Notoriously Neat

by SUZANNE PRICE

  I might just as well have stayed put. Neither of them seemed interested in the outside view. I barely had time to catch a glimpse of Chloe before she turned slightly from the silver-haired man, moved to the window, and drew its shade.

  I looked up at the window. Now what? I preferred not to let my imagination run wild. But my imagination had its own distinct preference and it had started romping freestyle through my head. Still, I could think of better places to imagine things than behind a big pile of firewood, where I was bound to be discovered and embarrassed. I wasn’t particularly sure what I’d gain by sticking around there too long besides a worse case of the sniffles than I already had.

  I told myself to head back to the Versa and stood where I was anyway. Five minutes ticked by. Ten. Then fifteen. I got a tissue out of my purse and wiped my runny nose. I didn’t want to be thinking about what I thought was going on upstairs. I didn’t want to believe it of Chloe. And what about Nat? Could she be some kind of enabler? Unfortunately I knew that wouldn’t be so unusual. Back when I lived in New York, I’d worked with a married guy who used another coworker’s apartment to do exactly what I hated to think Chloe and her handsome male friend were doing behind the drawn window shade. The part that didn’t seem to fit was Nat staying home while they did it. Wouldn’t she have left them alone? I wondered about that.

  More time passed. The breeze was picking up and I was really starting to shiver. I told myself again that it was time to go. And I didn’t budge.

  I’d hung around outside for almost forty-five minutes when Nat’s front door opened. I pressed flat against the woodpile and almost stopped breathing as Chloe and the silver-haired man walked out, Nat right behind them. The three of them talked on the doorstep for a little while, looking serious. I wished I could have heard what they were saying, but their voices were very quiet. With the wind seeming to gust in every direction at once, though, I wasn’t certain it would have made a difference if they’d been any louder.

  Finally Chloe kissed Nat on the cheek and the man gave her a brief parting hug. Then they left the doorstep, got into the Lexus, and drove off. Natalie was back inside the house even before they reached the corner of Markham and turned left toward the town center.

  I stood thinking. The wind rustled the treetops and, faintly, carried the sound of the inlet’s water slapping against the pebbled shore behind me. I looked at my watch. It was almost noon. I’d promised to be at the Ruth Payne B&B by one o’clock. It was only a fifteen-minute drive, so I still had some time to play with. I knew what I wanted to do but wondered if I should go ahead with it. My decision came fast. If I was going to catch my death of a cold, I might as well make it completely worthwhile.

  I took a deep, fortifying breath, walked from the lumber pile to Nat’s house, rang her doorbell, and waited. Footsteps behind the door, and then it opened a sliver.

  Nat was a slim, pretty woman with short blond hair and stylishly red-framed glasses, wearing jeans and a light, short-sleeved bouclé sweater. She looked at me a second through the partially open door and then came out onto the front step.

  “Sky . . . Why, hello,” she said. “What brings you out this way?”

  “Well,” I said, “I was sort of looking for Chloe and thought I might be able to catch her here.”

  Nat gazed at me through her red rims. I noticed she’d kept her back to the door and pulled it mostly shut behind her, one hand on its edge.

  “I wish I could help. But I haven’t seen her.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No,” she said. “Sorry.”

  I tried not to let my expression betray anything. “I’m positive she mentioned coming over for a La Dee Das rehearsal.”

  Nat was shaking her head. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. I honestly couldn’t tell you when our next practice will be.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “You’re sure you didn’t have any other plans with Chloe?”

  “Well, there’s our Tuesday ladies-only dinner,” Nat said. “Several of us go out together. But that isn’t till next week.”

  I scratched my ear. “Guess I must’ve gotten confused.”

  Nat looked at me, her hand still extended behind her to grip the edge of the door.

  “Okay, then,” she said. “I’d love to chat, but I really am busy right now.”

  I stood without answering as she pulled the door open a bit wider and started backing through it.

  “All those million trillion things to do,” she said, slinking the rest of the way inside. “Good luck finding Chloe. And tell her hello for me.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Nat had almost disappeared inside the house now, leaving only her hand visible around the edge of the door. Then she slipped it inside and the door shut in my face.

  I lingered on the doorstep a moment, tempted to ring the bell again. But then I dismissed the idea. Nat wasn’t going to volunteer what she knew. I wasn’t going to tell her what I knew. The net result was a stalemate, which meant I’d accomplished everything I could there.

  All those million trillion things.

  Starting with lying through your teeth, I thought, and turned down the lane toward my Versa.

  SKΥ TAΥLOR’S GRIME SOLVERS BLOG

  Cleaning Q&A

  E-mail! I get e-mail! And it’s usually full of urgent cleaning questions! Here’s the latest batch to arrive . . . along with my answers.

  PROBLEM

  Everyone knows I adore my houseplants. Each week I devote an entire morning to watering. The problem is that I always miss a plant or two among the many in my home and dance studio, causing brown leaves and dry, caked soil. Making my problem worse, I’ve noticed that dried-out soil doesn’t seem to hold water very well. When I do get around to watering the overlooked plants, water spills through the pot bottoms and gets all over my floor. Help, s’il vous plait!

  —Finch De La Fontaine, MA

  SOLUTION

  Finch is one of my regular clients in Pigeon Cove. If she lived in a warm climate, a few ice cubes in her hanging baskets would help keep their soil moist year-round. But in our New England winters that only leads to fern-cicles.

  Bry the Wonder Guy found a solution to Finch’s problem at the local garden center, purchasing a huge commercial-sized outdoor planter (the type you see adorning well-coiffed office and apartment buildings). We placed the philodendrons and spider plants along its outer rim, and the larger plants toward the center, with a few to one side to give the arrangement depth. The enormity of Finch’s new potted jungle was spectacular—and she loves how easily she can primp it.

  —Sky

  PROBLEM

  I have a very small guest room with a futon bed that’s becoming a big drag. Friends say it’s comfortable to sleep on, but very difficult to pull away from the wall and unfold. As a result I keep it open all the time. I also have trouble vacuuming underneath it because the platform is so low above the floor. Any suggestions?

  P.S. Love your Grime Solvers blog—I sneak daily peeks at work!

  —Robynn C., GA

  SOLUTION

  Easy one, Robynn. People fall into the habit of having their futon beds right against the wall, but there’s no reason you need to conform. Push it just far enough away to let you fold and unfold the frame without moving it. In that new location, opening it and closing it will be a breeze, as will getting your vacuum’s nozzle underneath and behind it.

  —Sky

  PROBLEM

  As you know, Sky, my wife and I are professional caterers. Last week while a large cooking vat of gumbo was simmering on the range, I stepped out on the deck for a break and lit up one of my Cuban stogies. I must have been out there longer than I’d realized, because I looked inside to see the gumbo boiling over onto the stove top. Hurrying back in, I needed somewhere to put the cigar while I removed the vat from the heat (we don’t keep ashtrays in our kitchen, where smoking’s off-limits). So I hastily set it on our old standing chopping block and tended to the stew.<
br />
  The gumbo was saved. But when I went to retrieve my cigar, I saw that it had rolled across the chopping block’s surface to leave a burn mark three inches long. My wife’s furious at me, as the block’s been in her family forever. Is there any way to remove the scar from the wood?

  —Jim DeFelice, MA

  SOLUTION

  This e-mail from another Grime Solvers client prompted Bry and me to head out to the DeFelice place for a cleaning 911. Luckily for Jim, those old cutting blocks are natural wood. Since it was only a surface burn, we sanded the visibly scorched part of the surface. When all that was gone, we did a very light sanding of its entire top. Next we rubbed in a layer of mineral oil and suggested that Jim let the oil soak overnight.

  That took care of his problem and leads me to a couple of general tips. Since cutting-block wood tends to get dry, it should be periodically oiled to prevent it from developing unsightly splits that can be breeding places for E. coli and other harmful bacteria. And while we’re on the subject of old wooden things . . . anyone fortunate enough to have an antique cedar chest might want to gently sand the inside to revive its delicious fragrance. You’ll find it well worth the relatively small amount of time and effort involved.

  —Sky

  PROBLEM

  I have burned stew on the bottom of my beautiful enamel pot. I removed as much of it as possible and soaked the pot in a sink full of warm, soapy water, but I still have crusted spots here and there. Any suggestions?

  —Ellen Carr, AZ

  SOLUTION

  You’re halfway there, Ellen. To get off those stubborn bits of burn, pour just enough water into the pot to cover the bottom, add about one-third of a cup of salt, and let it soak on your stove-top burner overnight. The next day turn on the burner and bring the mix to a boil. That should do the trick!

  —Sky

  PROBLEM

  I’m reluctant to use commercial cleaner on my black lacquer dining room set for fear of it getting that dull, foggy look. But if I don’t clean it, it’s going to become dull anyway! Are there any products made specifically for this type of furniture?

  —Becky Morris, Albany, NY

  SOLUTION

  Not sure, Becky. I’ve been as unsuccessful as you finding anything on supermarket shelves. What works well for me is using ordinary tea. Make a really strong pot, let it cool, and dip a plain cotton cloth into it. Then go over your furniture with the cloth and immediately wipe dry with a second cloth. I’ve always gotten great, shiny, smudge-free results with this method.

  —Sky

  Chapter 14

  At around nine thirty that night, I was in my apartment at the Fog Bell trying to finish a Grime Solvers blog entry through an antihistamine haze when my cell phone rang. I’d changed my ringtone from Coldplay’s “Yellow” to “Lovers in Japan,” figuring it was time for something more up-tempo yet not wanting a total musical departure.

  I looked around for the phone, unable to recall where I’d put it. Then I noticed the music seemed to be coming from Skiball, who was snuggled on my computer stand with her tush against the minitower. But though Chris Martin’s voice sort of resembled hers when he sang in a high octave, I knew song lyrics wasn’t exactly her forte.

  “Sorry, Skiball,” I said, lifting her off the phone. “I have to unpark you.”

  She didn’t seem too bothered. Which bothered me. Skiball was not a sound sleeper. I’d have expected her to leap off the workstation like a maniac when the phone rang. Instead, she’d sort of plopped from my hands onto the rug and wandered off into the next room. She was still way too lethargic. I needed to find a competent veterinarian and get to the bottom of her odd behavior. In Gloucester, Beverly, wherever. But I couldn’t put it off any longer. Though I had a full schedule in the morning, I would ask Bry to cover for me and figure out how to make it up to him later. Ski was going to the vet tomorrow without fail.

  Meanwhile, I flipped open the phone and glanced at the incoming-call log. The most recent was from A. Vega.

  I smiled and one-touch dialed Chief Alex’s number. The cure for Skiball’s funk was still a mystery, but for me this was just what the doctor ordered. Finding out Orlando was Gail Pilsner’s son had been hard enough to absorb. Add whatever strangeness was going on with Chloe, then mix in Natalie’s cover-up, and you had a recipe for stress and fatigue. The clogged nose I’d gotten from standing out by Nat’s woodpile was just icing on the cake.

  “Sky, hello,” Chief Alex answered. Presumably he’d read my name on his caller ID display. “Did you get my message?”

  “Actually, no,” I said. “I think there’s a five- or ten-year delay between somebody leaving one for me and my voice mail alert. In a good decade. The wonder of modern communications.”

  He chuckled. “I hear you,” he said. “Listen, I know it’s a little late. If this is a bad time—”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I was messing around on the computer when you called. Nothing important. I just couldn’t find my phone.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “Hm?”

  “Find the phone.”

  “Oh, gotcha . . .”

  “And call me back me right away.”

  I waited, still smiling.

  “So how are you doing?” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Considering it’s been one of those days.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Guess you could say I’m sort of beat. I’ve been running around a lot.”

  “Then it’s nothing serious . . .”

  “Physically, the worst of it’s probably my head cold.”

  “And otherwise?”

  “I’ve got a few things on my mind,” I said. “My cat’s been acting weird. Not to mention some people I know.”

  “How so?”

  I inhaled, exhaled. “I can’t explain.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “It isn’t easy to explain, that is,” I said, wanting to change the subject. “Anyway, what’s up with you?”

  “The usual, I guess. Police business. Mainly I’ve been busy with the Pilsner case. Preparing evidence reports for the district attorney.” Chief Alex paused. “Sky, I really didn’t call to talk about work. I was thinking . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Tomorrow’s my day off,” he said. “Those Essex County prosecutors are coming up to meet me for dinner . . . but I wonder if you’d like to get together earlier. Say for breakfast or lunch?”

  I frowned at the crummy timing.

  “Wish I could,” I said. “But I was just thinking I’d better get Skiball examined. I have to find out what’s wrong with her. If anything’s wrong.”

  “Is your veterinarian here in the Cove?”

  “With Gail gone, no,” I said sadly. “She’d been taking care of Ski from the day I adopted her.”

  “I probably should have realized,” Vega said. “I’m sorry . . . Sometimes as a cop, you’re so homed in on solving a crime, you lose sight of how broadly a loss affects people. It seems everyone in town preferred Gail Pilsner to—”

  “Dr. Ruth Lester,” I said. “Also known as Dr. Ruthless.”

  “She’s that bad?”

  “Indescribably worse.”

  “Uh-oh.” He paused. “So where are you bringing Skiball?”

  “Good question,” I said. “My idea was to drive to a clinic in Gloucester. They open at eight in the morning, so I figured I’d leave around seven.”

  “You don’t have an appointment?”

  “Nope. And they supposedly require it. But I’m keeping my fingers crossed they’ll squeeze her in.”

  “Well, then, how about I ride shotgun?”

  I hesitated a few seconds, caught off guard.

  “Sky?” Vega said. “You don’t mind my inviting myself, do you?”

  “No,” I said. “Of course not. You’re just so sweet to offer . . .”

  “It isn’t a big deal.”

  “It is to me,” I said. “You sure you want to rid
e down there?”

  “Absolutely. I want to see you, Sky.”

  Gulp. “Well, then . . .”

  “Tomorrow morning, then? Around a quarter to seven?”

  “That sounds perfect,” I said. “You’re on Deacon Street, right?”

  “Right. Can’t miss my house. The yard sort of wraps around the side of the place. It’s a miniature pine forest.”

  “I’ll look for your door through the trees,” I said.

  I didn’t have to. He was already out front on the sidewalk when I got there, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag in his hands and wearing a brown leather car coat, a gray V-necked sweater, and tan chinos. I realized it was only the second time I’d seen him out of uniform, and the first time in casual clothes. If push had come to shove, I would’ve cast my raw-animalistic-hunkiness vote for this latest look, though Smartly Suited Alejandro was a close runner-up.

  I unlocked the passenger door and he opened it, holding the paper bag out for me. “I got us some doughnuts and coffee,” he said. “Figured we wouldn’t have a chance to sit down for breakfast.”

  “Thanks!” I smiled and set the bag between the Versa’s bucket seats. “You can put Ski in back,” I said, nodding at the bouncing cat carrier beside me.

  “She seems pretty agitated. Why don’t I ride with the carrier on my lap?”

  “Probably because you’d rather not have your trip be sheer hell . . .”

  “That would be impossible.” Vega’s long look into my eyes destabilized my internal molecules. While I willed them into a semblance of cohesion, he got into the car, set the carrier across his knees, and strapped in.