Clean Sweep

by Jane Heller

  “I’m writing a novel and I was wondering if you could help me with my research,” I said sweetly to the clean-cut man sitting at the desk near the door. He had neatly trimmed brown hair, wore red suspenders and a matching bow tie, and said his name was Professor Ed Dudley.

  “A novel, eh?” he said, appraising me. “Come to think of it, you do look familiar. Have you been on TV?”

  “Why, yes. I have.”

  “Gee, that’s interesting. What can I do for you?”

  “Would there be any way that you or someone in the chemistry department could analyze the contents of this plastic bag?” I pulled the bag out of my purse and handed it to him.

  “Is your novel one of those sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll things?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “No. Why?”

  “’Cause this stuff looks like cocaine. I figured that’s what your book must be about.”

  I laughed. “No, my book’s sort of about life in the suburbs. That powder isn’t cocaine. It’s a type of sugar, but I’m trying to find out exactly what the breakdown of elements is. You know, get the right chemical name for the stuff?” He looked skeptical. “The main character in the book is a chemistry professor who likes to use chemical terms for everything, even food,” I explained, hoping to involve him in the game. “Personally, I’ve had it with books that make heroes out of lawyers and policemen and movie stars. I think it’s about time we had a chemistry professor as the main character of a novel, don’t you?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Give me twenty-four hours,” he said, placing the bag in a large envelope and marking it “Priority.”

  When I got home, I called Janet Claiborne. As long as I was playing detective, I thought I’d try to confirm my suspicions that Janet’s “customer of consequence” was Bethany, that it was Bethany to whom she had showed Maplebark Manor the night of my arrest on cocaine possession, and that it was Bethany who had placed the cocaine in my refrigerator when Janet wasn’t looking.

  “Oh, hello dear. Calling about the house?” she said.

  No, I’m calling about the weather, you dope. “Yes,” I said. “About that big customer you brought over the other night. I know it was Bethany Downs who looked at the house.” Bluff, bluff. “She and I are old friends. We worked together at her father’s newspaper, remember?”

  “Of course you did. I’d forgotten that.” I was right. The bitch tried to frame me for Melanie’s murder—twice. “When Miss Downs asked to view the property when you weren’t home, I naturally assumed you didn’t know each other. Forgive me, dear.”

  “I forgive you, Janet.”

  “Well, since you two are colleagues, I urge you to discuss the house with her. Maybe a little nudging from you will produce that offer we’re looking for.”

  “A fine idea,” I said. “Nudging Bethany, I mean.”

  “Veddy good, dear. Let me know what happens.”

  “Thanks, Janet. You’ve been a big help.” For once.

  When Cullie came home that night, we caught each other up on our days while we made dinner. He told me about the houses he shot and the homeowners he tolerated. I told him all about my trips to the Community Times and Jessup Community College, as well as my telephone conversation with Janet. He was impressed with my sleuthing.

  “Sounds like you’ve got Bethany Downs cornered, Sonny girl,” he smiled.

  “I think I do,” I said proudly. “Now, what would you say to my cornering you?”

  I pinned Cullie against the ice box, wrapped my arms around his waist, and hugged him. “Have I told you lately how much confidence living with you on this boat has given me?” I said.

  “Nope. Tell me.”

  “I don’t know whether it’s living on the boat or loving you or surviving all the horrible things I’ve survived lately, but I don’t feel as frail as I used to. When I was married to Sandy and living at Maplebark Manor, I felt as if a little breeze could blow me down. Now I don’t think even a stiff wind could do the job. I may teeter, but I don’t fall down.”

  Cullie kissed me. Then suddenly he gathered me up in his arms and carried me almost the entire length of the boat, from the galley to the V-berth. After laying me down on the berth, he undressed me, shed his own clothes, and came into my outstretched arms, our naked bodies as at home with each other as the Marlowe was with the sea.

  “Let’s make waves,” he whispered.

  The next morning, I called Ed Dudley at the Jessup Community College chemistry lab.

  “I hate to seem pushy,” I said, “but do you have the results of that analysis we talked about yesterday?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “You want me to tell you what I found?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay. Your sample breaks down as a polysaccharide conjoined by a disaccharide with traces of a cellulosic cinnamaldehyde.”

  Bingo. Professor Dudley’s results were exactly the same as the police lab’s, which meant that the donut sugar on Bethany’s desk was the same as the donut sugar on Melanie’s desk, which meant that the donuts were made from the same recipe and purchased at the same location. The only difference between the police lab’s test and Ed Dudley’s was that Ed’s took one day and the police lab’s took six weeks.

  “Professor, you’re a life saver,” I said, imagining Corsini’s face when I demanded a public apology from the Layton Police Department for having arrested me instead of Bethany.

  “Are you going to stop by and pick up your bag of sugar?” Ed asked.

  “You better believe it,” I said. “I wonder if I could impose on you for one more favor though.”

  “Sure, if I could impose one on you.”

  “Okay. You go first.”

  “No, ladies first.”

  “All right. I wonder if you could give me a written report of your lab analysis—something I could refer to from time to time.” Something I could make Corsini read and weep.

  “No problem at all,” said Ed. “It’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Great. Now what was the favor you wanted to ask me?”

  “Well,” he began. “Since you’re an author and all, I was hoping you’d read my book, maybe help me get a publisher.”

  “Your book?”

  “Yes. I’ve been working on it for three years.”

  “What kind of a book is it? A scientific treatise of some sort?” I figured Ed for a Stephen Hawking wannabe.

  “No, it’s a comprehensive biography of Ed McMahon.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, honest I’m not. I’ve followed his career from his early days on ‘The Tonight Show’ to his recent stints as host of ‘Star Search.’ And then, of course, there’s his fine work with the American Family Sweepstakes.”

  Has everybody in this country gone celebrity crazy? I asked myself.

  “I don’t have much experience getting celebrity books published, but I’d be happy to give you the name of someone who does,” I said.

  I wrote down Todd Bennett’s name and address. Ed thanked me profusely, and said that if Hollywood ever bought the movie rights to my novel about the chemistry professor and wanted to hire him as their technical advisor, he was available.

  I hurried to a pay phone and called Mr. Obermeyer at his office to tell him about the lab report on the sugar as well as my conversation with Janet Claiborne. In his own crabby way, he seemed pleased with the results of my investigation and suggested I drop the report off at his house.

  The noose around Bethany’s neck was tightening. Corsini’s investigation may have slowed to a crawl, but mine was really hopping. It would just be a matter of days before Alistair P. Downs’s daughter—a member of one of Layton’s “Founding Families”—would be cooling her riding boots in the State Correctional Facility in Niantic.

  Of course, there was one aspect of the murder investigation I hadn’t quite come to terms with: before putting Bethany away for life, the prosecution would need a thoroughly convincing motive for the killing, a m
otive that I alone could provide by handing over the manuscript in which Bethany’s daddy dearest was defamed beyond even her worst nightmares. But if I handed over the manuscript, then the world would learn the truth about my mother and Alistair, about Cullie’s father and Alistair’s wife, about the rotten, disgusting way Alistair had cha cha cha-ed the entire country. Telling the American people the truth about their leaders was one thing; making them feel so duped they couldn’t face themselves in the mirror was another. That’s the real bummer about the cha cha cha—the person who gets cha cha cha-ed comes out looking just as dopey as the person who does the cha cha cha-ing. Or to put a Yiddish spin on things, it’s like the difference between the shlemiel and the shlemazel. The shlemiel is the waiter who’s always spilling hot soup on his customer, and the shlemazel is the customer the waiter is always spilling hot soup on, but both of them come out looking like shnooks.

  The next morning, I was getting ready to leave the boat to go grocery shopping when someone pounded on the hatch. It was Julia.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, more than a little surprised to see her.

  “I came to warn you, Koff. Can I come in?”

  I led Julia down the hatch and into the main cabin.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “Sure. Hey, this is really nice,” she said, surveying the interior of the boat.

  I poured some coffee and handed her a mug. “What did you want to warn me about?”

  “Bethany. You’re playing around with her and, trust me, Koff, she’s not someone to play around with.”

  “Why tell me, Julia? You’re the one who’s buddy-buddy with her. But then, you have to be. She’s practically your stepdaughter, right?”

  “Hardly. Look, Koff. I admit it. I got caught up in the Alistair Downs thing, the mystique, the charisma, whatever you want to call it.”

  “You don’t want to hear what I’d call it,” I said dryly.

  “Your own mother fell under the man’s spell, for God’s sake, even while she was married to your father. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  “Yeah. It tells me that my mother has no taste and no scruples. But you.” I paused. “I thought you had your act together, Julia. You championed the underdog and espoused all the right causes and I looked up to you. At the very least, I thought you were above falling under the spell of a man like Alistair.”

  “Then you were naive.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Anyway, the spell’s been broken.”

  “Oh? What happened? A spat with the senator?”

  “You could say that. After all my years chairing civic groups, I’ve finally been asked to run for state representative—on the Democratic ticket, of course.”

  “Let me guess. Alistair’s reaction was, ‘No woman of mine is going to run for anything—and certainly not on the Democratic ticket! Ho ho!’ Am I warm?”

  “Very. I told him I’d run for whatever I damned well pleased on any ticket I damned well pleased. That put a damper on the romance.”

  “So now that you and Alistair have split up and you’ve convinced yourself I didn’t kill Melanie, it’s all right to resume our friendship, is that it?”

  “I know it may seem like I distanced myself from you for a while there,” she conceded. “But truthfully, when I found out you’d been working as Melanie Moloney’s maid—and that she’d been murdered—I didn’t know what to think. Now I’m here to warn you.”

  “About what?”

  “I was leaving Evermore last night, after my argument with Alistair, when I heard Bethany yelling at someone on the phone. Normally, I’m not much of an eavesdropper, but when I heard your name mentioned, I—”

  “My name?”

  “Yeah. Bethany was talking to someone named Janet and saying, ‘You real estate brokers are incapable of keeping your mouths shut. I asked you not to tell Alison Koff you showed me her house. And what did you do? You told her anyway.’ Then there was more yelling. Then Bethany said, ‘I don’t care what Alison said. She and I are not friends. She’s a murderer and a thief, and I plan to see to it that she doesn’t make any more trouble for anyone in this town.’ It sounded to me like Bethany’s out to get you.”

  “She’s been out to get me for a long time. Now I’m out to get her, and I will—very soon, I suspect.”

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t push Bethany. You seem happy living on this boat with your photographer-boyfriend and much more in control of your life than when you were married to Sandy. You’re your own woman now, Koff. I’m impressed.”

  “It’s funny, Julia. Months ago, impressing you was important to me. Back then, you’d put me down for my princess-y ways, and I’d keep trying to be as independent and right-thinking as you were. All I wanted was to be worthy of your friendship. Now look at us.” I paused. “You fell under the spell of a man who’s about as wrong-thinking as they come, and I’m the one who’s taken charge of her life—so much so that Julia Applebaum is impressed. How’s that for irony?”

  “What can I say?” Julia shrugged as she got up to leave.

  “There’s nothing to say.” I grabbed my keys and purse. “I’ve got to go grocery shopping. Cullie and I are planning a little sailing trip tomorrow if the weather holds.”

  “Sounds nice. I don’t know how to sail.”

  “I don’t exactly know how to sail either, but I’m learning. Cullie’s a great teacher.”

  “Well, take care of yourself, Koff.”

  “Thanks, Julia. I intend to.”

  Chapter 24

  “Rise and shine, Sonny girl. We’re outta here.” Cullie shook me as we lay in the V-berth. It was seven A.M. and I was barely awake. “The wind is from the southwest at twelve knots, the temperature’s going up to seventy-five degrees, and you and I are taking the Marlowe for an overnighter.”

  “I thought we’d decided on a quickie day sail.”

  “Yeah, but the weather’s so nice we should take advantage of it. We’ll be back by mid-afternoon tomorrow.”

  “What about work? Our trip won’t screw up your shooting schedule, will it?”

  “Haven’t you learned anything from living on this boat for the last couple of months? The Marlowe’s motto is: When in doubt, go sailing—preferably overnight.”

  “That’s a lovely motto.” I kissed Cullie. “An overnighter it is, as long as we’re back by midday tomorrow. Mr. Obermeyer said he’d have some information for me by then.”

  “About Bethany’s fingerprints?”

  “Yup. I want to be there when he confronts Corsini with all the stuff we’ve come up with.”

  “The stuff you’ve come up with. You’re the one who figured out who killed Melanie—and how to prove it.”

  “Enough about Melanie. We’re going sailing, and there’ll be no talk of Melanie or murder or manuscripts today. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “By the way, where are we sailing to?”

  “How do the Thimble Islands grab you? If we leave by eight, we’ll make it up to the Thimbles by mid-afternoon. Then we’ll find a nice quiet anchorage, drop anchor, and spend the night. How ’bout it, sweet thing?”

  “You’re on.”

  “Tell me about the Thimble Islands,” I prodded as Cullie and I got dressed. “I’ve lived near the Connecticut coast all my life and never been to the Thimbles.”

  “Okay. Here’s a quick lesson. There are about thirty islands. Half of them are inhabited.”

  “Do any of them have names?”

  “Yeah, and two of them have great names.”

  “What are they?”

  “Pot and High.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Look on my navigation chart. You’ll see Pot Island and High Island.”

  “Sure, and there’s a third one called Busted Island.”

  “Cute. Legend has it that Captain Kidd used the Thimbles as one of his hideouts.”

  “Wow. So Captain
Kidd got stoned right in our backyard.”

  “The Thimbles aren’t exactly in our backyard. They’re halfway between Branford and Guilford, about an hour up the coast by car and ferry.”

  “Are they pretty?”

  “They’re interesting. They look as if a piece of the Maine coastline broke off from the mainland, floated into the Long Island Sound, and ran aground off Branford. If you’ve ever seen the Maine coastline, you’ll know what I mean.”

  We ate a hearty breakfast, straightened up the galley, and readied the boat for departure. It was just after eight when Cullie fired up the diesel.

  “I’m gonna do the safety and maintenance checks while the engine’s warming up,” he said. “Want to help me? It’s the best way to learn.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I followed Cullie around the boat while he checked the exhaust pipe to make sure the engine’s cooling system was working properly, rigged the anchor and stowed it on the bowsprit, and inspected the bilge to make sure there wasn’t more than an inch or two of water there.

  “I’ll take the sail covers off and rig the halyards while you go back to the cockpit, rig the dinghy for towing, and get ready to steer us out of here, okay?” he said.

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” I said.

  After a few more chores, we were under way.

  “Okay, Sonny girl. Put her in gear,” Cullie instructed after he had taken in the dock lines and stowed them in the storage compartment. Then he went below to put a tape in the cassette player. Seconds later, he and sounds of Bob Marley’s “Get Up, Stand Up” emerged, which made me feel as if I were en route to the Caribbean, not the Thimble Islands.

  “Should I steer us out the channel?” I asked as we motored out of the marina.

  “Sure. Just watch for the buoys. Like last time, remember?”

  “Yup. All I have to do is stay between the red and green ones, right?”