Clean Sweep

by Jane Heller

  “You can go now,” Detective Corsini said.

  “You won’t be needing me for anything else?” I was dying to go home. In all the excitement, the skin on my neck and stomach had erupted into a raging case of hives, and I longed to soak in a cool oatmeal bath.

  “Oh, I’ll be needing you all right. You don’t have an alibi for the night Melanie Moloney was murdered. In other words, you can’t account for the hours between 11:30 P.M. and 2:30 A.M. What’s more, you admitted that your fingerprints are all over the deceased. I wouldn’t leave town if I were you, Miss Koff.”

  “So you’re saying I’m a suspect?” My heart pounded and my rash raged on.

  “Suspect or not, you’re key to cracking this homicide. Maids are always key to cracking homicides. Didn’t you see the interview with Sonny von Bulow’s maid on ‘A Current Affair?’ I don’t care what anybody says, that woman knows more than she’s telling, and so do you.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. I’ve tried to cooperate with your department in every way possible.”

  “It’s nothing personal, Miss Koff. But I’m a detective. It’s my business to know when someone’s hiding something. A thorough sweep of the crime scene by our boys in forensics and I’m betting we’ll find out exactly what it is. You maids may think you know how to clean, but you can’t clean up hair fibers. No way.”

  “Fibers, shmibers,” I mumbled as I got up to leave.

  “What was that?”

  “I said, ‘Tell Lieutenant Graves to break a leg at his press conference.’”

  I was planning to drive straight home to Maplebark Manor, honest I was, but Detective Corsini’s parting words—that I didn’t have an alibi, that I shouldn’t leave town, that I was key to cracking the case—reverberated in my mind and made me far too nervous to go home and soak in a cool oatmeal bath. I had to do something, take some sort of action. The hell with my hives.

  It occurred to me that there was one person who could confirm my innocence, one person who knew positively that I arrived for work at Bluefish Cove at eight-thirty Tuesday morning, left Melanie’s house at four-thirty Tuesday afternoon, and didn’t return to Bluefish Cove until eight-thirty this morning. The police may have thought I killed Melanie somewhere between eleven-thirty and two-thirty on Tuesday night, but how could I have killed her? I wasn’t there, and one person knew it: the security guard at the Bluefish Cove gatehouse. He saw me arrive yesterday morning, leave yesterday afternoon, and return this morning. I would go to see him and ask him to vouch for me. I would appeal to his sense of humanity, one humble servant going to bat for another.

  I drove over to Bluefish Cove and pulled up to the gatehouse. The security guard, whose name I had never made a point to learn but now wished I had, came out of his little house and bent down to my car window to talk to me.

  “Horrible business about Miss Moloney, isn’t it?” he said. I had never really heard him speak before. I supposed that the touch of a British accent was feigned, as stipulated by the residents of Bluefish Cove, who did their share of cha cha cha-ing just like the rest of us.

  “Yes, horrible. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You won’t be able to get into her house, I’m sorry to tell you. The police say it’s off limits.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I’m here to speak to you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. I was wondering if you keep a log of some kind, a record of who comes in and out of here and what time they come in and out.”

  “Only visitors.”

  “You keep a log of visitors?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So that means you have a record of my trips in and out of Ms. Moloney’s house, right?”

  “No, you weren’t a visitor. You were her maid. That’s different.”

  Out of the mouths of security guards. “Okay, but you have a mental record of my visits, right? I mean, you remember seeing me come to work yesterday morning and leaving yesterday afternoon, right?”

  “Certainly, I do.”

  “Really? Oh, that’s wonderful,” I exclaimed. “I’m so glad to hear you say that, Mr.…”

  “Gordon.”

  “Mr. Gordon.”

  “No, Gordon’s my first name. You can call me Gordy.”

  “Thank you, Gordy. You’ll never know how much it means to me that you can confirm what I’ve already told the police. You see—”

  “I didn’t say I could confirm that you didn’t come back last night and kill her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “They say she was killed last night. I go off duty at seven-thirty. The gatehouse is closed until seven-thirty the next morning.”

  “But you saw me leave here at four-thirty yesterday afternoon. Can’t you at least tell them that?” My voice was shriller than I wanted it to be, but I was panic-stricken.

  “I told them that I had no idea who came to her house last night and killed her. I don’t work nights. A man’s got to have some sort of private life, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, of course. But I—”

  “I’m not complaining about my job, you understand. With this recession going on, a man’s lucky to have a job if you know what I mean. Why just the other day my friend Rocky, the security guard at the Casa Marina condominium complex down the street, got laid off. The bank took the whole place and fired all the help. Rotten world, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s rotten all right.”

  “Take yourself, for instance. You had a job as a maid. Now you don’t have a job as a maid. You’re what the newspapers are calling ‘a casualty of the economic downturn.’”

  No, Melanie was the casualty. I was just a maid out of a job.

  At least I still had my freelance work at the Community Times, I consoled myself, as I drove home to Maplebark Manor, tormented by my itching, burning hives and the wretched state of my life. I flipped on the radio and worked the dial until I located WANE, Layton’s only classical music station. I was hoping for a nice, soothing piano concerto; what I got was a news bulletin.

  “…That about wraps it up from the Layton Police Station. To recap, Lieutenant Raymond Graves, in his twenty-five-minute press conference this afternoon, confirmed the death of superstar celebrity biographer Melanie Moloney in her Layton home. Lieutenant Graves said the death has officially been ruled a homicide, which Graves believes to have occurred between the hours of 11:30 P.M. and 2:30 A.M. The author’s body was found by her housekeeper early this afternoon. Graves stated that the housekeeper, who has been identified as Layton resident Alison Koff, will be questioned along with other members of the Moloney household. This is Rick O’Casey, WANE Radio, reporting…”

  That rat bastard Corsini! He said Graves wouldn’t give out my name! If you couldn’t trust the men in blue, who the hell could you trust?

  As I made the turn onto Woodland Way, I spotted a row of cars and trucks parked across the street from Maplebark Manor. The neighbors must be having a party, I guessed, wondering who would be so profligate in these difficult economic times as to throw a party. Who had the money? Who had the friends?

  I pulled into my driveway and stopped the car at the mailbox. I opened the car door and had just jumped out to retrieve the mail when at least three dozen reporters shoved tape recorders and notepads in my face and another two dozen photographers and video cameramen nearly knocked me to the ground.

  “Miss Koff?” “Hey, Alison?” “Hey, honey?” they yelled. “What do you know about Melanie Moloney’s death?” “You were her maid, right?” “Did you kill her?” “Do you know who did?” “Talk to us, Alison!” “Give us an exclusive!” “We’ll pay you!”

  I tried to get back into my car, but the swarms of media vultures wouldn’t let me. They swooped down on me. They surrounded me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I felt like Tippi Hedren in The Birds.

  “Just give us a comment!” “Tell us what you know!” “Did you hate her?” “Did you kill her?” “If you’re a maid, why do you have
such a big house?” “Whose house is this anyway?”

  They would not let me alone. They kept yelling at me and snapping my picture. Oh, God. My picture. Before the day was out, various images of me in my maid’s uniform would be transmitted all over the country. I’d be a cover girl. Millions of supermarket shoppers would stare at my photograph as they waited in America’s check-out lines. Millions more would read about me on trains, buses, and airplanes, in beauty parlors, in doctors’ waiting rooms. My photograph would line bird cages, serve as kindling in fireplaces, become the stuff of papier-mâché dolls.

  “How about an interview, Alison?” “Just one comment!” “Did you have a grudge against Melanie Moloney?” “Did she fire you or something?”

  Just when I thought I couldn’t tolerate one more second of this media onslaught, I spotted Sandy’s Mercedes creeping up the driveway.

  “Sandy!” I screamed. “Help me, please!”

  The vultures were distracted. They turned away from me and focused their attention on Sandy. “Who are you, buddy?” “Are you a friend of Alison’s?” “What do you know about Melanie Moloney’s murder?”

  Sandy parked his car next to mine and jumped out. “Leave her alone this minute!” he barked at the media as he tried to bat them away with his long, skinny arms.

  I hadn’t seen Sandy in months and, boy, was he a sight for sore eyes. I noticed that he was tan, and I felt a flicker of resentment as I wondered how he could afford a trip to Malliouhana when he claimed he didn’t have a penny. But here he was, rescuing me from this nightmare, and I was so glad to see him I started to cry—a moment that was sure to be captured on videotape for airing on the eleven o’clock news.

  “Let’s go, Allergy,” Sandy whispered in my ear. “Down the driveway. Right now. You go first in your car, I’ll follow in mine. Once we’re in the garage, we’ll run into the house. Nobody will bother us then.”

  “Thank you,” I said to him.

  “It’s okay. Just go. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Sandy’s Mercedes followed my Porsche down Maplebark Manor’s long driveway and into our three-car garage. I disarrayed the burglar alarm and opened the door into the house. We ran inside and locked the door behind us.

  “We’re safe,” Sandy sighed. Then he hugged me.

  I felt so faint I allowed it.

  “Let’s go upstairs and sit down,” he suggested. “I’ll make you a drink. Got any chilled Puligny Montrachet?”

  “Fat chance. I drink Almaden now, Sandy. I’m watching my pennies.”

  “Good move. So are we.”

  “You and Soozie?”

  “Sure. We’ve got to watch our pennies now that we’ve got a baby on the way.”

  “I guess I should congratulate you. You must be very happy.” I was dying to know how he got his tan if he was so penny-pinching, but I held my tongue. There were more serious matters to discuss.

  “Actually, the baby is one of the reasons I came by to see you,” Sandy said, herding me into the living room and guiding me onto one of the chintz sofas. It was nice to have Sandy back at Maplebark Manor herding me and guiding me again. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

  He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a cold glass of wine. I held it against my neck, hoping it would soothe my hives. Then I took a sip. Then another.

  “You came over because of the baby?” I said finally. “I thought you came because you heard about Melanie’s death—that I was her housekeeper.”

  “Well, to be honest, that housekeeper bit was quite a shock, Allergy. What possessed you to take a job as a maid?”

  “What possessed me? Poverty. That’s what possessed me.”

  “But there must have been other, less subordinate positions available.”

  “No, actually there weren’t.”

  “I’m sorry about that, kid. But you know what I always say, ‘Adversity builds character.’ When I’m struck down by adversity and my inner child is wounded, I just close my eyes and visualize all the tiny cells in my body lifting weights and getting stronger.”

  “Cells lifting weights?” I stifled a laugh.

  “I know it sounds funny but it works. A few minutes a day and your mind can become a tower of strength. Whenever adversity strikes, visualize those cells pumping iron. One two. One two. One two.” Sandy began to huff and puff as if to indicate the strenuous workout he was putting his cells through.

  “Getting back to your visit…” I began.

  “Well, I was in my office this afternoon when my secretary told me that Melanie Moloney was dead and that you were implicated in some way. Have you talked to a lawyer?”

  “No. Everything happened so fast. I didn’t have time. Besides, I can’t afford a lawyer. That’s why I took a job as a maid.”

  “I understand. But you really should seek legal counsel. Especially if this police detective they quoted on the news tries to pin the murder on you.”

  “Corsini? You know him?”

  “I’ve seen him around. Hopelessly out of touch with himself, in my opinion.”

  “Sandy, what does all this have to do with your baby?” I asked, draining my wineglass.

  “Remember I mentioned my inner child a few minutes ago?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Soozie and I feel very strongly that all adults carry around the hurts of their childhood, that these childhood hurts scar us. Of course, there’s no way that we adults can avoid this ‘emotional baggage,’ if you will. But babies are another story. They get a fresh start, a clean slate. They come into the world with absolutely no emotional baggage, no childhood hurts and scars.”

  “I’m glad you and Soozie are taking parenting so seriously. But I don’t see what this has to do—”

  “As I said, babies should be given every opportunity to stay free of hurt, free of pain. Now, this unfortunate situation you’ve gotten us all into…”

  “Us all?”

  “Yes. Soozie, the baby, and me.”

  My rash took an immediate turn for the worse. “Melanie’s murder has nothing to do with you or Soozie or your love child.” My voice was rising almost as fast as my blood pressure.

  “That’s great. I appreciate that. So will Soozie. You see, we don’t want our baby tainted by this sordid story or scarred by local gossip and innuendo.”

  “Sandy, you’re hopeless,” I said, peeling myself off the chintz sofa. “You’re a silly, selfish man. Now go.”

  “So you’ll agree to our request?”

  “What request?”

  “That from now on, you’ll use your maiden name? That you’ll refer to yourself in the media, in court, wherever, as Alison Waxman? That you’ll drop the ‘Koff’ and give my baby a chance to let his inner child grow—free of pain, free of hurt, free of people talking about him in restaurants?”

  “If you don’t get yourself and your inner child out of here by the time I count to ten, I’ll call the police and have them arrest both of you. That will give people in restaurants something to talk about, won’t it?”

  Chapter 11

  After Sandy left, I went upstairs, took off my maid’s uniform, and changed into my robe and slippers. Then I padded down the hall to my office and checked my answering machine for messages. The poor machine was overloaded. There were several frantic calls from my mother, several more from Julia, one from Bethany informing me I would never be writing for the newspaper again, one from Janet Claiborne advising me that people were suddenly very eager to see my house now that I’d been discovered by the media, and one from Cullie saying he was sorry he couldn’t get over to the police station but was available for future handholding. There were also calls from television and radio shows, as well as from newspapers and magazines. There was even a call from a movie producer who wanted to buy the rights to my story. My story? I didn’t have a story…or did I?

  Too weak to respond to my callers, I took a bath. The hives on my stomach, neck, and face felt much better afterward, but as a precauti
on, I dotted them with calamine lotion. I looked like a pink polka-dotted rag doll, but who cared? I didn’t plan on leaving the house anytime soon, so who would see me?

  At about seven-thirty, I considered popping a Lean Cuisine into the microwave, but I didn’t even have the energy to do that. Instead, I deposited my pink polka-dotted self into one of the wing chairs that framed my bedroom fireplace and stared up at the ceiling. I must have been sitting there for a half hour when I heard the doorbell ring. Assuming it was Detective Corsini, my mother, or one of the tabloid TV reporters camped outside on my front lawn, I stayed right where I was and ignored the bell. Whoever was at the door would get the hint eventually and go away, I figured.

  I figured wrong. I let the bell ring and ring and ring, until I got so fed up I went downstairs to scream at the person who was being such a nuisance.

  “Dinner is served,” said the nuisance when I opened the door.

  “Cullie!” I was delighted and mortified at the same time. Delighted to see this man I found so appealing. Mortified that I was covered with calamine-lotioned hives. “What are you doing here?” I asked, pulling my robe tighter around me. “And how did you get past those sharks out there?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” he laughed. “But I’m a sailor, remember? I’m used to navigating through shark-infested waters. I came as soon as I heard about the whole horrible mess.”

  “But you should have called first. I mean, just look at me.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You do. Now may I come in? This stuff’s getting cold.”

  “What have you got there?”

  “Dinner. I thought you might be hungry for a little food and friendship. The past few hours couldn’t have been a picnic for you, Sonny, from what I heard on the radio.”

  “No, not a picnic at all,” I said softly. I was so touched by Cullie’s show of concern that I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him, calamine lotion and all. He didn’t seem to mind. “You’re really something special. I’ll never forget this, Cullie. I mean it.”