A half hour later I was at the little desk in my bedroom, a fluffy white terry-cloth bathrobe wrapped around my midnight blue New York Yankees pajamas. When I turned on my computer and checked my e-mail, I saw that I’d gotten one from Mike. I looked at the time stamp on the e-mail and saw that he’d sent it at midnight his time. If I was right about the time difference, that would have been about six o’clock in the evening my time.
I stared at my computer screen. The e-mail header read, Missing You Tonight.
My finger hovered over the mouse button as I did some more silent calculating. I can add and subtract as well as any second grader, math whiz that I am. In Paris, it was now about five o’clock in the morning. Almost wake-up time for Mike. Almost bedtime for me. It underscored that we were a wide world apart. Or at least half a wide world.
Half a world seemed far enough.
Missing You Tonight.
Swallowing hard, I started to open the e-mail, but my finger wouldn’t cooperate. I couldn’t click the mouse button.
I hadn’t missed Mike tonight. I’d thought of him, but I hadn’t missed him. About when he’d been writing the e-mail, I’d been getting ready for dinner with Alejandro Vega. Wondering how slinky I ought to dress. Wondering if I might go to bed and wake up in his arms, and knowing there wasn’t really much to wonder about. Because whenever I looked into his eyes, I wanted him to make love to me. And whenever we were together, I couldn’t stop looking into his eyes.
If our night had gone as I’d planned, it would not have ended with a kiss in his Range Rover. If it had gone as planned, I would have let Alejandro Vega’s kisses sweep me off to a world that was ours and ours alone.
Since it was pretty clear from how he kissed me that he’d been prepared to risk catching my cold, I thought.
I sat staring at the screen for another second or two, sighed, and closed the e-mail program with Mike’s message unread. Once, I’d have felt guilty about not feeling guilty. Maybe I still did, a little. But just a little.
I opened a new document file in my Grime Solvers folder and started typing away:
Rough night tonight. Don’t ask how come, because I don’t want to think about it right now. My goal is to lull myself into sleepiness, and I’m sticking to the subject of cleaning since it relaxes me. And since I figure that’s mostly why we’ve
Three and a quarter sentences into my entry, I suddenly stopped clacking at the keyboard. I’d heard the sound of a car pulling up outside.
My bedroom window overlooks Carriage Lane, which runs along the north side of the house to cross Main Street. Chloe’s garage and one of the Fog Bell’s entrances (there are three) face the lane. My window’s almost directly above the entrance. The car sounded as if it had pulled up right in front.
I got up, went to the window, pulled back the edge of the blinds, and peeked out.
A black Lexus idled almost directly below me on the street, its passenger door facing the curb, the beams of its headlights lancing out toward the corner. As I watched, its door opened wide and the interior lamp went on to allow a glimpse of a man behind the wheel. He wore a dark overcoat and had a thick head of silvery hair and was reaching across the front seat for the door handle. I didn’t think I knew him, but it was hard to be sure. Between the darkness outside, the roof of the Lexus blocking my view, and my being three stories up, it was hard to get a decent look at his face.
I stood at the window, my curiosity piqued. It was past eleven o’clock. Nothing stirring outside except that car. What had I been thinking before about the late-night quiet in Pigeon Cove? At that hour, it let you hear sounds that didn’t seem to fit. Like the Lexus pulling up to the house. And like the side door of the inn suddenly opening now as somebody stepped out onto the porch.
Carefully easing the door shut, the shadowy figure hurried down the porch steps and then crossed the sidewalk to the waiting car.
My eyes widened. Chloe was one person I would’ve recognized anywhere. From any vantage, day or night. And just an hour earlier, she’d told me Oscar was already fast asleep. That she was going to join him in bed right after I went upstairs.
So much for that. Standing at my window, I watched her pause on the sidewalk for a quick glance back at the inn. Then she climbed into the Lexus, shut her door, and sat back as the car pulled away into the night.
Too stunned to move, I kept staring out the window at the empty street. Oscar Edwards was bald except for a sparse, messy fringe of white hair. I’d never seen him stalk around the house in anything besides a battered old peasant cap, a pair of plain brown work pants, and a goose-down vest on chillier days. On the rare occasions he left the house, Oscar wore a red barn coat with corduroy elbow patches and drove a decrepit Chevy station wagon with fake wood paneling on the sides.
I wondered who the Lexus’s driver could be. And then wondered where Chloe had gone with him at that late hour. One thing was clear—it wasn’t to bed with Oscar.
It was a while before I let go of the blinds and returned to the computer to work on my cleaning tips. I guess I finally went to bed around midnight, feeling tired and ready for some sleep.
Staring up at the darkened ceiling hours later, troubled thoughts swirling through my head, I conceded that I hadn’t been nearly ready enough.
SKΥ TAΥLOR’S GRIME SOLVERS BLOG
Mixed Greens
Rough night tonight. Don’t ask how come, because I don’t want to think about it right now. My goal is to lull myself into sleepiness, and I’m sticking to the subject of cleaning since it relaxes me. And since I figure that’s mostly why we’ve all gathered together in this dirt-free corner of the blogosphere.
Besides, my night wasn’t a total shipwreck. Its redeeming moments were bare and fleeting, but we can’t ask for everything, and there were a couple. One of them was noticing that my best friend had put one of my new ecofriendly cleaning hints into practice. It gave me the idea for this entry and that’s something to hang my apron on.
I’m calling these tips Mixed Greens because I’m combining new environmentally sound cleaning methods with more traditional ones. The bottom line is that my hints work, and that means being careful not to ignore practicality and efficiency when substituting the old with the new—a commonsensical approach as we make a conversion to alternative products and techniques.
Incidentally, you can give Bry the Wonder Guy credit for the name and raising my environmental consciousness. He’s made me realize that small changes in the ways we clean—and use our cleaning equipment—can make a big difference. Whether it’s saving energy (and cutting down on high home fuel and electric bills), helping to ease the impact of toxic chemicals that infiltrate our soil and food, or reducing the amount of waste containers dumped into landfills, I think these will be helpful to you—and everyone around you.
So . . . here are a few greens to toss in with your old tried-and-trues.
1. Using a dishwasher is nearly always more economical than washing by hand. This is for the simple reason that most of us rinse dishes under a running tap, wasting a whole lot of water. A water and energy-efficient machine will pay for itself over time, since conserving water means lower water and sewer bills.
You can further cut your energy costs by turning off your dishwasher early in the drying cycle. The heat generated once the cycle begins is enough to dry your dishes without electricity. You should consult your manufacturer’s operating manual for information on how to stop the drying cycle, but simply opening and closing the door will interrupt it for most modern machines.
2. There isn’t an alternative cleaning concoction I like more than this homemade nonabrasive cleaner: Add a small amount of baking soda to some dish-washing liquid (just enough so that when you mix it in with a fork, the liquid takes on the consistency of a rich hair conditioner). Dab it on the inside of the oven door and then rub with a small, circular motion. You’ll quickly see all the old baked-on splatter lift right off. Next, rinse with cold water and towel dry. Your oven door wi
ll sparkle and you won’t be breathing in the strong toxins associated with most commercial oven cleaners.
Use this same cleaner for tubs, showers, stainless steel sinks, and even pots and pans. It costs pennies to make. Also, it’s one less container taking up cabinet space and winding up in your nonrecyclable trash when it’s empty. Finally, it might save you a trip to the store, since most of us keep dish-washing liquid and baking soda as household staples.
3. Before you put away the baking soda, toss a half cup down the sink and tub drains. Follow that with one cup white vinegar and flush thoroughly with hot water. Repeat about every two weeks and you’ll never have a clogged drain again (well, unless you dump rags and hair down it).
4. To freshen up your sink’s food-waste disposal unit, quarter a lemon, drop the sections down the drain, and then hit the switch, flushing as usual. You can do this while implementing the previous tip or anytime in between. It will eliminate most bad smells from the drain without using chemical deodorizers.
5. Want your house to smell clean besides looking it? Simple. Open the window for a half hour every morning when the weather’s nice. No plug-in you can buy is as wonderfully invigorating as fresh air—and it’s free!
For extradelightful freshness, treat your room to a vase of flowers from the yard. When choosing your bouquet, don’t forget that carnations are pretty but have virtually no fragrance. I always suggest adding a few sprigs of freesia, eucalyptus, or lily of the valley if you have them in your garden.
Chapter 7
As I went downstairs to Chloe’s at a quarter to eight the next morning, I found the baking smells in the hall a merciful contrast to the horrid stinkiness of Drecksel’s bologna quiche.
They also came as an immediate—if all-too-brief—comfort. After a night when I’d felt my world tilt 180 degrees off its axis, the delicious aroma from Chloe’s oven helped reorient it toward normalcy and balance. In fact, I felt better just knowing she was back from her mysterious late-night excursion. After lying awake in bed till around two a.m., I’d finally gotten some spotty rest, drifting in and out of sleep for the next few hours.
One of the times I dozed off must have been right around when Chloe got home—either that or she’d been really quiet, because I hadn’t heard her come in. Whatever the case, I’d grown mighty uneasy after watching her slip off into the darkness with the silver-haired Lexus driver . . . and could no more stop worrying about her all night than wipe the image of Dr. Pilsner’s dead body from my mind.
Standing in the hall now, I still didn’t know what to make of her nocturnal outing. But at least she was safely home and ready to start the day with our standard routine—coffee klatching over a tray of her homemade breakfast goodies.
I opened her door, poked my head in. “Knock, knock.”
“Sky.” Chloe turned from over by the kitchen range and yawned. “Hello, dear.”
I paused in the entry to the front parlor. Chloe’s voice sounded kind of flat to me. And though she obviously had her face on, I felt she looked tired and bleary-eyed.
There you have it, class . . . I said my sense of comfort didn’t last long, didn’t I? Might as well scratch the word “balance” too.
Chloe never looked tired or bleary. Ever. And she usually singsonged her “hello” to me. Good days, bad days, blah days. It always came out as, “Hel-loooo-oooooo!”
I went through the parlor to the dining room, doing my best to hide my befuddled scrutiny. Chloe had on a ribbed black V-neck sweater with a flowery cooking apron over it, and a pair of black athletic running pants with a pale pink double stripe up the outside of each leg. A cell phone case hung from a cord around her neck, its floral pattern matching the apron. Coiled toward the top of her head, her light brown hair was twisted into a low ponytail. It had been secured with a tortoiseshell claw clip.
I supposed things were normal in one respect, then. Chloe was so consistent about putting together nice outfits for herself that a part of me always imagined she did it by snapping her fingers like Samantha in the old television show Bewitched . No matter how stressed she was, or what sort of craziness was going on around her, she was always nicely dressed.
I joined her in the kitchen, poured our coffees, added some one percent milk to Chloe’s cup, and carried them back to the dining room table. Then I pulled up a chair and sat as she arranged some goodies on her tray with an oven-mitted hand and carried it over from the kitchen.
“Yum,” I said. “What have we here?”
“A Gloucester blueberry bread.” Chloe smiled and set the tray down in front of me.
“Ah-hah.” I picked up a slice and tasted it. “Chloe, this is fantastic.”
“Thank you, Sky. Dig in. It’s a simple, old-fashioned recipe. Pastry flour, two cups of blueberries, a tablespoon of softened butter, a couple of eggs . . . I add a little grated lemon rind to give it some snap.”
“Definitely very snappy,” I said, chewing.
Chloe took the chair opposite me, her smile broadening. As I sat there eating and sipping coffee, I was almost fooled into thinking I’d let my suspicions get the better of me. Maybe I was reading too much into things.
Then Chloe had to go and yawn again, making me focus on the puffiness under her eyes, and blowing any illusions that she was her normal, positive-vibe-radiating self to smithereens.
There wasn’t any avoiding it. I had to ask about her mysterious night ride.
“Chloe, I need you to help me understand something,” I said. “Last night when I went upstairs—right before I went up, that is—didn’t you say you were going straight to bed?”
She nodded in the affirmative. “I was exhausted. It must have been the news about Gail Pilsner.”
“So I’m not mistaken. You did go to bed. With Oscar. In your bedroom.”
“Of course. Where else would we have slept?” She gave me a funny look. “What’s bothering you, Sky?”
A moment passed. And I’d thought I was putting her on the spot.
“Sky?” Chloe urged.
“I don’t know,” I said.
That drew another glance.
“Well, maybe I do know,” I said, exhaling. “I wasn’t sleepy after I left here. I mean, I was at first. But then I wasn’t. Skiball seemed under the weather and it made me a little worried. So I took a shower and decided to get some stuff done on my computer. Catch up with my e-mail, work on my cleaning-tips blog, and so forth.” I shrugged. “After a while I heard a car outside and—”
“That must have been me pulling my Beetle out of the garage.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“I had to drive down to Gloucester.”
I looked at her in disbelief. The car I’d seen her get into was no Beetle. Nor had she done any driving from the passenger seat. Whatever her destination might have been, the silver-haired man had taken her there.
“Chloe, it was eleven o’clock. Where in Gloucester were you going?”
“The drugstore. Lane’s Pharmacy here in town closes at nine.” She cleared her throat and put a slice of blueberry bread on her dish. “It was an emergency. A minor one—don’t be concerned. Oscar had a terrible headache and we couldn’t find any aspirin in the house.”
I still couldn’t believe it. My closest friend was lying to my face. It was wildly, irreconcilably out of character for her. Yet there it was.
She was lying. Straight to my face.
I stayed tight-lipped about the things I’d seen from the window. I wasn’t sure of my reasons. But I didn’t want her to know what I knew.
“You could’ve knocked on my door for aspirin,” I said. “Or Tylenol. Or whatever. If it’s a headache pill, I’ve got it in my medicine cabinet.”
Chloe sat quietly a few seconds, lowered her eyes to her dish. “I didn’t know. And as you said, it was late.”
“So what?” I kept playing along. “Even if the cabinet was empty, I would’ve been glad to keep you company.”
Now Chloe was sort of nudging her
blueberry bread with a finger. “You seemed so exhausted when you got in,” she said. “I—I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Better I’m disturbed than have you drive down alone at that hour,” I said. “Chloe . . . are you sure you aren’t keeping anything from me?”
Her eyes suddenly met mine. “Why would I want to do that?”
She poked her bread around some more as we looked at each other across the table.
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. I’d offered her an out, but she wasn’t taking it. She didn’t intend to come clean. “Just asking, I guess.”
Chloe made a shooing gesture and laughed nervously. “It could be we’re both too mystery-minded for our own good,” she said. “Not that I’m close to being in your league.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t be modest.” She shooed me off again. “You’ve actually been involved in solving crimes. I’m just another couch potato Flipped fanatic.”
She was changing the subject. Or trying to change it. And as much as I didn’t want to accommodate her, she’d tickled my curiosity.
“What’s Flipped?” I asked, taking the bait.
“A television series about ordinary women who flip their lids and commit murder,” Chloe said. “On that new cable television channel . . . the Secret Investigation Network.”
“Never heard of it,” I said with a clueless expression.
“They call it SIN for short,” she said. “Flipped is the station’s newest hit. A typical episode might be about a wife who shoots her husband and his mistress after catching them in bed, then chops them to pieces and feeds them to—”
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