Death Under the Venice Moon (28 page)

She punched her pillow, visualizing Valerie James's smug face. "
Grrr.
I don't know how Valerie knew where I was, but no doubt she's the one who told Tiffany. Meg wouldn't have said anything."

"Honey, we had a police cruiser in front of our house." Keith pulled her into his arms. "You can bet behind each set of our neighbors' curtains were eager pairs of eyes watching you climb in and drive off with the officers. News like that is too juicy to keep quiet, especially after everyone's been gossiping today about Amelia's death. All it takes is one busybody making a phone call, and soon the news is viral. Besides, Valerie is probably still steamed that Amelia gave the job to you instead of choosing her design company."

"It isn't even what the witch does," Kate argued. "Organizing can entail some design, especially in reducing household items that don't meet the design theme. But what I was hired to do was more quantifying and codifying. Why would she want the hassle? All I hear out of her is how many
referrals
she gets from satisfied customers."

His chest muscles rippled as he shrugged a shoulder. "Probably wanted the job to get into the house, then she could have made other suggestions afterward for additional commissions."

"Well, given what happened because I was awarded the great honor, Valerie should be thanking me rather than spreading malicious rumors."

"Go figure." His brown eyes were at half-mast. "Don't worry about the twins. They think you walk on water. Sam will probably punch anyone who tries to say something bad about her mom, and Suze will wither them with one of her looks."

It was good hearing his words. Not because Sam might get into another scrape—that would simply lead to more of the same kind of parent/daughter/teacher talks they'd too often had following the move to Hazelton. Sam's first grade teacher assured them this was nothing more than a phase while their daughter got used to her new home, but it was still worrisome. However, Kate took solace in knowing the golden-curled pair remained capable of handling most anything as long as they stuck together. "They're quite a team."

"You bet," Keith seconded. "I'll take them to school in the morning and explain things to their teacher."

"You're such a good husband." She patted his bare chest.

"And a tired one."

"Go to sleep."

Within minutes, his breathing changed, and she knew he was lost to REM eye movements and dreams reliving past hockey glories, while she lay wide awake. After half an hour she decided to give in and get up.

Chamomile tea was her first thought, but at the reminder of Amelia's death she chose warm milk instead. The intermittent stirring gave her time to circle the living room and kitchen, picking up and replacing the flotsam and jetsam that signaled an active family lived in the house. She straightened the skates in their utility room cubbies, glanced at the hockey stick rack and noticed Keith had replaced the one he'd brought in from the front porch. Still moving, she set the girls' backpacks on the wooden bench in the entry, and closed a book someone had left face down on the coffee table. She moved back to the kitchen and added ingredients to the crock-pot, guaranteeing hot, cinnamon oatmeal by morning. Finally, the steaming white liquid was ready. She poured it into the floral decorated
Mom
cup Suzanne gave her for Mother's Day two years back, and grabbed an Oreo from the jar.

The food and normalcy of the activities seemed to do the trick, and soon Kate noticed the comforting impression of heavy lids. Before sleep, though, she decided to start another load of laundry. She hated this chore, but doing a bit each day kept the blasted baskets from overwhelming her.

She transferred wet sports clothes to the dryer. While most of the sorting baskets were nearly empty, there was always enough for a white load. One of the organizing techniques she lived by was the White Rule: everything plain white for everyday items, from towels, to T-shirts, to socks and underwear. That way she not only avoided having to match socks, but could get a whole load of washing together at any time. She filled the machine, added a cup of soap and bleach, and things were soon churning nicely. She reached into the overhead cabinet for the softener, and her fingers froze as she touched a smooth, glassy surface. This had definitely not been in the house earlier.

Kate withdrew her hand, the object firmly in her grasp. A highly polished, ebony box inlaid with ivory. She gasped. The sleep of moments before faded to distant memory. This was the second time she had seen the little treasure. The first was yesterday in Amelia Nethercutt's late husband's upstairs study.

ORGANIZED FOR MURDER

by Ritter Ames

available now!