by Sara Rosett
I tilted my head and said thoughtfully, “Teach a man to fish . . .”
“Or organize, in this case,” Dr. Harper said, looking pleased. “That is the goal. Of course, it will be challenging and you may not feel like you’re making any progress at the beginning.”
“Where would you suggest we start?” Even as I asked the question, I thought, am I crazy to even be contemplating taking on this job?
“How do you approach your other organizing jobs?”
“We define goals, then break the large project up into smaller, achievable projects.”
“Sounds excellent.”
Thirty minutes later, I was back in my car cruising through the gently rolling terrain toward my next appointment, wondering if I’d made the right decision. After I left Dr. Harper’s office, I’d called Marie and told her I would work with her. We set a time for a meeting at her house on Monday. She sounded more nervous than relieved. Dr. Harper had made it sound so simple. Just show her what to do. Start her on the path. I could do that, but I was nervous about this job, too. It had been a long time since I’d worried about how I would do an organizing job. But focusing on the new job, even if I felt uncertain about how it would turn out, was better than battling with Gabrielle for clients. I stifled a sigh, thinking that I really had to do something to patch things up with her. There was a chamber of commerce meeting coming up and I knew Gabrielle would be there. I wouldn’t put it past her to do something nasty and undercutting there. I called her and when her voice mail came on, I left her a message, asking if she’d meet me for a cup of coffee.
I switched my attention to the scenery since it was so much more soothing to look at the gently undulating land than to think about Gabrielle. I was on the state highway that ran from the base to the southern side of North Dawkins. The recent development boom was relegated to the area between the base and the interstate to the west. Big box stores and strip malls with sandwich shops and evening karate classes had sprouted up and filled the space between the older homes near the base and the newer development farther west. This area, to the south of North Dawkins proper, was mostly rural. I cruised past the slender pine tree farms and occasional driveways leading to houses set far back from the road. Every once in a while, I’d pass a low brick wall announcing a subdivision of new homes. These little pockets of suburbia had been popping up all over the south side of North Dawkins until the economy took a nosedive. Development had stopped abruptly.
I came to the turn with a little grouping of businesses. Farther down the road were the elementary school, the post office, and the church we attended. Unlike the new strip malls that had grown up quickly near the interstate, this patch of development had been here for years and years. The hardware store was a permanent fixture in the community. You could still buy nails by the pound or just drink a cup of coffee and sit in the rocking chairs positioned under the deer heads mounted on the walls. Unlike the hardware store, which I didn’t think had changed since it opened in 1932, Crooner’s flea market across the street had a new look. Instead of forlorn pieces of beat-up—or possibly antique—furniture sitting outside in sun and rain as the grass grew up between them, there was now a new sweep of gravel in front of the two freshly painted clapboard bungalows. Curly font on the new sign out front read, PEACHTREE ANTIQUES. CROONER NAVAN, PROPRIETOR.
I drove past the hardware and antique stores, then turned into a strip mall that had seen businesses come and go for as long as the post office and hardware store had been in existence. Currently, a gas station, a dress shop, and a pack-and-mail store were located in this small strip mall. A fitness center, Fit Lifestyle, was located in a large, dark blue steel building beside the strip mall. I swung into a parking lot and answered my ringing phone as I got out of the car. It was Abby calling to tell me she didn’t have to stay late after school and she could bring the kids home. She blew out a sigh and said, “The more I think about the break-in, the more it freaks me out. Someone really is targeting military families.”
I paused with my hand on the glass entrance door. “But it sounds like the break-in at your house was different than the previous break-ins—it didn’t fit the pattern. The one at your house was messier, clumsier than the others, with all that broken glass and noise. All the other break-ins were at homes where the spouse was deployed, or like with Amy, out of town.”
“That’s all true, but it doesn’t make me feel better. I’m still glad you twisted my arm and made me stay with you. Okay, so enough about that scary subject. How’s your day going?”
“I think I’m insane. I just agreed to organize—” I stopped abruptly. “I can’t say anything else.” I couldn’t talk about the state of Marie’s house. Clients let me see things—clutter, messes, and disorganization—that they normally hid. I’d never talked about the state of clients’ projects before and I wasn’t about to start now. The overwhelming scale of work needed at Marie’s house had thrown me out of my normal reticence and I’d almost slipped up and revealed more than I should to Abby.
“Organizer–client privilege?” Abby asked with a note of laughter.
“Something like that.” I didn’t think I’d be able to keep the fact that Marie was my client completely quiet, but for now I wouldn’t say anything. Later, I’d have to come up with some vague response to why I was spending so long working with Marie, but I’d figure that out when the time came. “I have to go anyway,” I said as I checked my watch. I saw it was nearly twelve o’clock. “I have a follow-up appointment with Paige MacIntyre at noon.”
“Ah—the controversial belly dancing queen. Tell her I said hello. I still can’t believe people were so upset with her. Anyway, I have to run. Lunchroom duty.”
I hung up and stepped inside Fit Lifestyle.
Paige had opened the fitness center six months ago with the goal of offering a variety of classes ranging from the typical—gymnastics for kids, yoga, spinning, weight training—to the more innovative—belly dance, Hula-Hoop, and a triathlete training camp. Thinking the best way to promote her new business was to emphasize the unusual classes, Paige had touted the belly dancing and Hula-Hoop classes, even getting a quarter page write-up in the local newspaper complete with a picture and the headline “Dancing Queen.”
There had been an initial pushback from the community, which consisted mostly of the question, What kind of place is this? A rumor of pole dancing lessons didn’t help and it wasn’t until Paige opened the fitness center for free for a week that the rumors vanished and people began to understand that Paige wasn’t opening a seedy dance club that would make property values plummet. After walking on the treadmills, climbing the StairMasters, and watching a few kids’ gymnastics classes, everyone calmed down and, paradoxically, started bragging about their “cool” fitness center. I’d heard the rumors and the bragging in the carpool line at the school and was still amazed at the way public opinion could swing.
A coed in a Georgia Tech sweatshirt stood behind a long, chest-high counter that ran along one side of the room. It was draped with gold tinsel, oversized bells, and sprigs of plastic holly. A menorah perched on the end of the counter. I was glad to see that colorful flyers were displayed in slots along the wall near a small flat-screen monitor that scrolled through photos of smiling, sweaty participants along with advertisements for upcoming classes. The setup had been one of my suggestions to get all the stacks of class lists off the counter. Seeing the finished setup gave me a boost.
“Hey, Miz Ellie,” the coed said, recognizing me from my many visits during the previous months. I dredged my memory bank for her name—remembering names is not a strong suit of mine—and after a few beats came up with it. “Hi, Courtney. I’m here to see Paige.”
“She said for you to go on back to her office when you get here. She’s finishing up a class and will be there in a minute.”
“Thanks.” I passed the counter and walked into the large, high-ceilinged room that was the heart of the fitness center. Uneven bars, a balance beam, and
a vault ranged around a spongy blue gymnastics floor, taking up most of the echoing space. Mirrored workout rooms lined one side of the building. A group of people with flushed faces was meandering out of one of the rooms, sipping from water bottles and chatting as they made their way to the locker rooms. Paige was in the lead and moving much faster than anyone in the group. She had a bin of yoga bands tucked under one arm and a row of Hula-Hoops clattering in the crook of her other elbow. A few resistance bands were looped around her neck like oversized stethoscopes. “Ellie,” she boomed as she loped across the large space, her Dorothy Hamill haircut fluttering. “Good to see you.”
Paige was built like a tank—solid, with angular shoulders and a core of steel. Despite her size and impressive resume—she’d been a championship volleyball setter in college and had almost made the Olympic track and field team—she wasn’t imposing. It was just the opposite. She was bubbly and energetic.
“Come on back,” she said, catapulting to the back corner of the building. “Sorry I’m late. Don’t know what happened. That last class just flew by. We didn’t even get to do the whole ab sequence.”
“You’re not late. It’s just now noon,” I assured her, but Paige wasn’t listening. She was already on to a new topic. She moved at practically the speed of sound, which had been a challenge when I’d worked with her. Unlike some of my clients who I had to motivate and cajole, I could hardly keep up with Paige.
“So is this like those make-over shows,” she said, “where they check in after a few months to see if the people are still organized or if they’ve gone to pot again on their own?”
“No, nothing like that at all,” I assured her.
“Don’t sound so worried,” she said as she paused at a row of shelves and slid the bin of yoga bands into a labeled slot and dropped the Hula-Hoops and the resistance bands onto nearby hooks mounted on the walls. “This staging area is a lifesaver,” she said, patting the bins as she darted by them. “Love ’em! Come on in,” she said, pushing the door to her office wide. She grabbed a zippered, gray knit jacket off the back of her chair and pulled it on over her red workout top and black yoga pants. She dropped into her swivel chair and waved her hands around the room. “See . . . everything is where it should be.” She swept her hand over her clean desk like a game show hostess. “Impressive, isn’t it, compared to how you found things?”
“Yes, wonderful. I just wanted to check with you to make sure you were happy with the job I did. Have you had any problems . . . any issues that have come up since we finished?”
“Are you kidding? You were a star. Everything is fine.”
“Great. That’s really great,” I said, sitting back in the chair. After I’d lost Stephanie to Gabrielle, I’d decided some damage control—damage prevention?—was in order. I’d been checking in with established clients to make sure all was well.
“Although there is one thing . . . ,” Paige said, and I sat forward.
“Yes, whatever you need. I can work you into my schedule this week, if you need it.”
Paige handed me a neon green flyer with a class list. “You should join.” She said it with a smile and quickly added, “I know you already said no, but I want you to take that flyer. I know you have your neighborhood stroller workout group. But you never know . . . it’s getting cold and you might like to work out indoors. Meet a few new people. Network. You know, expand your business while toning your body. I’d give you a plug after class. There’s a business card stapled to the back for some free classes. Come try it out.”
“Always persistent, aren’t you? Okay, I’ll try to work it in, but it may not be till after Christmas.”
“You and everyone else,” she said, standing up. “January is going to be packed around here.”
My phone buzzed. I saw it was Gabrielle. “I’d better take this,” I said.
Paige waved her hand. “Go ahead. Use my office, if you want. It’s time for Tiny Tots Tumbling, my most challenging class. Keeping the attention of three-year-olds is the ultimate workout, let me tell you. I’ll look for you in class,” she called as she left.
Even with her languid southern accent, Gabrielle managed to make her voice curt as she said, “I got your message. I don’t have time to stop for a cup of coffee with you. My day is completely scheduled.”
“Well, maybe another day. I really think it would benefit us both to work some things out. We each want to present a professional image and make good impressions on clients,” I said.
A noisy sigh came over the line. “I do that. You’re the one accusing me of stealing clients.”
Because you did. I bit back the quick retort. “Look, it’s not going to do us any good to rehash that argument. I’d like to find some common ground. How about tomorrow?”
“No, I don’t have any free time then.”
“What about this weekend?”
“You really are a ballbreaker, aren’t you? Who would have thought it? Okay,” she said, in a tone of voice that indicated she’d rather have a root canal. “I am zipping over to Jean’s house to pick up some organizing materials. She’s close to your house. You can meet me there. Do you know where Jean’s house is? I can’t stay for more than ten minutes. We can talk while I load my car.”
This wasn’t the sort of conversation that I wanted to have standing in the street, but I supposed it would be better than not meeting. “Fine. Yes, I know where she lives. I’ll be there.”
Chapter Five
Jean lived in Shadow Ridge, a newer subdivision located down the road from the fitness center. I drove through the quiet neighborhood with empty driveways and open lawns speckled with deflated Frosty and Santa decorations. The icicle lights and multiple extension cords festooning the houses looked a little garish in the sharp sunlight. I parked in front of Jean’s brick house at the end of a cul-de-sac. A flat-fronted, boxy two-story with four windows on each side of the front door, it had small wreaths with red bows on each window. Garland twisted around the two pillars framing the front porch and a wreath of poinsettias and magnolias decorated the front door. The driveway leading to the three-car garage was on the right-hand side of the house. The house sat at an angle on a small rise, so that the driveway sloped up and around, almost hiding the garage from the street, but I could see one of the garage doors was open and a small, black SUV was visible inside. It must be the one I’d seen Gabrielle driving with the magnetic signs attached to both sides that proclaimed, GET ORGANIZED WITH GABRIELLE, along with her picture.
Leaving everything in the minivan except my keys, I climbed the steep incline of the driveway, feeling a little awkward since neither Jean nor her husband, Simon, had invited me over. Jean might be home, but I had no idea about Simon. I knew he volunteered at the Helping Hands charity, but I didn’t know how much of his time it took up. He might be golfing on the neighborhood course.
“Gabrielle? Jean?” I called as I stepped into the sudden darkness of the garage and pushed my sunglasses up on my head. No answer. It took a second for my eyes to adjust. The bay beside the black SUV was empty. Outside, the wind was picking up. It whistled around the corner of the house and sent some dry leaves skittering, but inside the garage it was toasty warm. “Gabrielle?” I called again into the silence, scanning the workbench with tools hanging neatly on a corkboard above it. Stacks of boxes ranged along one wall. There was a fluorescent light on in the third bay of the garage and a space heater, humming away, keeping the garage toasty warm. The third bay was filled with tables and boxes. It must be for Jean’s online auction business, I realized, when I saw the stacks of flattened boxes and jumbo tape dispensers. I always love to see how other people organize their space and this looked like a great setup.
I stepped closer and saw three tables that formed a U shape. On the farthest side away from me, a small, white photo box was positioned next to a lamp for taking pictures. There was a laptop and a printer, too. Shelves stacked with all sorts of things, from books to toys to clothes and even kitchen utensils,
lined the wall above a table. The next table was arranged with packing materials, boxes, and bubble wrap. There was even a clear plastic trash bag filled with foam peanuts suspended directly over the table. A large clamp held the bottom closed. Three boxes sealed with packing tape had printed address labels attached and stood on the table closest to me, ready to be shipped.
I wondered if Jean had done this herself or if Gabrielle had organized it for her. If Gabrielle had done it, then she certainly was a good organizer. Everything was neat and easily within reach. I stepped forward and kicked something—a ball—that I hadn’t noticed. It bounced heavily across the floor, hit a plastic bin under one of the tables in Jean’s work area, ricocheted back to me, and rolled to a stop by my toe.
I paused. I realized two things almost at once. First, it wasn’t a ball. It was the oversized diamond-shaped Lucite paperweight that had been the white elephant gift I’d won and, second, it had something on the pointy end, something dark that was leaving a geometric pattern across the floor and a spot on my boot. I leaned down, touched the tip of my boot.
I rubbed my thumb across my finger, smearing the liquid. I sniffed my fingers and caught the unmistakable coppery smell. It was . . . blood. I stepped back quickly, instinctively heading for the rectangular square of sunlight at the garage’s entrance. As I scurried backward, I saw a hand and part of a forearm extended on the floor. I blinked. The creamy pale skin looked so out of place on the concrete floor. Maybe Jean was auctioning off a mannequin?
