Clean Sweep

by Jane Heller

  As I drove home from my meeting with Detective Corsini, who had ended our interview by reminding me not to leave town, I flipped on the radio. The top news story on WANE was that Alistair Downs had scheduled a press conference for four o’clock that afternoon to comment on the murder of his dreaded biographer and to respond to scurrilous allegations in the tabloid press and elsewhere that he was, in some way, responsible for Melanie Moloney’s death. Oh boy, I thought. I can’t wait to hear what old Alistair has to say. I prayed that the press conference would be televised so I could see that dance teacher dance with my very own eyes.

  My prayers were answered. The press conference was set to air on that evening’s eleven o’clock news.

  “Want to come watch your favorite person make an ass of himself on TV?” I asked Cullie when I reached him on his cell phone aboard the Marlowe. “We can have leftover chicken cacciatore.”

  “I accept. Be right over.”

  I showered and changed into a pair of tan corduroy jeans and a chocolate brown turtleneck sweater, and ran down to the kitchen to heat up the chicken. I was amused to find myself humming. I had never been the humming type, but there I was humming the Everly Brothers’ “All I Have to Do Is Dream,” or a reasonable facsimile. The fact was, I was happy. My life was a complete mess, but I was happy. I didn’t have a husband, a job, or a dime, and I didn’t own my house anymore, the bank did. But I was happy. The thought of spending the evening with Cullie filled me with joy.

  When my doorbell rang, my heart leaped. I bounded to the door and opened it.

  “Hi,” Cullie said. “For you.”

  He handed me a gift-wrapped box. It’s candy, I guessed. A Whitman’s Sampler. A somewhat mundane gift but a thoughtful one, nonetheless. I remembered how Sandy despised drug-store chocolates. For him, it was Godiva or nothing.

  “Open it,” Cullie urged as he entered the house and hung his ski jacket in the guest closet, then kissed the top of my head.

  I tore the paper off the box and was surprised to see, not a Whitman’s Sampler, but a stunning brown leather diary, complete with lock and key.

  “This has been a tough time for you,” he explained. “I thought that since you’re a writer, you might want to scribble down all the things that are happening to you. Get a handle on them.”

  I was so moved that I honestly didn’t know what to say. What did I do to deserve Cullie? He was much too good for me. He was much too good to be true. “Thank you so much,” I said finally, then hugged him. “Thank you for making me so happy.”

  Cullie and I ate our leftover chicken cacciatore, washed the dinner dishes, and went upstairs to the bedroom to watch Alistair Downs do his dance on the eleven o’clock news. And what a show it was.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the media,” Alistair began. “Ladies and gentlemen of Layton. Ladies and gentlemen of these United States.”

  “Oh, brother,” Cullie and I muttered simultaneously and then laughed.

  “Welcome to Evermore, my home.” Alistair was standing on the front steps of his house, with Bethany at his side and a throng of reporters and photographers at his feet. Smoke billowed from his mouth in the frosty February air. “In view of the fact that my staff and I have been deluged with requests for some sort of public response to the death of Melanie Moloney, I have decided to issue the following statement: I did not know Miss Moloney personally, nor did I read any of her books, but I respected her success in the literary world and was deeply saddened by her tragic passing. I offer my sincerest, most heartfelt sympathies to her family and friends. I offer, too, the complete and thorough support of the Layton Police Department, a department that, while small, is held in high regard by the nation’s law enforcement community. I feel confident that very shortly the Layton Police will learn the identity of Miss Moloney’s attacker and move swiftly and expertly to bring him to justice. I thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen of the media, and I thank God for giving us the strength to forge ahead in this time of great sorrow and mourning.”

  Cullie and I looked at each other and shrugged. “What did we expect him to do, confess to killing her?” he asked.

  “Do you really think he did it?” I said. The idea shocked me. Alistair was a pompous ass, but a murderer? He was a United States Senator, for God’s sake. “I know you think he’s immoral, Cullie, but I assumed that was just because he’s a Republican.”

  “Shhhh. They’re asking him questions. Listen.”

  I turned my attention back to the television. Alistair had started to walk away from the media, into his house, when reporters began firing questions at him.

  “Where were you the night of the murder, sir?”

  “Aren’t you anxious to get a look at Moloney’s book about you?”

  “Do you know what’s in it?”

  Alistair waved off his questioners with a smile and the parting words, “Our splendid police officers have all the information you need, ladies and gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure to see you all. Good afternoon. Ho ho.”

  Alistair went inside Evermore, Bethany following at his heels, and the eleven o’clock news moved on to other stories of the day.

  “What do you think?” I asked Cullie after I flicked off the remote control and turned to face him. We were lying on the bed, our backs propped up against pillows.

  “I think the guy’s a bastard who’s capable of just about anything.”

  “But why? Because he has money and power? Because he’s a big shot at the Sachem Point Yacht Club where your father was the hired help?”

  “Paddy Harrington was ten times the man Alistair Downs is,” Cullie snapped.

  “Hey. I didn’t say he wasn’t. I’m sure your dad was a wonderful man. I was just trying to understand your resentment toward Alistair.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bark at you.”

  “If I knew more about you, maybe I’d understand better. Tell me what it was like to grow up at the yacht club.”

  “All right. But first, I’ll tell you about my father. Coming to this country and working for people like Alistair destroyed him.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “As I told you on the boat the first time we had dinner, Paddy came from the Isle of Wight.”

  “I remember.”

  “The Isle of Wight is the sailing center of England, the launch point for all four Admiral’s Cup races, including the Fastnet Race, the most prestigious of the four. Before the war, my father crewed on the biggest and fastest boats that competed in these races. He was sought after. He was respected for his skills. He was there when King George showed up. He was invited to the same parties the royals were invited to. He was making an honorable living, the same as his father had—from sailing. Then came World War II.”

  “What happened?”

  “He enlisted in the Navy and was waiting for his orders when the English Army had their notorious brush with the Germans at Dunkirk.”

  “My world history is a little rusty. Refresh my memory.”

  “Dunkirk is a seaport on the northern coast of France, near the Belgian border. In the spring of 1940, about three hundred thousand British and French troops were trapped on the beaches by the advancing German forces. Their only escape was to cross the English Channel, but their Navy’s boats and troops were otherwise engaged. With the Germans closing in, the British organized a makeshift armada of civilian crafts. Fishing boats, sailboats, small freighters—every conceivable type of boat was pressed into service. It was this makeshift armada that rescued the British troops and brought them across the Channel to safety.”

  “Was your father part of the evacuation?”

  “He was. He was one of the organizers and he crewed one of the boats. After that, he was posted in the Navy and served until 1946.”

  “So he was a hero.”

  “Yeah, he was. Then everything went to hell. By the time he was discharged in ’46, the English economy was in shambles. Sailing races had been suspended, and the outlook for sailo
rs in Europe was bleak. He was a sailing hero and a war hero, but he had no way to make a living. So when people said there were opportunities for sailors in the States, he came over here.”

  “And started working at the yacht club?”

  “Yeah, in ’46. He was in his mid-thirties, and he considered himself lucky to land the position of sailing instructor at a Connecticut yacht club. Little did he know.”

  “It wasn’t all bad, was it? Sachem Point is a beautiful club, after all.”

  “No, it wasn’t all bad. He met my mother there, as I told you. They lived in a small cottage on the property, separated from the rest of the club by a wire fence. At first, my father enjoyed his work. Being around sailboats and sailors was like breathing for him. But the job was bullshit. The members of the club didn’t need an experienced sailor to teach their spoiled, bratty kids to sail; they needed a babysitter. People who belong to the club don’t really care about sailing. They don’t even like it. They just like to show off their boats and throw their weight around. My father was their pet English monkey. ‘Paddy, my boy,’ they’d say. They actually called him ‘boy,’ and he was forty years old. ‘Take the wife and kids out for a little sail, would you, Paddy?’ Or: ‘See that my boat is stocked with plenty of Tanqueray, would you, Paddy?’ Or: ‘Don’t bother coming to the barbecue tonight, Paddy. It’s a private party—for members only.’ I don’t know how he took it for so long. Well, actually, I do.”

  “How?”

  “He drank too much.”

  “That must have been hard on you.”

  “It was.”

  “Why didn’t he quit the club and take you back to England?”

  “He fell in love.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s where your friend Alistair comes in. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather let it go for another time. I’m kind of tired. Big day tomorrow. Two houses to shoot.”

  Cullie got up from the bed and stretched his arms.

  “Mind if I check my answering machine?” he said.

  “Of course not. The phone’s right here.”

  I went downstairs to make a cup of tea, and when I returned, Cullie was undressed and in bed.

  I undressed and climbed in next to him, leaving the tea on the night table.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked. “You seem a little down.”

  “Sorry. You’ve got enough on your mind without me getting grouchy.”

  “I know a way to get you un-grouchy,” I teased. I kissed him on the mouth and pressed my naked body against his. Then I reached down to touch his penis. It was soft. “Be right back,” I whispered in his ear, then burrowed under the covers and placed his flaccid member in my mouth.

  “Ummm,” he moaned after a few seconds of my action. “I’m getting more un-grouchy every minute.”

  “Imgld,” I mumbled. It’s difficult to speak distinctly with a man’s manhood halfway down your throat.

  “Faster, faster,” he moaned suddenly.

  Oh God, I thought. He wants to come in my mouth. I’d never had oral sex with my first husband. And the few times I’d gone down on Sandy he’d warned me in time to take my mouth away and finish the whole business with my hand. But this was the new me. The new, open, adventurous me. I would not wimp out. I would not back down. I would not deny Cullie what was, according to everything I’d ever read or seen on TV, the ultimate pleasure for a man: to discharge his semen into the mouth of his beloved.

  So faster and faster I sucked. Up and down. Up and down. I did not gag.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, baby. I’m…ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

  At the sound of the “ahhhhhhhhhhhh,” Cullie fired off a volcano’s worth of molten lava.

  Go on, swallow it, you chicken, I scolded myself. It can’t taste any worse than that creamy pickled herring your mother made you eat when you were a kid.

  I counted to three and gulped down Cullie’s essence. It wasn’t nearly as bad as creamy pickled herring. As a matter of fact, it reminded me of a very tart lemon meringue.

  Feeling very pleased and proud of myself, I emerged from underneath the blankets and took my place on my pillow, next to Cullie.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, then kissed my lips. “Is there any way I can repay you?”

  “Yes, but you said you were tired, that you had two houses to shoot in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow will take care of itself. I’m not finished with tonight.”

  And he wasn’t.

  Chapter 13

  “Want to come along on my shoot this morning?” Cullie asked as we drank coffee in my kitchen. “I’m doing a house for Prestige Properties on Layton Harbor, right next door to that mausoleum Alistair Downs calls a house.”

  “Next door to Evermore?”

  “The very same.”

  “I wouldn’t be in the way?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about the TV reporters and police detectives who seem to follow me everywhere I go?”

  “Fuck ’em.”

  We drove over to the harbor in Cullie’s Jeep Cherokee. It was a crisp and sunny late-February morning, and I was in a cheerful mood; I was excited about watching Cullie work.

  “See, Sonny?” Cullie said as he pointed out my window. We were cruising along the road that overlooked the picture-perfect harbor. “The house we’re shooting is just past Evermore.”

  We were approaching Alistair’s estate when a black Cadillac Seville came racing out of his driveway. “Cullie, look out! That car’s going to hit us!” I screamed.

  Cullie swerved to his left to avoid the onrushing car that was about to bash my side of the Jeep. We came to a screeching stop on the wrong side of the road, while the driver of the Cadillac kept right on going.

  “Boy, are we lucky,” Cullie said, resting his head on the steering wheel and trying to collect himself. “Are you all right?”

  I was stunned, but not from nearly being hit by a car. I was reeling from the realization that the person who almost ran us down was my mother—or someone who looked very much like her. “Cullie, did you get a good look at the driver of that Cadillac?” I asked.

  “Not really. I just saw it was a woman.”

  “Yeah, and I’m almost sure the woman was my mother.”

  “What would your mother be doing at Alistair Downs’s house? You never mentioned that they were friends.”

  “They’re not. That’s why this is so weird.”

  “Does your mother drive a black Cadillac Seville?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fine. But that doesn’t prove anything. Plenty of people drive Cadillacs. Is your mother a rotten driver?”

  “No. She’s a good driver.”

  “Well, the woman who almost hit us was a rotten driver. So it probably wasn’t your mother.”

  “I’m telling you, it was my mother. The clincher was the smoke inside the car. My mother is a chain-smoker. She never goes anywhere without her Winstons.”

  “Okay, so it was your mother, and she’s not as good a driver as you thought. But what was she doing at Alistair’s house?”

  “That, my sweet man, is a very good question.”

  In the eleven years that I had worked for Alistair at the newspaper, my mother had never given me the slightest impression that she knew or had ever met the Senator. In fact, she often pumped me for information about what he was like—what he looked like in person, what kind of man I thought him to be, whether he “kept company” with one special woman, that sort of thing. So what was she doing racing out of his house at ten o’clock in the morning? I was mystified, to say the least.

  “Do you want to follow her home and ask her what she was doing there?” Cullie suggested.

  I was tempted. But Cullie had a house to photograph, and I didn’t want him to be late on my account. “I’ll call her as soon as I get home,” I said, wondering how long the shoot would take and how long I’d be able to contain myself until I could get some answers out of my mother.


  The house Cullie was to photograph for Prestige Properties wasn’t a Colonial or Georgian or Tudor-style mansion. It was of a style that could best be described as Castle Nouveau. It was a massive stucco structure of at least 25,000 square feet, newly constructed but meant to look like it had been there since the Middle Ages.

  “Who wants a house with turrets?” Cullie asked as he unloaded his equipment from the Jeep. “Don’t these people know this is Connecticut? The Connecticut shore? Armed towers aren’t really necessary, are they?”

  I laughed. “Be nice. Not everybody has your impeccable taste.”

  “It has nothing to do with taste. It has to do with excess.”

  Cullie wasn’t kidding. Even I, the former Princess of Excess, was overwhelmed by the ostentation of the place, which, by the way, the owners had named Colossus.

  “How much is this baby selling for?” I asked.

  “Six million.”

  “Are you kidding me? It doesn’t look like there’s more than an acre of land here.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a lot of house. Wait till you see.”

  Cullie was right. The place was enormous—and about as extravagant as I’d ever seen. Everywhere I looked I saw marble, mirrors, and gold, then still more marble, mirrors, and gold. The rooms were mammoth, the ceilings nearly twenty feet high. The kitchen had, not one, but three electric ranges, dishwashers, and refrigerator/freezers. The foyer had, not one bathroom for guests, but two—a ladies’ powder room and a slightly smaller men’s room or “gun room”—each with its own fireplace. The second-floor master bedroom suite, reached by a marble staircase that sat beneath a huge skylight, had, not one bedroom and bath, but three—plus walk-in closets, a study, three fireplaces, and a fully equipped indoor lap pool. On the third floor, reached by an elevator, there were three bedrooms, each with fireplace and bath, and five maids’ rooms and baths, along with a full-sized kitchen and sitting room.