Clean Sweep

by Jane Heller

  I glanced over at the keypad on the wall. The system was unarmed! The red light was off! But I distinctly remembered arming it. Could I have forgotten to arm it in all the excitement over Hadley Kittredge’s identifying Bethany as the one who had tampered with the Marlowe?

  That was it, I decided. I had forgotten. And the noise from downstairs was probably my imagination. Or maybe I had mice.

  I turned over on my other side and tried again to relax. I’ll call the exterminator first thing in the morning, I decided. Can’t have Janet Claiborne showing the house with mice running around.

  There it was again! The sound of someone tiptoeing? A rustling of a coat?

  I sat up in bed.

  “Cullie! Wake up!” I said, shaking him. “There’s someone in the house!”

  He didn’t move a muscle. He was dead to the world, which is what I was afraid I’d be if he didn’t wake up.

  “Cullie! Come on. Wake up!” I said again.

  He didn’t budge, as I feared he wouldn’t. When Cullie has a big, explosive orgasm he’s out for the night.

  Okay, Alison. Call the police, I told myself. What good is Cullie anyway, with his leg in a cast?

  I pulled the phone toward me and was about to dial 911 when I suddenly thought better of it. Who wanted to deal with the Layton Police again? The last time I called 911, I had just stumbled in on Melanie’s dead body and the next thing I knew I was a murder suspect.

  I took a deep breath and got out of bed, pulled a robe over me, crept out of the bedroom, and tiptoed down the stairs to the first floor. I hoped I’d see a mouse. I prayed I’d see a mouse. What I saw, when I walked into the kitchen and found the lights on, was a rat.

  “Hello, Alison,” said the rat.

  She was sitting at my kitchen table munching on the Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookies I’d bought that day. She was making crumbs, but I had bigger things to worry about.

  “Hello, Bethany,” I smiled. “What brings you to my kitchen at this ungodly hour? Out of jelly donuts?”

  My heart was thumping so loud I was sure they could hear it in Burkina Faso. But I tried desperately to act nonchalant so Bethany wouldn’t freak out and do something rash—rasher than breaking into my house.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “So I came over here.”

  She was wearing lime green slacks and a pink Polo shirt under a khaki trench coat. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail with a pink ribbon. Her lips were painted with frosted pink gloss. She looked very preppie, very Layton. All except her eyes. They looked very crazed, very State Facility at Niantic.

  “How did you get in, may I ask?” I said. “Janet Claiborne didn’t bring you, did she?”

  “Not this time. But she let me steal the code to your burglar alarm. I took it out of her purse, the day she gave me a tour of your house.”

  “Very clever.” Well, that explained how she got into the house. What worried me more was why. “What do you want, Bethany? If it’s the manuscript about your father, it went down with Cullie’s boat, just as you planned. They salvaged the boat, but they couldn’t salvage the book. It was so wet they dumped it in the garbage at the marina.”

  “Gosh. That is a shame.”

  I could tell she was crushed. “I’ll try again. What is it you want, Bethany?”

  “There’s something you can help me with,” she said, then reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a gun—a .25 caliber automatic, one of those convenient little weapons that fit in the palm of your hand. Before I could stop her, she pointed it at me.

  “Don’t, Bethany,” I said, feeling my chest tighten and my throat close. “Don’t kill me. If you kill me, you’ll be arrested for two murders. How will that look on your résumé?”

  She smiled. “I’m not going to kill you, Alison.”

  I allowed myself to breathe. “Well, that’s a relief,” I said, walking over to the phone and picking it up. “Why don’t we call that nice Detective Corsini and—”

  “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to have you kill me.”

  “What are you talking about?” She was even crazier than I thought.

  “Put the phone down, Alison.”

  I put the phone down.

  “I have no intention of going to prison,” she said. “I’m going to kill myself instead. I’m going to kill myself and it’s going to look like you did it. They’ll arrest you and you’ll be the one to go to prison. Understand?”

  I was stunned. “Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”

  “You mean, besides telling the whole world I killed Melanie?”

  “But you did kill her. We both know that.” I was trying to be logical, which in itself made no sense, seeing as the woman was clearly off her rocker.

  “Of course I killed Melanie. Her book was going to ruin my father.”

  I was going to tell her her father deserved ruining, but thought better of it. “Then why punish me?”

  “You really don’t know, do you?” she said as she continued to point the gun at me.

  “No, I don’t,” I said, trying frantically to think of a way out of the situation. “How about another cookie?” I ventured.

  “You really don’t know?” she asked again.

  “No, Bethany. Repeat after me: ‘Alison really doesn’t know why Bethany hates her so much, so why doesn’t Bethany tell Alison?’”

  “All right. I hate you because when they send me to prison, you’ll try to take my place with Daddy.”

  “You mean, take your place at the newspaper?” I was confused.

  “No. Take my place in his life.”

  Whoa. Bethany really was a sickie. “Now why would I want to take your place in your father’s life?” I said.

  “Because he’s your father too.”

  I stared at Bethany. My heart stopped. “What are you saying?”

  “That Alistair Downs is your father. When the police lock me up, you’ll have him all to yourself.”

  Alistair Downs was my father? That was impossible. My mother said he wasn’t. I believed her. Bethany was a raving lunatic.

  “Alistair isn’t my father,” I said with assurance. “I don’t know where you got that idea, but it isn’t true. Please, believe me.”

  Bethany ignored my attempt at reasoning with her. She was beyond being reasoned with.

  For what seemed like an eternity, we went back and forth about Alistair being my father. She said he was, I said he wasn’t, and around and around we went.

  “It’s time for you to kill me now,” she said finally, as calmly as if she’d told me it was time to take a batch of cookies out of the oven.

  “Bethany, I have no desire whatsoever to kill you.” Well, all right. A teeny-weeny desire. “Why don’t you give me the gun and we’ll—”

  “Stay where you are,” she commanded, pointing the gun in my face.

  I stood still.

  “Now, go over to the sink, pick up the dish towel, and drop it on the floor in front of me.”

  I followed her instructions.

  “Now, walk away from me and stand over in the corner.”

  I obeyed.

  “Now, I’m going to use this dish towel to wipe my fingerprints off the gun.”

  I considered screaming for Cullie, but remembered his state of post-coital catatonia. I considered screaming for the neighbors, but remembered the house’s secluded four acres. I considered screaming for the media, but remembered that they had abandoned Maplebark Manor for Evermore. Evermore! Maybe one of the tabloid reporters followed Bethany to my house, I thought. Maybe the reporters and TV cameras would burst in on us any second, wrestle Bethany to the ground, and save me. Then again, maybe not.

  “Now, I’m going to wrap the gun in the dish towel.”

  “Bethany, what are you doing?” I asked with growing dread.

  “I already told you, Alison. I want them to think you killed me, so they’ll put you away for life. Just wait until they find you standing over m
y dead body—especially after they go back to Evermore and see the note I left.”

  “What note?”

  “It said, ‘Dear Daddy. In case you’re looking for me, I got this urgent call from Alison Koff insisting that I go over to her house. She made terrible threats, so I thought I’d better go.’ That ought to do it, don’t you think?”

  Oh, God. Please tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me this is a bad dream. An off-the-charts bad dream.

  “Now, stay right where you are and don’t move a muscle,” she commanded as she shifted the gun from her right hand to her left, pointed it at her chest, and faced me.

  “Bethany! Bethany!” I cried. “Don’t do it! Don’t pull that trigger! I beg you!” She was going to shoot herself right in front of my eyes, not to mention bleed to death all over my nice clean kitchen floor. “Bethany! Bethany! Please!”

  Before she could pull the trigger, somebody pounded on the kitchen door.

  “Bethany! Open up! It’s your father,” the voice bellowed.

  Good God. It was Alistair! At Maplebark Manor! And he was using the service entrance!

  “Daddy!” Bethany cried.

  Clutching the gun to her chest, she ran to the door and let her father in. He was not alone. Detective Star Fucker and a posse of Layton Police officers were along for the ride.

  “It’s all right, dear. Give me the gun,” Alistair said as he moved toward his daughter.

  Bethany did not budge. Nobody did.

  “Come on, Bethany dear. I want you to give me the gun,” Alistair tried again, more sternly this time.

  She eyed us all warily and continued to hold on to her weapon.

  “If you won’t give yourself up for me, Bethany dear, give yourself up for America,” Alistair actually said. “For our splendid country. For the country you have helped me serve during my wonderful years in the Senate. Imagine how disappointed in us the American people will be if they think we must resort to bloodshed to solve our little difficulties.”

  Bloodshed. Little difficulties. I was riveted. The senator was pleading with his nutty daughter to turn herself in on behalf of our splendid country. He had a great act, I had to admit it.

  “Come, dear. Do it for our nation. Please. Please. That’s a girl,” said Alistair as he gently coaxed the gun from her hand. “There we go. There. There now. Good.”

  Bethany surrendered the gun at last. I was saved. I would live to tell about this.

  “You can take her away now, Detective,” Alistair told Corsini.

  Corsini. What a joke he was. The whole time he was in my kitchen, I tried to make eye contact with him, but he wouldn’t play. He was too embarrassed about the way he’d bungled the case, I guessed.

  “Bethany Downs,” Corsini said as he handcuffed Bethany. “You have the right to remain silent…”

  He recited the rest of the Miranda rights and led Bethany out the door. “We’ll need your statement, Miss Koff,” he called out without looking at me.

  “Gladly,” I said, grateful that the ordeal was finally over. “Your place or mine?”

  “One of the officers will take your statement here. Then you’ll have to—”

  “Yeah, I know the routine, Detective. I’ll be down to the station as soon as I finish here,” I said. “But first, I’d like to have a little chat with Senator Downs.”

  Alistair arched an eyebrow at me, then smiled. “What can I do for you, dear?” he asked breezily, as if nothing very consequential had just happened.

  “Would you mind sitting down for a moment?” I said.

  “Well, dear, I really must go with my—”

  “You wouldn’t want me to tell the media what was in Melanie Moloney’s book, would you, Senator?”

  He blinked. “Well, I—”

  “Sit down, Senator.”

  He pulled up a chair and sat down. I remained standing.

  “Splendid house you’ve got here,” he said, eyeing the room.

  “I’m not interested in discussing my house,” I began. “I’m interested in discussing your daughter. You found her note, I assume?”

  “Note? What note?”

  “The note she left at Evermore, saying she was coming to see me. I assumed that was why you came here.”

  “No,” he said. “I never saw any note. I came here because Detective Corsini and I followed Bethany here.”

  “You followed her here?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why follow her? Why tonight? If Corsini was going to arrest Bethany, why didn’t he do it sooner? The evidence has been piling up for days.”

  “Yes, well…I had asked the police to hold off their…to give my daughter one more…”

  “One more what? One more chance to skip town? Or one more chance to do someone harm?”

  “My goodness. What questions!”

  “How about some answers, Senator Downs? Why don’t you cut the crap and admit how you’ve been manipulating the investigation all along, how you got the police to busy themselves with me so you could figure out how to protect your daughter, send her out of the country, do whatever you big shots do to wriggle out of sticky situations? Why don’t you admit how you made it impossible for the police to arrest Bethany, how they wouldn’t make a move in the case unless you gave them the okay, huh, Senator?”

  “That’s laughable. You don’t know what you’re saying, dear. Perhaps you’re overtired after all the—”

  “Laughable? I’ll tell you what’s laughable. What’s laughable is how you’ve been pulling Corsini’s strings from Day One. Then, when you realized how wacko Bethany was, you got scared that she might commit yet another murder. That’s when you had the brilliant idea that you could turn poor Bethany into an asset instead of a liability. You figured out that if you were the one to have her followed, the one to help the police arrest her, you’d be applauded for your selflessness, your devotion to the American justice system, your willingness to do the right thing, even if it meant locking up your own daughter. You said to yourself, ‘Alistair, you’ll be a hero if you’re the one who leads the police to Bethany. Think of it, Al old boy. They’ll eat it up out there in the hinterlands.’ So you turned her in. Your own daughter. I can see the press conference now. There won’t be a dry eye in the place.”

  “You’re a misguided young woman, very much like your mother,” Alistair said with disgust.

  “I’m glad you brought her up,” I said, standing over him. “Bethany seems to think your affair with my mother produced a child—me.”

  He swallowed, but otherwise showed little reaction. “That’s rubbish,” he said dismissively. “Bethany’s not well, obviously. There isn’t a shred of truth to what she told you.”

  “That’s what my mother says—that you’re not my father. I guess I’ll never know though. You’ve both done your share of cha cha cha-ing me over the years.”

  “Done our share of what?”

  “Never mind.”

  Suddenly I didn’t want to pursue the subject any further. Even if Alistair were my father, he’d never admit it. Neither would my mother. So what was the point of asking?

  Sure, there were blood tests to determine paternity. But did I really want to know the truth? What for? Couldn’t I allow myself to be cha cha cha-ed just this once?

  I watched out the kitchen window as the Senator disappeared down the path to the driveway, where his daughter was waiting in the back seat of one of the police cars. A few minutes later, a police officer named Patrolman White took my statement.

  “You’re going to want me to come down to headquarters now, right?” I asked wearily.

  “Naw,” said Patrolman White. “Corsini said you can come down at your convenience. Tomorrow. The next day. Whenever.”

  “At my convenience, eh?” Well, well. I was finally being treated like a citizen instead of a criminal.

  I showed Patrolman White out, straightened up the kitchen, and trudged upstairs to bed.

  Cullie was still asleep. After all that
had happened, the man was still asleep!

  I took off my robe and climbed into bed next to him.

  “Cullie,” I said. “There’s this joke.” I cleared my throat. He was still sound asleep.

  “A man goes to the doctor. ‘Doc,’ he says. ‘Every time I sneeze I have an orgasm.’ ‘My goodness,’ replies the doctor. ‘What are you taking for it?’ ‘Pepper,’ the man says. ‘Pepper.’”

  I snuggled up next to Cullie, took his hand, and squeezed it.

  “Get it?” I whispered. “‘Pepper.’”

  I smiled and closed my eyes. Within minutes, I fell into a deep and uncomplicated sleep.

  Epilogue

  “I have absolutely no comment on Bethany Downs’s sentencing yesterday or on Senator Downs’ role in her conviction or on anything to do with the Downs family, but I’d be happy to answer your questions about my new business venture,” said Sonny Waxman, founder and co-owner of Maid to Order, an employment agency specializing in providing area residents with quality domestic help. The former wife of Sanford J. Koff, president of the recently bankrupt Koff’s Department Store, Waxman received nationwide media attention in connection with the February slaying of Layton resident and bestselling author Melanie Moloney, for whom she worked as a domestic. The formation of her new company, whose headquarters are at 142 White Birch Place in Layton, was an attempt, she said, to put the Moloney case behind her, not to capitalize on her fifteen minutes of fame. “The minute Rose Horowitz proposed that we go into business together,” Waxman explained, referring to the proprietor of Second Hand Rose, the county’s most successful tag sale organizer, “I jumped at the chance to work with such a proven professional. Sure, people will say I’m exploiting the fact that I was Melanie Moloney’s maid, but why should that bother me? I was a damn good maid. And that’s exactly what we’re offering with Maid to Order—damn good maids at damn good prices. In this depressed economy, homeowners are so busy trying to hang on to their jobs, they don’t have time to clean their homes. Maid to Order is here to help.” Following the sale of her home last month to PsychSpas, Ltd., the national chain whose luxurious retreats offer around-the-clock psychotherapy plus state-of-the-art health spa facilities, Waxman has relocated to Jessup, where she lives with architectural photographer Charles C. Harrington on their recently refurbished sailboat, the Marlowe.”