’s got a screw loose.”

  “Beds. Screws,” I said. “Talk about a one-track mind.”


  “Why don’t you both stop this?” Julia said. “Koff, get a grip, for God’s sake. I know you’ve had a hard time lately, but none of it is Bethany’s fault.”

  “What’s gotten into you, Julia?” I was amazed that she was sticking up for Bethany. She always thought Alistair’s daughter was as insufferable as I did.

  “Nothing’s gotten into Julia,” Bethany said. “It’s just that blood is thicker than water. She and I are practically blood now.”

  “What’s she babbling about, Julia?” I asked.

  “Daddy. That’s what,” Bethany replied. “Didn’t Julia tell you, Alison? She and Daddy have been seeing each other.”

  I stared at Julia, who refused to look me in the eye. “Is it true?” I asked her. “Is Alistair the man you’ve been so reluctant to tell me about?”

  Julia nodded. “I thought it was a good idea to keep our relationship quiet, Koff. Alistair does own the newspaper I work for. I didn’t want anybody to cry favoritism. And then there was the matter of my politics. He didn’t want it to get out that he was dating a Democrat.”

  Jesus. Was there a woman’s brain Alistair Downs couldn’t turn to mush? But Julia? Solid, no-nonsense Julia? I couldn’t believe it.

  “Surprised, Alison?” Bethany asked.

  I ignored her. “Be careful, Julia,” I said to my old friend. “I’ve read Melanie’s manuscript—every last word. Trust me when I tell you, Alistair Downs is not what you think. He’s not a man to be toyed with.”

  “You read the book?” Bethany cried. “You said you didn’t have access to it.”

  “I lied. I not only have access to it, I have it. Period.” I know, I know. I just admitted to stealing the manuscript from Melanie’s house, but I couldn’t help it. I had to warn Julia about Alistair. Let the police arrest me. I was getting used to it. “I have the manuscript and I’ve read it,” I said again. “Julia, watch out for the guy. It wouldn’t surprise me if he killed Melanie to keep the book and its author out of circulation—permanently.”

  “You’re totally out of it, Alison,” Bethany said. “Daddy has an alibi for the night of the murder. He was with somebody.”

  “Yeah, a ‘lady friend,’” I scoffed. “Some alibi. He’s got the police so bamboozled, they’d buy anything he told them.”

  “It’s true, Koff,” Julia said. “I was with Alistair that night. There’s no way he could have murdered Melanie Moloney.”

  So Julia was the lady friend. “Maybe he hired someone to murder her for him,” I said. “Or maybe he had his faithful daughter do it.”

  “You really are depraved, Alison,” Bethany said, shaking her head. “Must be all those drug dealers you hang out with.”

  “I wouldn’t talk about the company I keep, if I were you,” I smiled. “I’m the one who’s read Melanie’s book, remember? I know all about your father’s Mafia pals, his buddies in the KKK, you name it. There isn’t a closet in the country that could hold that man’s skeletons.” I paused for effect and waited for a reaction. There was none. “I wonder what would happen if some of Melanie’s little anecdotes about the Downs family found their way into the press?” I paused again. “What do you think, Bethany?” Silence. “Here’s what I think,” I said, walking toward the door. “I think that if The Layton Community Times continues to run stories linking me to Melanie’s murder, I’m gonna have to slip a few excerpts from the manuscript to the tabloid reporters, who are camped outside my house as we speak.” I stopped and looked at Bethany and Julia. They were stunned. “No comment?” I waited. “Well then, I guess I’ll be going, kids. Julia, have a nice day. And Bethany…” I paused as I gave her riding outfit the once-over. “Have a great time mounting those stallions.”

  “You told them you had the manuscript?” Cullie asked when I recounted the story of my trip to the newspaper. He’d come to the house to help me pack. As Maplebark Manor was now devoid of any furniture except my bed, we both thought it would be less depressing for me if I moved back to the Marlowe.

  “I guess it wasn’t the smartest thing I could have done,” I conceded. “But when I heard that Julia, Ms. Feminist, Ms. Politically Correct, Ms. Champion of the People, was keeping company with Alistair, the elitist chauvinist bigot, I snapped. I had to warn her. And I didn’t mind giving Bethany something to chew on either. Now that she knows I know what’s in that manuscript, I’ve got her right where I want her. She wouldn’t dare write about me in that newspaper of hers now.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Cullie said. “Where is the manuscript, by the way?”

  “It’s still in the sauna.”

  “Let’s take it with us. You never know who might come looking for it.”

  “Right.”

  I went downstairs, opened the door to the sauna, and retrieved the manuscript. Then I brought it upstairs and stuffed it in a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag.

  “Ready,” I said when I had packed two bags and called both my mother and Mr. Obermeyer to let them know where I’d be if they needed me.

  We spent a soothing, restorative night on the Marlowe. The air was balmy and sweet, and the moonlight shimmered on the water. Cullie made us dinner—the same aromatic seafood stew he’d prepared for our first date—and we bundled up and ate our meal in the cockpit instead of inside the cabin.

  “Is there anything you love more than this boat?” I asked him as we sipped our wine and inhaled the sea air.

  “Fishing, are we?” he smiled.

  “No, I’m not. Honest. I know you love me. You’ve more than proven it these last few weeks. But I think you love the Marlowe in a way that transcends romantic love.”

  He thought for a minute. “I love the boat, sure.” He fingered the steering wheel affectionately, then looked dreamily out to sea. “You get attached to a boat when you rebuild it from the keel up. But it’s living on the boat that I really love.”

  “You mean, living on a boat as opposed to in a house?”

  “I mean, living in harmony with the elements instead of trying to master them. When you live on a boat, with the sea as your backyard, you’re not competing with nature, you’re respecting it. You learn your place in the scheme of things.” He paused to take a sip of wine. “Living on a boat teaches you self-reliance. It teaches you how to savor the little things, the things that really matter. It teaches you to survive with less, without excess. It reduces life down to its bare essentials: getting warm, getting dry, getting fed, getting sleep.” He took another sip of wine. “The fact is, Sonny girl, the sea doesn’t care how many corporate takeovers you’ve engineered, how many Porsches you’ve got in your garage, or how many brands of balsamic vinegar you can cook with. Living on a boat, away from all that, helps to put stuff in perspective, see?”

  I kissed Cullie’s cheek, put my arms around him, and stared up into the starlit sky. “I see,” I said and breathed in the sights and sounds of the marina.

  We stayed up on deck, in the cockpit, for another hour or so, then climbed down the hatch into the cabin and got ready for bed.

  “You working tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Probably. The guy on the radio said it’s supposed to be sunny, and I’ve got some exterior shots to do.”

  “Rats. I was hoping you’d take me sailing. But I guess I should spend tomorrow trying to get a job—if anyone in this town will hire me.”

  “Somebody will hire you, my sweet,” Cullie said tenderly. “What’s more, Mr. Obermeyer will get that cocaine charge off your back, and the police will find out who really killed Melanie. Everything will work out, I know it will.”

  “It’s got to, Cullie. It’s just got to.”

  We climbed into the V-berth and held each other. A few minutes passed, and I could tell by Cullie’s heavy, open-mouth breathing that he was about to drift off to sleep. I, on the other hand, was wired—and aching to be made love to.

  “Cullie? Are you awake?”

  “Sort of. Anything the matter?”

  “Remember when we were up on deck and you were t
elling me how living on a boat reduces life down to its bare essentials?”

  “Umm.”

  “Remember how you said those bare essentials were getting warm, getting dry, getting fed, and getting sleep?”

  “Umm.”

  “Didn’t you forget something?”

  “Good point. Come ’ere.”

  The next morning we woke up early, went over to the marina’s restrooms to shower (the Marlowe’s head was finally operational but Cullie said we should continue using the public bathrooms and save the head for sailing trips), and came back to the boat for coffee and cereal. I knew Cullie had several houses to shoot before the morning sun was gone, so I encouraged him to get going. He’d sacrificed enough of his work time for me and my dramas. But he seemed hesitant to leave, despite my not-so-subtle attempts to usher him out the door.

  “If you’re worrying about me, don’t,” I said. “I’ll be just fine.”

  “I know.” He kissed me. “But I keep thinking about your conversation with Bethany Downs yesterday. I really wish you hadn’t admitted you had the manuscript.”

  “Why? Bethany’s not going to tell anybody. She wants the book buried. If people find out what’s in the manuscript, her daddy’s reputation will be so badly damaged he won’t be able to get arrested in this town.”

  “It’s your getting arrested that worries me. How do you know she or Julia won’t go to Corsini? Finding out that you were the one who stole the manuscript from Melanie’s house could be the key to his nailing you for the murder.”

  “Hey, buddy? Weren’t you the one who told me everything was going to work out?” I put my arms around Cullie and hugged him.

  “Yeah, but humor me. Let me put the damn manuscript someplace where Corsini won’t find it—just in case he comes snooping around here.”

  “Okay, but where?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  Cullie paced back and forth inside the cabin.

  “You said you rebuilt this baby from the keel up,” I said “You must know its every nook and cranny. Is there a secret space somewhere?”