Clean Sweep

by Jane Heller

  “Corsini,” came the voice on the phone.

  “It’s Alison Koff, returning your call, Detective. Your message said you had more questions to ask me. Frankly, I’ve told you all I know about Melanie and the day she died.”

  “You gotta come down to headquarters again. For drug testing. We wanna get a urine test and some other stuff from you.”

  “Drugs? I’ve never used drugs in my life!” Well, not really. You couldn’t count the marijuana and hashish I smoked in college.

  “You’re not obligated to take these tests, Miss Koff. It’s completely up to you. But if I were you, I’d take them—if you want to clear your name, that is.”

  “Of course I’ll take them. I’ll cooperate with your investigation in any way I can.”

  “Good. We’ll need some hair samples too.”

  “With or without conditioner?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘My hair and I will be right over.’”

  My Porsche cut a swath through the throng of reporters and photographers huddled outside my house as we wound our way down Maplebark Manor’s driveway and out onto the street. I wondered when these vultures would finally get the message that I wasn’t going to talk to them and disappear. Then I wondered when my life would return to normal. Then I wondered what “normal” was.

  When I arrived at police headquarters, there was another throng of reporters and photographers hovering outside Detective Corsini’s office.

  As the good detective opened the door of his office, they hurled questions and fired flashbulbs at him. He loved every minute of it.

  “Is it true forensics found drugs at the crime scene?”

  “Was Melanie Moloney a crackhead?”

  “Was the murderer selling her coke?”

  I listened with disbelief. Melanie on cocaine? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Sure, she was tense and irritable all the time. But I’d assumed it was either because she was constipated, menopausal, or just born that way. It had never occurred to me that drugs were to blame for her awful behavior.

  Besides, she was a health nut. She didn’t smoke or drink, and she worked out regularly in the exercise room in her house. Maybe her murderer was into drugs, but I was sure she wasn’t. Or maybe the Mafia hit man hired by Alistair had deliberately dusted her desk with cocaine.

  “What’s all this about drugs?” I whispered to one of the reporters.

  “The police report released to the media this morning says they think they found cocaine on Moloney’s desk,” he informed me.

  “Why do you say they think they found cocaine on her desk? Don’t they know?”

  “They’ve got to send the stuff out for evaluation.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “Maybe six weeks. It’s got to go to the state forensic lab in Meriden.”

  “Six weeks? The killer could be in Beirut by then.”

  The reporter flashed me a puzzled look. “Why would the killer go to Beirut? You think he was a Lebanese terrorist?”

  “No, I was just making a joke.”

  “Oh. I get it.”

  “Good.” The guy clearly needed cheering up. “That reminds me of another joke,” I said. “You’re in a room with a mass murderer, a terrorist, and a lawyer, and you have a gun with only two bullets in it. What do you do?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Shoot the lawyer twice.”

  Again, a puzzled look.

  “Never mind,” I told the reporter. “It wasn’t that funny anyway.”

  I hadn’t told a joke in a while. Maybe I was rusty. Maybe my timing was off. Or maybe the guy was a big fan of lawyers. I had more important things to worry about—like urinating without further implicating myself in Melanie’s murder. Who said life in the suburbs was dull?

  Chapter 14

  “How about letting me take you out to dinner tonight?” Cullie said. We’d been on the phone for a half hour, regaling each other with tales of our latest nightmares—mine having to produce a urine specimen at the police station, his having to put up with Mr. and Mrs. Ex-Stockbroker, who, after he had taken his three A.M. shot of their moonlit living room, insisted that he hang around until sunrise, so he could really do the room justice.

  “I accept, Mr. Harrington, but I don’t expect you to take me places or buy me things. I’m not into that stuff anymore.”

  “I hear you. But a quick bite at McGavin’s won’t compromise your newfound independence, will it?”

  “You’re on. Pick me up in an hour.”

  I was thrilled to spend the evening with Cullie after yet another disconcerting day with Melanie’s manuscript, the second section of which I’d found time to read that morning. Since I’d hidden the book in the sauna, I’d decided to kill two birds with one stone and read the manuscript while I took a sauna. Unfortunately, I found the manuscript so irresistible that I stayed in the sauna way too long and nearly passed out from heat exhaustion.

  The eye-popping allegation in the second section of the book, which dealt with Alistair’s political career, was that in the early fifties, when he was an increasingly sought-after member of the Hollywood community, the Senator-in-waiting was a snitch for Joseph McCarthy’s Government Operations Committee, tipping the Committee off to the Communists among his fellow actors and ruining the careers of some of America’s foremost entertainers. Melanie also claimed that he was a secret and active supporter of various white supremacy groups, and that the real reason he decided to retire from the Senate was that his involvement with such groups was about to be revealed to the public.

  I was shocked. Sure, Alistair was a conservative Republican. So were most people in Layton. But a McCarthy witch hunter and a white supremacist? If what Melanie alleged was true, the man was a monster. Never mind the Mafia killing Melanie; Alistair himself probably murdered her. Alibi or no alibi, he probably slugged her in the head to keep her from ruining his reputation. Maybe he wasn’t with a woman the night Melanie was murdered. Maybe there was no “lady friend.” Maybe Alistair wrote a big fat check to Detective Joseph Corsini and Corsini masterminded a big fat cover-up.

  What a scumball that Alistair is, I thought as I lay in the sauna, weak with dehydration. To think I’d worked for the man. To think my poor, unsuspecting mother had gone over to his house to discuss my future at his newspaper. To think he’d fooled our entire town—hell, our entire country—into believing he was some kind of hero, some kind of role model, some kind of moral leader. Talk about giving people the cha cha cha.

  Cullie and I arrived at McGavin’s at seven-thirty and were seated right away at a corner table. “Would you like something to drink?” the waiter asked.

  “Mount Gay rum and tonic,” we answered simultaneously, then giggled.

  “Hey, when did you start drinking Mount Gay?” Cullie asked.

  “On Maine Lobster Night.”

  “On what?”

  “Forget it. I’ve decided I like Mount Gay. I’ve decided I like you too.”

  Cullie reached across the table for my hand and squeezed it. “I’m glad,” he said and smiled.

  We were about to inspect the menu when I spotted Julia getting up from her stool at the bar and heading toward the door. She was alone. “Hey, Applebaum!” I called out to her. I was hoping I’d run into her. We hadn’t seen each other since news of Melanie’s murder and my life as a maid hit the media. “Julia!” I called again, but she kept walking as if she hadn’t heard me. “Julia!” I yelled, waving my arms to catch her attention. “Over here!”

  She stopped and looked in my direction, but did not smile or even acknowledge me.

  “Hey, it’s me. Alison. Come join us,” I yelled, waving her over to our table.

  Then she gave me a truly bizarre look—a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look, a look that suggested I had nabbed her at something, something she was ashamed of or frightened about. “Hello, Koff,” she said quickly. “Gotta go, sorry.” Then she left the restaurant.

&nbs
p; “I don’t get it,” I said to Cullie. “Julia’s my friend. She’d never snub me.”

  “It didn’t really seem like a snub,” he offered. “Seemed more like a duck.”

  “I know. Is it possible that she actually believes what she’s read in the paper? Does she think I killed Melanie?”

  “I’m sure that’s not it, Sonny. Maybe she was just late for a date and couldn’t take the time to chat.”

  “Maybe. The last time we talked, I got the feeling that she was seeing somebody. But I couldn’t get her to tell me who her mystery man was.”

  “There’s got to be a reasonable explanation for her behavior,” said Cullie. “Let’s not let it ruin our evening, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The good news is that Julia didn’t ruin our evening. The bad news is that somebody else almost did.

  Cullie and I were taking the first bites out of our cheeseburgers when Sandy and the caterer-whore showed up. They were standing by the door, waiting for a table, and they appeared to be dressed as twins in matching purple ski outfits. They looked like a couple of eggplants.

  “Oh, God,” I gulped. “Don’t turn around. My ex-husband is here with his expectant first wife.”

  It’s a given. Somebody tells you not to turn around, you turn around. Cullie craned his neck to get a look at Sandy and Soozie. “That’s your ex-husband? The guy with the tan?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I hear business is so bad at his store that he’s working part-time at the Layton Health Club in exchange for free use of their tanning bed. Amazing, huh?”

  Before Cullie could answer, Sandy and Soozie were approaching our table. What the hell was my erstwhile second husband doing at McGavin’s, I wondered, a restaurant he’d always referred to as “a hang-out for deadbeats”? In the old days, he wouldn’t have set foot in the place.

  “Good evening, Alison,” Sandy said. “It’s nice to see you getting out and enjoying yourself in these trying times. And this must be…” He turned to face Cullie.

  “‘This’ is Cullie Harrington,” I said. “Cullie, meet Sandy Koff and his friend Diane.” It was such fun pissing Soozie off by calling her by her dreaded real first name.

  “Pleasure,” Sandy said, shaking Cullie’s hand. Soozie and I did not shake hands, we nodded.

  “What brings you to McGavin’s?” I asked. The Sandy I knew preferred eateries known for their Crusty Edged Mako Shark with Caramelized Shallot Vinaigrette or their Charred Lamb Medallions with Pear Chutney and Deep-Fried Celery Root Chips.

  “There’s a new reality out there, Alison, and it’s called a recession,” Sandy explained in his most patronizing voice. “McGavin’s intersects very well with the new reality. It’s like I was telling Soozie on the way over here: life is about personal growth, and eating at McGavin’s is part of that personal growth. Personal growth is about escaping from one’s boundaries, breaking out of ruts, eating at restaurants one has never eaten at…”

  I could tell by the way Cullie was gripping his cheeseburger that he was dying to mash it into Sandy’s psychobabbling mouth. He restrained himself.

  “But Sandy,” I said. “Recession aside, you always despised restaurants that played rock ’n’ roll music.” McGavin’s had a jukebox from which hits from the fifties, sixties, and seventies blared nonstop, and I had a hard time imagining Sandy putting up with it. He hated rock ’n’ roll, especially soul music. When we were married, he wouldn’t let me play it—even in the car.

  “The food’s not bad here,” said Sandy, further explaining his appearance at McGavin’s. “I try to deal with the background music the best I can. Life is full of irritants.”

  “You’re telling me.” Two of them were standing right in front of me.

  Sandy’s willingness to eat at McGavin’s wasn’t his only nod to the recession. His shoes were another tip-off that he had undergone a radical lifestyle change. Always a Gucci, Bally, or Cole Haan man, Sandy appeared to be wearing a pair of penny loafers of the Kinney/Florsheim/Thom McCann variety. I was shocked. The old Sandy despised such shoes. In addition to his disdain for mall shoe stores, he had absolute contempt for pennies. I’m serious. Sandy hated pennies so much that when they began to accumulate in his pocket, he’d throw them out. I’d try to reason with him. “A hundred pennies make a dollar,” I’d say. But he’d ignore me. Oddly enough, he had a much higher regard for nickels and dimes.

  “What’s that you’ve got there, Curly?” Sandy said, staring hungrily at Cullie’s plate.

  “It’s Cullie,” Cullie corrected Sandy with a scowl.

  “Cullie. Forgive me. What’s that you’re eating tonight? Some sort of pâté au gratin on focaccio? It looks awfully good.”

  “It’s called a cheeseburger. It’s tonight’s ‘Recession Special.’”

  I burst out laughing, and laughed so hard everyone in the place turned to see what was so funny. What was so funny was that my ex-husband was so out of touch he didn’t know a fucking cheeseburger when he saw one. New reality, my ass.

  “Sandy,” I said after I’d finally stopped laughing and caught my breath. “Don’t let us keep you from your meal. You and Diane are eating for three now. Better get started.”

  Sandy glared at me. Then, as if remembering that the diners at McGavin’s might be observing him, scrutinizing his every move, he forced his mouth into a beatific smile. “I bid you peace,” he said, forming a “V” with his fingers, giving me the sixties peace sign and marching himself and his first wife to their table.

  “You were married to that?” Cullie said with a smirk.

  “Hey, let’s get a look at your ex-spouse before we start dumping on mine, shall we?” I smirked back.

  “Fair enough. But I doubt Preston will be walking into McGavin’s anytime soon. I heard she’s living out in California now. La Jolla to be exact.”

  “Tell me about her—if it isn’t too painful.”

  “It’s not painful at all. I haven’t seen her in nine years. And it’s true what they say: time does heal.”

  “You met her at the Sachem Point Yacht Club, where your father worked?”

  “Yup. The Parkers were members. Still are, I guess. Preston took sailing lessons from my dad, and since I helped him out sometimes, she also took lessons from me. One thing led to another and we got involved.”

  “Was she beautiful?”

  “Very.”

  I felt a stab of jealousy, knowing myself to be attractive in an energetic sort of way but hardly beautiful. “So you two started dating after you taught her how to sail?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it dating. We didn’t go out in public together. Her parents would have freaked. We saw each other on the sly. She’d sneak into my cottage at the club when my dad was out. Or I’d pick her up at some out of the way place and drive us somewhere. That kind of thing.”

  “But her parents must have found out about you eventually. You did get married, right?”

  “Oh, we got married all right. Ceremony at their church, reception at the yacht club. The whole enchilada. You probably read about the wedding in Town & Country or on the society page of The New York Times. It was big stuff. All the Parkers’ friends and family were there.”

  “What about your friends and family? Weren’t the Harringtons represented there?”

  “Paddy wanted his brother and sisters to fly over from Europe, but none of them could afford it. I’m sure the Parkers were glad. As far as they were concerned, the less said about the Harringtons, the better.”

  “I don’t understand. If Preston’s parents were so dead set against your romance, why did they throw you such a fancy wedding?”

  “They had no choice. Preston was pregnant.”

  “Oh.” I looked at the remnants of the cheeseburger on my plate and lost my appetite. So Cullie and Preston had a child. The man was full of surprises. “Is that why you married her? Because she was pregnant?”

  “I can’t say. I might have done it anyway. She was a wild, impulsive girl with a
spontaneous approach to life that I lacked. I was very taken with her.”

  “Where’s the child now? With Preston in La Jolla?”

  “No, Preston miscarried a month after we got married. That’s when the relationship started to go down the tubes.”

  “So soon?”

  “We had nothing in common, except sailing. I got into photography and started making a name for myself. She spent her days having lunch with friends, visiting with Mummy and Daddy, and thinking about what she wanted to be when she grew up. The only time we connected was on the water, when we sailed.”

  “Then she must have loved it when you went up to Maine to buy the Marlowe.”

  “She did, at first. That boat was supposed to be a joint effort. We were going to rebuild it together, then live on it together. But from the minute we gave up our house and settled in on Marlowe, it was easy to see we weren’t going to make it. If you want to find out if you’re compatible with a woman, go live on a boat with her.”

  “So she left you?”

  “As fast as you can say, ‘Daddy, get me a good divorce lawyer.’”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not. I wasn’t the guy for her. The guy she’s married to now is not only a billionaire businessman, he owns the Sharpshooter.”

  “What’s the Sharpshooter?”

  “It’s an eighty-foot sled, a racing boat that won the Trans-Pacific Cup three consecutive times. In other words, Sonny, the guy is keeping Preston in jewelry and silverware.”

  Sort of the way Sandy used to keep me. “Sorry,” I said again.

  The waiter came and took our plates away, then asked us if we wanted dessert or coffee. We didn’t. Cullie paid the check and drove me home. When we pulled up to the front of Maplebark Manor, we were met by an angry swarm of reporters and TV cameras—angrier and more demanding than ever.

  “Tell us how you killed her, Alison.”