Steamed (A Maid in LA Mystery) (5 page)

 
“She’s not,” Cal protested.

 
“Sure I am.  You just said you don’t shine lights in suspects’ eyes, and why would you start with me.  That means I’m a suspect, too, just because I’m good at my job and accidently cleaned the murder scene.”  I sniffed and turned to Big G.  “He,” I jerked my finger at Cal again, “seems to think I had something to do with Mr. Banning’s murder.”

 
“Cal,” the Big G said with disgust in his voice.

 
“I don’t think she did it, but I still have to clear her.”

 
“Yeah, I’m a suspect, when all I was doing was trying to make a living to support myself and my three boys.  An honest living.  My uncle spent two years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.  Now, I’m going to follow in his footsteps.  And my boys won’t have their mom.  They’ll have my ex’s new wife, Peri, but they think of her as more of a sister than a mother.  Peri doesn’t know how to raise kids.  And my ex?  Well, other than marrying women who are practically children, he doesn’t know much.  He loves the boys, but he’s a weekend father at best.”

 
“Cal.”  The Big G’s tone was even more disgusted.

 
“I don’t think she did it,” Cal protested loudly.  “But she cleaned the damn murder scene and I have to deal with that.”

 
The Big G smiled at me.  “If he sends you to jail, I’ll bring you pasta with a file in it.”

 
“Aw, thanks.”  I like this man.  I tossed him my equally dazzling smile, flashing him my pearly white teeth.  It was that smile and those teeth that got me the gig as
Dazzling Smile’s
spokeswoman.  I thought it might be a long-term gig.  One of those ad campaigns that brings in residuals for a long time.

 
Three days before the first airing, they found arsenic in the toothpaste.  My shot at toothpaste fame and fortune was spit down the sink.  So, I was pretty sure the Big G didn’t recognize my dazzling smile.

 
He dazzled a bit as he smiled back, then left the room.

 
I took a bite of the salad.

 
“Wow,” I managed as I chewed.  This wasn’t head lettuce cut up in a bowl and slathered with ranch dressing.  This had greens, nuts and dried fruit, with some light dressing on it.

 
Cal forked up his salad and didn’t seem overly appreciative as he chewed it, then asked, “What I want you to do is try to remember everything you cleaned, touched or moved at Banning’s house.”

 
So, I tried to remember every step.  It was easier because I’d started going over all this for myself and my file.  I thought about telling him that.  After all, he’d made it clear he didn’t consider me a serious suspect.  But I still wasn’t positive I could trust him, so I simply worked at recreating the list, from picking panties off the ceiling fan, to steam cleaning footprints off the carpet.  When I mentioned the Mortie, Cal perked up.  “What was on it?”

 
I shrugged as I swallowed another bite of the salad.  “No idea.  It was sticky and a sort of rusty brown color.  It was all over the base of it.”

 
“Blood?”

 
“I don’t think so, though I’ve never seen dried blood on a Mortie before, much less cleaned it off.  I polished the award, then I put it on the mantle.  It was on the couch when I came in,” I added.

 
Cal made a groaning sound and made a call on his cell.  “Test the Mortie for trace evidence of blood.”

 
He waited and I ate undisturbed. 

 
I’d moved from my salad to a plate of pasta that Big G brought back.  It was just as good.  I was trying to decide what all was in the simple red sauce when Cal’s phone rang.

 
He picked it up, listened and said, “Okay.”  Then he clicked the button and set his phone down.

 
He turned to me.  “It’s official.  You cleaned the murder weapon.”

 
All I could think of was a wrinkled unicorn tattoo.

Chapter Three

 The next morning, Tiny came over early with donuts.  She tried to comfort me over an apple fritter and coffee.  “Honey, this is Hollywood.  Everyone wants to kill everyone else here.  He’ll find other suspects.”

 
“But I cleaned the murder weapon and didn’t clean it well enough to get rid of all the traces of blood.”  I knew I should be a bit gagged by the thought of handling a bloody murder weapon, but what got my goat was that I had failed to clean it well enough to remove all the residue.  And by residue, I mean blood. I know I should be happy there was some left, so the cops knew it was the murder weapon.  That might aid Cal’s investigation.  But I felt as if I’d somehow been a slacker. 

 
I sighed. “Well, the good news is, Cal doesn’t seem to really think I did it.  I don’t think I’m going to have to investigate on my own in order to clear my name.”

 
“I’m glad,” Tiny said. 

 
I glanced at her.  There was something about her voice that sounded off.  And she looked...well, very un-Tiny-like.  “What’s wrong?”

 
“I may need an investigator of my own.”  Tiny sniffed.  And it wasn’t the kind of sniffle she had when she thought about marrying Sal.  I’d heard those often in the last months when she chose a dress, or the cake.  Heck, she’d had one of those watery sniffles when she made an appointment to get our hair done on her wedding day.  I wasn’t sure scheduling a hair appointment was sniffle-worthy, but Tiny sniffled over every aspect of the wedding.

 
This wasn’t that kind of sniffle. 

 
“Why would you need an investigator?” I asked slowly.

 
“Well, there’s a chance I’m going to end up on the list of suspects.”  She sniffed again.

 
“Tiny, Mr. Banning was a client, and if that’s their only requirement, then everyone here at Mac’Cleaners will be a suspect.  Heck, the fact that Theresa was supposed to clean the house and called in sick would make her a very viable suspect.”  I thought about my file.  I’d have to add Theresa’s name, but I really couldn’t see our five foot two, size zero employee whacking Mr. Banning over the head with enough force to kill him.

 
“You said you didn’t see any signs of forced entry?” Tiny asked.

 
I’d thought about this particular question when Cal had asked, after he’d explained I’d cleaned the murder weapon.  I’d used the key to open the door when I first arrived and hadn’t seen any marks on it.  None of the other doors or windows were broken or looked as if they’d been pried open.

 
I was disappointed that I hadn’t thought of it myself, while both Cal, the professional cop, and Tiny, the professional maid, had.

 
Maybe I wasn’t quite as good at this investigating stuff as I thought.  It was probably a good thing that Cal didn’t suspect me of murder, and I wasn’t going to have to clear myself so I didn’t get accused of a crime I didn’t commit—just inadvertently cleaned up.  “No.  I didn’t see any signs of forced entry.”

 
“Well, the business has a key and I had access to it.  I could have gotten into his house without breaking in.”

 
“Yes, but you don’t have a motive anymore than I do.  Why would you want to kill a client?  A paying client?” 

 
I could have understood doing in a deadbeat client like Mr. X—yes, that’s how he insisted we refer to him in our files.  He’s a big industry muckety-muck who was three months behind in paying.  He drives a tiny red sports car that screams
I-have-money
and he only eats at the best restaurants—we know because he was famous for telling whoever cleans his house all about it.  He’ll pay eventually, but we need to be paid on a regular basis in order to pay our own bills. 

 
No, neither of us would kill a man who paid his bill on time.

 
“Well,” Tiny said slowly, then paused for another sniffle, “some might theorize that I might want to get rid of an ex-lover who wasn’t happy to find out I was getting married and threatened to show my fiancé some photos.” 

 
Dramatic pause
. 

 
I knew it was a dramatic pause, not just a sniffle pause, because of Tiny’s dramatic expression.  Even if you’re not an actor in Hollywood, you can’t escape learning a bit of drama. 

 
“Photos of
a personal nature
,” she explained.

 
“Oh, Tiny.”  It seemed like every woman in Hollywood had some photos-of-a-personal-nature floating around town, just waiting to get picked up by one tabloid or another.  Maybe that’s why I’d never made it big.  The most personal-nature photo of me was one of my breastfeeding Miles.  And everything was covered in that photo.  I don’t think any tabloid would be interested in it.

 
And I realized that thinking about my lack of photos-of-a-personal-nature was easier than thinking about Tiny having them.

 
“Yeah.  Oh,” she said. “Being investigated for murder will really put a damper on my wedding.”  She sniffed dramatically.

 
My mind sped.  What if Cal found out about the pictures?  I knew how horrible it was to be considered a suspect.  I didn’t want that for Tiny.  I didn’t want my best friend, like my favorite uncle, being sent up or down the river without a paddle for a crime that I knew in my heart of hearts Tiny could never do.

 
“Don’t worry, Tiny.  I’m going to find out who did it.”

 
Tiny laughed.  “Good one, Quince.”

 
“No, seriously.  I planned on clearing my own name.  I have a file and everything.”

 
“A file?” she asked.

 
“Yes.  I’ve started investigating on my own.  I’m going to clear both of our names.”

 
“How?  I can help.”

 
I shook my head.  “No.  You’ve got all you can do to keep the business running and plan your wedding.  Let me do this for you.”

 
Tiny sniffed.  “Really?  You’d do that for me?”

 
I hugged her.  “Hell, if you told me you had indeed murdered someone, I’d offer to help hide the body.  That’s what best friends do.”

 
“Best friends help you bury the body...and prove you didn’t murder someone.  There’s a t-shirt in that.”

 
We both laughed, because the only alternative was crying, and I didn’t want to go there.  I had too much to do.

 
I’d missed something basic like noticing if there was forced entry.

 
Maybe my file wasn’t going to cut it.

 
I needed to see the big picture.  I thought about
The Closer
. It was my favorite cop show, and I really liked cop shows so that was saying something.
The Closer
gang used a big whiteboard where they displayed pictures and timelines so they could study them.  Oh, and JD Robb’s cop character, Eve Dallas, did the same.

 
Now, those were two women cops I admired.  If a murder board was good enough for them, it was good enough for me.

 
I left Tiny with assurances that I’d solve this case.

 
I had a plan...of sorts.

 
First thing on my list was a big whiteboard.

 Later that morning, I swore as I propped the stupid whiteboard against the bush. I fumbled through my purse for my keys.

 
Yes, I know I should have simply left them out when I took them out of the ignition.  That would have made sense.  But the whiteboard was cumbersome and required both my hands to half drag, half carry it from the car to the house, so I’d dropped the keys in my purse without thinking.

 
Here’s two basic truths no one ever tells women.

 
Number one.  When you become a mom, you must start carrying a giant purse in order to haul all the things you, your kids, their friends, their friends’ parent, the football team or a random teacher might need.

 
Number two.  Because you carry so much just-in-case paraphernalia, you will never be able to find anything you might want.

 
As I searched for my keys, I found a small packet of tissues.  Feminine hygiene products.  A pack of gum.  Two packs of mints.  An extra pair of nylons, though I rarely, if ever, wore them.  A bottle of nail polish. 

 
I also found bandages.  Disinfectant.  And what looked to be an old cleat.  I wasn’t sure what sport.  That’s another thing they don’t tell you…different sports require different cleats.  Who knew?

 
“Darn,” I swore and kept digging.  I know, it wasn’t much of a curse word, but I had teenage boys and tried to lead by example, so swearing for me entailed words like
darn, rats
and when I really wanted to go for broke,
boogers
. 

 
A third universal truth occurred to me—car keys sink.

 
Aha.  I snagged them and wondered how a key ring could be so heavy.  How many of the keys did I actually need?

 
I managed to drag the board inside and was about to shut the door and get going on solving Mr. Banning’s murder when someone said, “Quincy.”

 
I might have only just met Detective Cal Parker, but I knew his voice.  My stomach clenched, not so much in worry that he was here to arrest me, but in a state of panic over the thought he’d found the pictures of Tiny.

 
“May I come in?” he asked.

 
Now, despite my best intentions, I’d been so preoccupied with the murder, that I still hadn’t cleaned a thing.  Solving a murder took precedence over cleaning, in my book.

 
“No.”

 
“What is going on in there?”  He peered around me, as if he’d be able to see for himself. 

 
I pulled the door shut behind me.  “Maybe an orgy?”

 
Now, I’d recently admitted to myself that it had been far too long since I’d had sex at all.  The idea of an orgy was absolutely ludicrous.  It was meant to make him laugh. 

 
He didn’t.

 
Note to self: quipping with cops might not be a good activity.

 
“Just stand here on my doorstep and ask me what you want to ask.  And really, Detective, you could call and see if your visit is convenient.”

 
“I just wanted to check on you.  I was worried.”

 
My eyes narrowed.  “I suspect that you weren’t worried so much about my well-being as you were worried that your prime witness or suspect—you take your pick—had left town.”

 
“Never mind.  This was a mistake.”

 
“Probably,” I assured him.  Then I thought WWBLJD—What would Brenda Leigh Johnson Do?  Yes, she always knew just what to do on
The Closer
.  I decided I was going to hunt down my murderer in much the same way that particular TV cop would.  After all, she was a strong woman.  She was polite—a subject that I frequently harped on to my boys.  And her fictional police department had been set here in LA.

 
The Closer
was forever sweet-talking her FBI husband into sharing information.

 
I didn’t have an FBI husband, but I had a cop at my doorstep.

 
Yeah, I liked
The Closer
and hated when it went off the air.  But there’s a spin-off.  And I liked
Major Crimes
, too.  There was another strong female detective.

 
Beggars could not be choosers.  I looked at my potential source of information and said, “To be honest, I forgot to eat today.  What if I took you out for a quick breakfast?  On me, this time.” 

 
I wondered if I could write the breakfast off as a business expense.  It seemed to me that keeping the two owners of Mac’Cleaners out of jail was good for business and thus, any costs associated with that endeavor should be counted as a business expense.  The IRS might disagree, and annoying them scared me more than annoying Cal so I probably wouldn’t risk it. 

 
“Even cops need to eat,” I tried.  “You can quiz me about the murder scene some more, if you like.”

 
Murder wasn’t generally my topic of choice for a meal, but if he asked me questions, maybe he’d let something I could use slip.

 
“Come on.  What do you say?” I tried.

 
“I’d say you’re up to something.”  He shot me a look that was very reminiscent of the looks my parents used to give me when they said those exact same words.

 
I was well practiced in the appropriate response.  “Who, me?”