Bad Housekeeping

by Maia Chance

  “Now down to brass tacks,” Effie said. “The inn was last wired in about 1917, with knob and tube.”

  “1917?” I said. “It’s a miracle it never burned down.”

  “I know. It all has got to go. Chester said we’re lucky because the fuse boxes—and only the fuse boxes—were replaced with breaker boxes in the late eighties and will still be up to code. We would have required a city permit to replace those, and, well, I doubt the city would have granted it. Now. Chester is in charge, Agnes, which I know will be difficult for you, but please do as he says, mm-kay?”

  “I like what I’m hearing,” Chester said, strolling in.

  I glared.

  “I’ll go and make drinks,” Effie said and left.

  “Drinks?” I said to Chester.

  “Yeah, baby. This is Great-Aunt Effie we’re working for.”

  I looked around. “By the way, what exactly is the potty situation here?”

  “If you don’t mind rust-colored water, the plumbing is perfect. Okay, Agnes, as my minion, it’s your job to watch and learn, all right?”

  “I want to kick you.”

  “Refrain.” Chester crouched by an antique-looking outlet low on the wall, pulled out a screwdriver, and removed the cover plate. “The good thing about this job is that we’re not connected to city power, so there’s no danger involved. Even minions can do it. We’re going to remove all the old outlet boxes and wiring from the walls.” He pried the metal outlet box free—it was nailed to something—and then yanked on a black wire. It came snaking out. “I already cut this one up in the attic.”

  “That actually looks like it might not be unfun,” I said.

  “You mean, it looks like fun.”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t going to go that far.

  “These wires are supposed to be attached to the knobs and tubes—which are sort of wire-holders made of porcelain because porcelain doesn’t conduct electricity—inside the wall. But I’m finding that for the most part, the wires are no longer fastened to the knobs and tubes. Which makes everything way easier.” Chester turned on alterna-rock radio on a boom box, and we got to work on two separate outlets.

  Effie brought us drinks after a few minutes.

  “What’s this?” I asked, frowning down into the plastic mug. “Orange juice?”

  “Screwdriver, dear,” Effie said.

  “At this hour?”

  “This is the hour one drinks screwdrivers, Agnes.”

  “Juice still has carbs when it’s mixed with alcohol, you know.”

  “I beg to differ. Anyway, I thought we both needed a bit of courage before going to see Mr. Solomon, and I did notice that the wine yesterday did not give you a rash. You’re cured.”

  I set the drink on the floor.

  “You’re such a fuddy-duddy, Agnes,” Chester said.

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Am not.” I took a long swallow of screwdriver and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. “There. Happy?”

  “Yeah, because now you’ve splashed screwdriver all over your debate squad shirt.”

  “You’re such a jerk, Chester!”

  Chester, singing along to alterna-rock, pretended not to hear me.

  “Here,” Effie said, “take the shirt off, and I’ll rinse it and hang it on the clothesline—there’s one in the side yard.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Chester is your cousin, dear.”

  True. And I was wearing a high school–era sports bra. So I peeled off the shirt, and Effie took it away.

  Hey, the screwdriver was actually kind of nice, because I didn’t care about the flesh bulging up around my sports bra elastic. Dragging out the old wires was gratifying, and the wire was piling up on the floor, and the music was blasting, and I was just thinking how Chester wasn’t really that annoying as long as he wasn’t talking about some unattainable woman, when a throat-clearing sound burst my bubble.

  I was on a ladder, my arms upstretched to pull old chandelier wires. I turned my head.

  Otis stood in the doorway looking as hot as ever, and there I was in my sports bra and Rocky sweat pants. Cool. Real cool.

  “Oh, hi, Otis,” I said over the music, taking the nonchalant, so-what-if-I’m-one-third-nude? approach, which is actually hard to do when your glasses are filmed with plaster dust.

  “Hey, Agnes.” Otis smiled. “So you got roped into this project too?”

  “Yeah, just chipping in.” I willed my belly to dissolve.

  Although, the funny thing was, Otis didn’t seem to give a hoot about my belly. He just kept on smiling into my eyes.

  “Did you fix it?” Chester said, heading over to Otis. Otis held a metal apparatus in his hands. Was he always lugging apparatuses around?

  “Like new,” Otis said.

  I tried not to notice Otis’s tanned biceps. Yes, I know, women may have evolved to be attracted to muscles as a way to select mates with better survival odds. But this is the twenty-first century. The wise thing these days is to find a little nerd like Bill Gates if you’re interested in survival odds.

  “I, um, just remembered, um, a thing,” I said, climbing down from the ladder.

  The guys didn’t seem to have heard. They were talking about the metal thingie. Excellent. I hustled toward a different door than the one the guys stood in.

  “Hey, Agnes,” Otis called.

  I pretended not to have heard. I ducked through the door and shut myself inside. It was a closet. A pitch-dark closet. Dammit.

  “Agnes?” came Chester’s muffled voice. “That’s a closet.”

  I popped out. “Yeah, I know. I, um—” I made a vague gesture toward yet another door. “I’ll be right back.” I took to hustling again.

  “Agnes,” Otis called after me, “I wanted to ask if you were going to be at the Pour House tonight to hear the Varmints.” This was Naneda’s almost-famous folk-rock band. “If you are, maybe we could meet up and have a drink or something.”

  “Nope,” I said over my shoulder, “definitely not. I have to work at a book signing at the library and then, um, sleep. Sorry!” I dodged through the door, which led, thank goodness, not to another closet but to a back hallway.

  * * *

  I found my way to the kitchen and stumbled out to the backyard. I spotted my T-shirt flapping on a clothesline. I was stuffing myself into it, even though it was still damp and smelled like vodka, when I heard Effie’s yoo-hoo.

  I popped my head through the shirt’s head hole. Effie was on the kitchen porch and decked out in sunglasses, white slacks, and a silky orange blouse. “You weren’t thinking of running away just because a gorgeous man asked you on a date, were you?”

  “Otis did not ask me on a date. Wait. Were you eavesdropping?”

  “Darling, this is my property. It’s just as well that you’ve stopped working, because it’s time to go see Mr. Solomon.”

  There was the sound of a large, well-tuned engine churning toward us. Effie and I watched as a sparkling-white Mercedes SUV crunched to a stop in front of the garage. The windows were tinted, and the sign on the driver’s door said, Susie’s Speedy Maids. The door swung open, and a small woman hopped to the ground. It seemed a long, long way down for such a small lady.

  “This must be Susie Pak,” I whispered to Effie. “Did you know she was coming?”

  “No.”

  “Hey!” Susie barked, power walking toward us through the weeds in a white velour tracksuit. Her black hair was pulled into a severe ponytail, and layers of moisturizer and sunscreen glossed her unlined fifty-something face. Her tiny feet were shod in pristine white sneakers with gold laces.

  “Hi,” I called. “What’s up? Are you Susie Pak?”

  “Yes, and this place is disgusting!”

  “It’s not that bad,” I said.

  Effie said, “Oh, I do agree. An absolute pigsty. And you haven’t even seen the inside—would you like to? I have a few minutes before my niece and I have to dash
for an appointment.”

  “Yes,” Susie said.

  Effie led the way inside. Why? No idea. I guess she was house proud. Susie craned her neck when we passed through the kitchen porch, taking it all in—the antique washing machine, the patch of linoleum floor that screamed dead body was here.

  “Cheese and crackers,” Susie barked, taking in the kitchen. “Filthy!”

  “Yes,” Effie said, reaching for her cigarettes. “My great-nephew referred to it as skanky.” She lit up.

  “You can’t smoke when you’re running this as an inn,” Susie said, fanning a hand in front of her nose. “It’s against the law.”

  “Let’s just call this my last hurrah.”

  “Could we help you with something, Susie?” I asked. I disliked her flitting eyes and wrinkled nose. She seemed simultaneously judgy and prying. “We’re kind of busy with, um, demolition.”

  “If it was up to me, I’d demo the entire building and start again,” Susie said. She poked gingerly at boxes on the counter. “A nice clean motel, that’s what I’d put here. These old places never get really clean. There’s always those little cracks in the woodwork and between the floorboards, and who knows what’s inside the walls. Anyway, I’m really busy too. I’m always busy. Don’t even talk to me about busy. Got ten maids out every day now, getting some real good business out in Lucerne because Becky Fritz—from Becky’s Cleaning Service, you know—broke her leg. My business plan is, poach all her clients.”

  “You’re ruthless,” Effie said.

  “It’s business,” Susie said. “That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Winters. I wanted to offer you a discount on your first cleaning of this dump.” She passed Effie a business card.

  “We’re not really in the cleaning stage yet,” I said. “Kind of the opposite.”

  “Yeah, I see that,” Susie said with another nose scrunch. “But I offer every newcomer to town a discount on their first cleaning.”

  “Is that how you drum up new customers?” Effie asked.

  Susie shrugged. “Sometimes. Other times I give a free cleaning. Once people have a cleaning from Susie’s Speedy Maids, they’re hooked. No going back.” Her eyes narrowed. “You want a free cleaning, is that it? No free cleaning for this dump. Only a discount. Ten percent.”

  “Goodness, your offer is incredibly generous,” Effie said in a dry tone, “but as Agnes said, we aren’t quite ready.”

  Susie crossed the kitchen and peered down the entry hall.

  “What a snoop,” I muttered.

  “Pardon me?” Susie called.

  “Nothing.”

  “You got a security system in here?” Susie said. She was in the entry hall now, rattling a sash window. “Look. Someone could just wiggle this window open.”

  Effie said, “Yes, well, I think the events of two evenings ago confirmed rather nicely for all of Naneda that the Stagecoach Inn is not secure, Ms. Pak.”

  “There was a break-in last night,” Susie said. She marched toward the front of the hall. “Megan Lawrence’s house.”

  Effie and I exchanged surprised glances.

  “Megan, Kathleen Todd’s daughter?” I asked.

  “Yeah. They broke in while she was sleeping—somehow got past her security system and trashed the place.”

  “Did they steal anything?” I asked.

  “She didn’t say. I’m on my way over there now to give her a Presto-Clean estimate.”

  It didn’t look like Susie was on her way to Megan’s house; it looked like Susie was checking the bannister for dust. And she found it.

  “Yuck,” she said, looking at her begrimed fingers. “You really need a cleaning, but I’m not so sure I could offer you the ten percent discount. There might be a surcharge for nasty.”

  “You’re so very busy digging though everyone’s dirt, aren’t you?” Effie said.

  Susie blanched. “What are you talking about?”

  “Their dirty houses, darling. What did you think I meant?” Effie swung open the front door. “Perhaps you could have a look at the front porch on your way back to your car, to give you a better sense of the magnitude of the cleaning.”

  Susie stepped out the door wearing an uncertain expression.

  “And we will certainly think of you, Ms. Pak, when the time comes for a cleaning. I’ll text you Agnes’s phone number.” Effie kicked the door shut with her pointy snakeskin bootie. “What a little monster,” she whispered to me and passed me Susie’s business card.

  Chapter 11

  Effie drove the four blocks to the Solomon and Fitch office on Main Street, and then we circled around looking for a parking spot. Effie had patched over the bullet hole and cracks in the Cadillac’s windshield with silver duct tape, which reduced my visibility and, I was pretty sure, could get her pulled over.

  We parked three blocks from the office. Yeah, I know.

  We softly talked over the plan as we walked. Main Street was pretty quiet, although the Cup n’ Clatter and Flour Girl Bakery were busy as usual.

  “First,” I said, “we need to figure out where Kathleen Todd’s unsigned will is in his office—it’s got to be in there somewhere, right?—and then we’ll distract him somehow and take a peek.”

  “If we do succeed in viewing this will,” Effie said, “and it does indeed cut Jodi out of the inheritance, how are we to present this proof of Jentry and Jodi’s murder motive to the police?”

  “Let’s just worry about that later,” I said. I’d actually lost sleep over that one. The more Effie and I nosed around in other people’s business—and on other people’s property—the bigger the risk that the police could arrest us for . . . something.

  “How will we distract Mr. Solomon?” Effie asked.

  “Solomon’s a man,” I said.

  “Oh, you mean—?” Effie gave my sweat pants a quick yet meaningful glance.

  “Not me. He’s about a hundred years old! No. You.”

  Effie patted her hair. “Fine.”

  * * *

  It looked like our plan was a good one, because when the secretary showed us into Mr. Solomon’s office, his withered little face lit up at the sight of Effie. I guess she was one hot tamale with the over-seventy set.

  “Hello, ladies,” Solomon said faintly. He was a tiny hunched-over guy in a gray suit, with a comb-over and huge glasses with black plastic frames.

  Effie slunk over to his desk with a Marilyn Monroe hip churn and wide eyes. “Good morning, Mr. Solomon,” she said in an odd, breathy voice. “Thank you so much for agreeing to see me on such short notice. I’m ever so grateful. I need help, you see.”

  Solomon shrank into his leather chair, but he stared up at Effie like she had a halo.

  I didn’t know if I was old enough to watch this.

  “Please, sit.” Solomon gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. He looked at me. “Who is this?”

  “My niece and personal assistant, Agnes. She may be privy to anything that is said here.”

  “All right, then.” Solomon steepled his liver-spotted hands. “How can I help?”

  “Well, I’m drawing up a will. I’ve got considerable assets, and I just don’t know where to start. It’s all so confusing. Should I leave everything to Agnes, here? To a charity? What would happen if I didn’t even bother drawing up a will? I’ve just got so many questions. I heard that you worked with Kathleen Todd on her will, and I believe my circumstances are quite similar to hers.”

  Solomon’s eyes flicked to a wooden filing cabinet off to the side and then back to Effie. Effie glanced at me. I made a miniscule nod: got it.

  “I’m not certain your circumstances are similar to Mrs. Todd’s,” Solomon said. “Have you any children, Mrs. Winters?”

  “Well, no, but—oh!” Effie’s hand flew to her eye. “Oh dear—ouch! I’ve got an eyelash caught in my—” She bolted to her feet. Her handbag swung, narrowly missing my head. “It is terribly painful! Oh, Mr. Solomon, would you be an absolute darling and help me—ouch!”


  Solomon was on his feet, if not in a flash, then as swiftly as his likely arthritic joints would allow. He hobbled over to Effie. “Allow me to look, Mrs. Winters.”

  Effie batted her lashes and rolled her eyes up. But the problem was, in those snakeskin booties, she was maybe seven inches taller than Solomon, so he couldn’t get a good look.

  Effie scrunched her eyes shut. “This is so embarrassing, Mr. Solomon, but would you escort me to the washroom? I don’t think I can see well, and I really—oh, this is so painful! It’s my new mascara—silly me, I really oughtn’t bother with—”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Mrs. Winters.” Solomon hooked his arm through Effie’s. “Cosmetics might be gilding the lily in your case, but you’re certainly not silly.” They went out, Solomon bent and creaky, Effie clinging to his arm.

  Mental note: tell Effie that her acting is more over the top than Disney’s Hamlet on Ice. Jeez.

  As soon as they’d gone, I hurried to the filing cabinet. The top drawer had a typed label: A-M. The second drawer said N-Z. I yanked open the second drawer and flipped through the files.

  Todd, Kathleen, one of the typed folder tabs said. Yes! I shimmied the file out. There was only one sheet of paper inside. “Last Will and Testament of Kathleen Patricia Todd,” it said on top.

  I did a little victory jog in place. The Rocky sweat pants were a nice touch.

  I scanned the document. It was pretty simple, and it hadn’t been signed. However, everything was not going to Megan, like the boozy paralegal Kimmie had said. No, Kimmie had it backward. Every last bit of Kathleen’s estate was going to Jodi Christine Todd.

  Whoa. Jentry and Jodi would have wanted Kathleen to sign this will. Not to die. Which meant Jentry and Jodi didn’t seem to have a motive for murder, after all.

  I slid the will into the folder, replaced it in the filing cabinet, and got back in my chair. Effie and Solomon came back in, and then I had to twiddle my thumbs through the rest of Effie’s fake consultation. At last, we got up to go.

  “When we were in the washroom, the darling asked me to the Lake Club dance,” Effie said to me as we trotted down the stairs and out onto Main Street.