“I really am okay,” I said. “But how’d you know? That I was here, I mean. Did you talk to the police?”
“Several times since I arrived in town. Last night, this morning . . . they didn’t tell me, though.” He hesitated. “I’ll explain. But first let’s get out of this hall and sit down where it’s warm and bright.”
He turned down the hall and we followed. Again there was something about his bearing, a sort of quiet serenity, that was infectious. I knew he’d been an investment banker once upon a time, but honestly couldn’t see him in that role. His slender build and striking long white hair—not to mention bare feet—reminded me of those British rock stars my mom used to costume in her flower child days. Give him a cloak with stars and crescent moons on it and he would’ve looked like a crown prince of mystical Avalon.
What was it I said about sappy romance novels?
The sunroom was spacious and airy, with enormous floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden, a skylight with some hanging plants below it, a small couch to one side, and cane chairs around a polished, modern slate coffee table. On a trivet in the middle of the table was a glass French press filled with a rich dark brew. There was a delicate pearl porcelain coffee set on a lacquered tray beside it.
“This is beautiful,” I said, looking around from the entry.
“When Gail and I bought this place, it was a porch with rotted floorboards and railings that wobbled,” Vaughn said. “She made it what it is.” He stood in apparent reflection for a second, motioned us toward the table, and courteously pulled out our chairs. “We have water boiling in the kitchen if either of you prefer tea. The coffee might be a bit strong . . .”
“Strong coffee goooood.” Bryan grinned as he dropped into the chair beside me. “I’m ready for a caf fix.”
I considered giving one of his lip rings a hard twist. “Coffee’s fine with me too,” I said.
Vaughn lifted the press and poured.
“I bought this in Europe years before Gail and I were married,” he said. “I don’t recall her ever taking it out of the cabinet . . . She always preferred appliances with electrical cords and push buttons. It surprised me to find they’d been using it.”
I looked at him. I didn’t want to snoop around in his personal affairs—no, check that—I didn’t want to be so blatant about it that he noticed. On the other hand . . .
“I apologize for rambling on,” Vaughn said before I could finish my thought. “I’m at complete loose ends, I suppose. It’s the suddenness of Gail’s death. And the circumstances even more so.” He sat opposite us at the table. “I won’t take too much of your time. Morrie Silverberg highly recommended your housecleaning services. He mentioned you’d already been helping Gail maintain her kennels . . .”
“Actually, Bry’s handled that all along,” I said. “Gail engaged our services last winter when I had a leg injury—”
“Got piped in the knee by a drunken fisherman working for a nutjob,” Bry said. “She was messing around with some married bigwig at City Hall . . . I mean the nutcase, not Sky—”
“I’m not sure we need to go into details, Bry.”
“All the expensive stuff around here, I don’t want it to seem like you’re a klutz gonna break anything,” he said, and faced Vaughn. “What happens is Sky’s boyfriend brings a stripper home from Boston one night. Then Sky does a good deed and takes her in as a roommate. Turns out the stripper was also messing with the bigwig, who busted up with her before he hired Sky to clean his offices, where she found—”
I kicked Bry under the table, figuring it wouldn’t be as conspicuous or potentially gory as the lip-ring twist. Then I reached for my coffee cup and sipped without looking over at him.
“Mr. Pilsner—”
“Vaughn, please.”
“Vaughn, I’d be very glad to work out an arrangement with you.” I took a brochure from my shoulder bag and handed it to him. “We have monthly and yearly contracts with varying schedules and rates. Though many clients prefer calling us in as needed . . .”
“Like with my high-powered nine-eleven deal,” Bry said.
Vaughn looked at him. Then looked at me.
“Last-minute cleaning service,” I translated.
Vaughn nodded. “Ah.”
I took another sip of my coffee and waited as he gave the brochure a quick glance.
“I think we should continue with whatever agreement you had with Gail,” he said, setting it down on the table. “That seems easiest for now, don’t you agree?”
“I would, except that we didn’t do any housecleaning for her,” I said. “Bry’s work was entirely in the offices and pet-boarding kennels. Of course, I’d be happy to give you an estimate—”
I stopped talking midsentence, distracted by something I’d heard—or thought I’d heard—elsewhere in the house. And then there it was again. I was on the verge of recognizing the sound when Bry scrunched his eyebrows and turned to Vaughn.
“Yo,” he said, sniffing. “That popcorn?”
“Microwavable,” Vaughn said with a faint smile. “My ex-wife wasn’t alone in her fondness for push buttons.”
I was quiet for a long moment. I could hear and smell the popcorn getting done. My thoughts, meanwhile, returned to some of the things Vaughn had said that had gotten my curiosity up.
We have water boiling. They’d been using it. My ex-wife wasn’t alone.
I know, I know. I said I wanted to avoid obvious snoopiness—famous last words. There’s only so much avoidance a person can take without reaching critical mass.
“Vaughn,” I said, “I thought Gail lived by herself.”
He shook his head. “I suppose you might call the little one a houseguest,” he said very slowly. “But . . . her son had been with her for some time.”
Good thing I wasn’t sipping my coffee when he said that. It would’ve slopped out of my mouth when it fell open.
“The two you have a—?”
“We don’t.” His eyes met mine.
“Oh. I didn’t realize Gail was married before.”
Vaughn kept his eyes on my face but didn’t say anything. I was just starting to wonder if I should’ve minded my own business when he suddenly looked behind me at the sunroom’s entrance.
I heard the lip-smacking noise even before my head whipped around in the same direction.
There in the sunroom’s entry stood Orlando, Mickey the monkey perched on his shoulder. A micropop bag in one furry paw, Mickey was stuffing huge gobs of puffy yellow kernels into his mouth with the other.
“¡Amiga!” Orlando said, beaming at me.
“Whoooo-hooo-oo,” Mickey said, spitting popcorn all over the place as he launched from Orlando’s shoulder onto my lap.
Bryan looked at me for a second, scratched his head. Then he turned his attention to Vaughn. “Do I gotta ask which ’a those two’s Doc Pilsner’s son?” he said.
SKΥ TAΥLOR’S GRIME SOLVERS BLOG
Bry The Wonder Guy’s
High-Powered Cleaning 911
Phone beeps, hell-o. Surprise, yer leading man or lady’s on the way over. Be sweet to rock the cradle, but you had a busy week and it’s a wreck. Condition red? You bet. Major life-funk time? No way. Why? Cuz ya know the main thing’s to stay calm. And the reason yer calm is you read this blog and prepared.
Prepared means you’ve got a basket. Not a picnic basket, but a big, tall standing wicker basket with a cover or floor pillow on top. Either that or a hamper. No cheapo plastic hamper from the bargain store, but something nice. Tortoiseshell, say. Nice.
Now bust it into the visiting room and gather up yer personal carnage. Newspapers and mags, CDs and DVDs and television clickers, pillows and blankets, socks, slippers, empty tissue boxes, bubble gum, pooch and kitty toys, that arts-and-crafts project ya been diddling around with . . . you get the gist. Throw it all in that basket or hamper and close it up.
Break time. Take a breath so ya don’t pass out. Awright, take two and maybe swig so
me water. But that’s all ya get; it’s time to bring out the vacuum cleaner with max intent. Put on the nozzle attachment and do a quick sweep. Suck the dust off yer chairs and the corners and floor around yer table. Same thing with countertops, the television, and your couch and cushions. The joint should look better already—but ya ain’t done yet.
Got flowers in the garden? Cut a few and put ’em on the table. No flowers? No garden? Take some fruit out of the fridge and put it in a pretty bowl. No fruit? No fridge? No pretty bowl? Forget this blog and go to some online poker site or somethin’.
As for the rest of us: We got the visiting room ready and the bathroom’s next. Dump those towels and washcloths in the laundry and replace ’em with fresh ones. Swish over mirrors, the sink and faucets, shelves, and—last but never least—the toilet with glass cleaner. The room’s gonna sparkle. The room is gonna smell good. If you’ve got a spare cut flower, stick one in and the room’s gonna look good too.
Suggestion: Don’t put that fruit on display in here. Wouldn’t want yer SO getting any wrong ideas about yer eating habits.
The kitchen run comes last. If ya got a dishwasher, load it up. Or else wash whatever’s in the sink, stack it in the drainer nice ’n’ neat, and you’re cool. If there are edibles in sight, put ’em away pronto. Butter, bread, crackers, sugar, cereal—all that stuff. Then wipe down yer surfaces and shake out yer area rugs.
Now open the freezer. Check it for scones, muffins, rolls, or biscuits—ya might get lucky. Pop whatever ya find in the oven and move to the head of the class. Yer baby doll’s in for a treat and the crib’ll smell like you got a life.
Awright. The joint’s in decent shape, and it’s all cuz ya didn’t lose yer cool. Boyfriend or girlfriend walks thru the door and ya got piping hot scones and coffee ready. Kiss, kiss. Or whatever.
Cut to later. Much later, I hope. BF or GF’s hit the road. Ya survived yer midmess crisis and don’t want it ta happen again. How ta avoid?
Prevention’s the word. Open that big miracle stash basket and put more stuff into the basket, where it belongs. Don’t be a slacker; do it now. And take yer time—it’ll go faster than ya think. When the next “thought I’d stop by” moment comes, ya’ll know who to thank for that basket bein’ empty and ready fer more junk.
CUOL,
Bry
SKΥ TAΥLOR’S GRIME SOLVERS BLOG
Time-Savers Times Ten
I’ve been rushing around a lot lately—say, for, oh, my whole adult existence. But let’s zone in. With my cleaning gigs, column deadlines, trips to the veterinarian (not fun for me or my cat), and trying to squeeze an actual life somewhere in between, one important constant is coming home to a relaxing, peaceful haven. And an essential component of peace and relaxation is cleanliness. Dirt is chaos. Chaos equals stress. Stress is not our friend.
You don’t have to be Stephen Hawking to realize that every minute we spend hustling through the outside world gives us less time to tidy up the places we live. That puts a premium on saving time when we’re busy. And since most of us are busy all the time, I came up with a quick list of time-savers for you. Whew!
1. Load your trash can onto a skateboard and roll it to the curb on collection day. The few minutes it frees up for sipping your tea or coffee can do wonders for starting the morning on a positive note.
2. Take a cue from flight attendants. You’ll never see one make a trip through the aisle without picking up or dropping off something. Make it your policy to never go from room to room empty-handed. Put the water bottle back in the fridge or recycle bin, cups and glasses in the dishwasher, the keys in your purse, hang your jacket . . . You’ll be amazed at the differnce it makes in the long run.
3. Label electric cords with plastic bread tabs.
The next time you need an outlet for vacuuming, you won’t need a GPS unit to help you figure out which to unplug.
4. Spritz your degreaser cleaner on a cloth and wipe off remote controls, phones, and faxes, and any other push button accessories. It not only eliminates grime, but is a proven vaccine for sticky-button syndrome.
5. Stop weeding between stepping-stones and gravel paths. Instead, sprinkle them with ordinary table salt. The weeds won’t creep back. I try to go out with the shaker late in the day so the dew will help dissolve the salt.
6. While you’re outside, put some Velcro strips around your patio umbrella. There’ll be no more spinning that big thing to try to find the closing strap camouflaged somewhere in its folds.
7. Wash your dishes by hand? Here’s a quick way to prevent oversoaping. Squirt a little dish soap into a spray bottle and fill with water. Mist items like lasagna pans, cookie sheets, and soup bowls, then let them soak. You won’t waste soap, water, or rinsing time.
8. Your pet cat laying claim to a living room chair can lead to hairy situations for you and your guests. Place a pretty cloth napkin over the seat as a cover. The next time you actually free it up from kitty, just pick up the napkin before anybody sits down and toss it in your laundry bag. The cat naps save you from the constant hassle of fixing up a furry chair for human use.
9. Throw pillows looking flat? Toss them in the dryer with a fabric-softener sheet. They’ll come out fluffy and fresh-smelling. As an added benefit, the dryer’s heat helps eliminate bacteria.
10. Having your kitchen painted but don’t want splatters on your large appliances? Cover them with inexpensive Christmas tree bags. I try to buy all I can after the holiday season when stores are practically giving them away. Their uses are endless. In fact, I could blog on that subject alone if I had the time . . . which I don’t right now!
Chapter 11
“There you have it, Sky,” Vaughn Pilsner said, after speaking for five solid minutes. “The truth.”
He drank some of his coffee while Mickey the monkey sat on my lap with his bag of popcorn, pushing three or four kernels into my mouth at a time. I knew it wouldn’t agree with me that early in the morning, though it was Snappy Movie Theater brand, my favorite. But I hadn’t wanted to refuse it and wound Mickey’s feelings. Besides, the popcorn wasn’t nearly as hard to digest as Vaughn’s story. Or what he’d told of it so far.
Bryan, meanwhile, was mostly paying attention to Mickey, who’d been poking his new nostril stud between dips into the microwave bag.
“What’s his problem?” Bry said, covering his nose to block Mickey’s finger.
My mind was elsewhere. “He’s staying here till the disabled gentleman he assists—”
“Señor Douglas,” Orlando said from the couch across the room.
“—Mr. Douglas, thanks, gets out of the hospital,” I said, looking at Vaughn. “Isn’t that what you explained?”
He nodded. “Shifting capuchin monkeys between caretakers can lead to behavioral problems. Orlando took a qualification course in Boston. We offered to keep him another couple of days in spite of the tragedy we’ve suffered, and the organization thought it best to accept.”
“That much I get.” Bry was shaking his head. “I meant I wanted to know why he keeps playing with my stud, not what he’s doing here.”
I gave him a vague look.
“It sparkles,” I said. “That probably caught his attention.”
“You got shiny earrings on . . . How come he doesn’t touch them?”
I shrugged again, thinking it might’ve been because the earrings weren’t conspicuously shining in the middle of my face. But I kept that to myself. I didn’t want to insult Bry, who was really pretty sensitive. Making yet another occupant of the room whose feelings I had to consider.
Orlando was my main concern, though—and the reason I was so preoccupied. Wearing a black hoodie and jeans, a police tracking bracelet visible around his right ankle, he’d greeted me with a long, squeezy hug after Mickey jumped from his shoulder onto my lap, then thanked me about ten different ways in Spanish for helping him out last night.
I didn’t think I deserved too much credit. All I’d done was interpret for the kid becaus
e I happened to be there. It hadn’t kept him from being arrested and charged with murder, and it hadn’t gotten him released from behind bars. Vaughn had done that by meeting a bond the court had set at a million dollars.
“Fifteen years . . . It’s a long time for a wife to keep so great a secret,” he said to me now, lowering his coffee cup to the table. “I hope you can understand my reaction.”
“I’m not sure,” I said, then dropped my voice so Orlando couldn’t hear it. “Tell you the truth, I’m not even sure we ought to be having this conversation right now . . .”
“Está bien,” Orlando said in Spanish. “Eres mi buen amiga.”
I glanced over at him as Mickey fed me more popcorn, thinking it was too bad he hadn’t stuffed my big fat mouth with it a second earlier. It was obvious I hadn’t turned its volume down nearly enough . . . but maybe that was for the best. The kid had helped set me at ease.
“Were you ever married, Sky?” Vaughn said.
“Yes,” I said. “Eight years.”
“And if I may ask . . . was it you or your husband who first decided the relationship was failing?”
I paused. Deep breath. I’d found ways to keep the lump in my throat from sticking there too long. It came back whenever I spoke the words, though.
“Paul died,” I said. “Cancer.”
Vaughn looked at me for a moment. “I’m very sorry.”
I nodded silently, still working on the lump.
“I was into my forties when I met Gail,” Vaughn said. “Love caught me by surprise. I’d been contentedly independent my entire life. But I’ve never done things in half steps. I knew that if I proposed to Gail—and she accepted—I’d hold nothing of myself back from her.”
“And you let one mistake change that?”
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