Dusted (A Maid in LA Mystery)

by Jacobs, Holly

  “Not really investigating as much as looking into them.”

  “Which is investigating.”

  “No, it’s simply looking at the information to see if there’s anything I can give to your detective friend.”

  “Quincy…” He didn’t say anything more than my name, but in it I could read his thoughts. I was driving him nuts. He worried about me. I should leave the detective work to real detectives. He wished we were alone in the house so he could make wild, passionate love to me.

  Well, that last part could have been me projecting my wants onto him.

  “Cal, I—”

  He interrupted me by barking out, “When I saw the information on the board the other day, it wasn’t just organizing information for Mickey was it?”

  “Now, Cal, I.…”

  I was talking to dead air because he was heading toward Hunter’s room.

  “Cal,” I called as I followed him but he didn’t break stride. He reached Hunter’s room, through open the door and shouted, “Aha. There’s more up there.”

  “Aha yourself, Caleb Parker. What makes you think you have the right to burst into my bedroom uninvited? I think your mother would be horrified. I bet she thinks she raised you better than that.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject—” he started.

  “And speaking of your mother, do you realize I’ve never met any of your family? And the only friend I’ve met is Big G. You’ve met my entire family and Tiny, Sal, and even Dick. Do I embarrass you, Cal? Do you want to hide me away from everyone you know? I mean, I’m only a maid after all. And I’m the mother of three teens. Yes, you’re dating a woman who has teenaged sons. That might be embarrassing for a super-cop who has a reputation with the ladies.”

  “I do not have a reputation with the ladies,” he said loudly.

  “Big G says you do. He says you date them then dump them. Is that where this is leading? You’re planning on dumping me and making out that my looking for information to help your friend’s investigation is more than it is so you have an excuse?”

  “Quincy, last time you tried your hand at investigating, you almost got yourself killed. I just want you to be safe.”

  “Yeah, well, I almost got killed crossing Ventura Boulevard the other day. When I was eight, I almost got killed trying to climb the mulberry tree in the yard. Right after I moved to LA I almost got killed trying to surf in order to impress a man…well, then I thought he was a man, but he was a boy, a man-child at best. There are any number of other ways I’ve almost gotten myself killed over the years. If you’re going to try and forbid me crossing streets, swimming, or climbing the occasional tree, well, this isn’t going to work.”

  “Quincy, how did you turn this around on me? This is about you. It’s about your investigation. You. Are. Not. A. Private. Detective.” He annunciated each word, as if he were afraid I wouldn’t understand otherwise. “There are all kinds of hoops to jump through here in California before you can be a private investigator. I doubt you even know what they are.”

  “I don’t want to be a detective. I just want to find out who stole the paintings so Tiny and I don’t lose our business.”

  “We’ll find out without your help.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, I did find out who killed Mr. Banning. And I will find out who stole these paintings. If we’re going to continue dating, you’d better be clear on one thing…I don’t need some man to ride in and save the day for me. I’ll save it on my own, thank you very much. I divorced Jerome before I’d hit my mid-twenties. I managed to raise three of the most fantastic boys ever—and I call them that with no bias whatsoever—I’ve also built a successful business with Tiny. I’ve supported myself. For a long time I wondered what I was going to do when I grew up, but I think I’ve found it with this writing thing. I love working on the script, though I don’t have nearly as much time as I’d like.”

  “Quincy—”

  “Notice I said writing, not detecting. I am looking at the case, but simply so my business doesn’t suffer. No one’s mentioned Mac’Cleaners and the thefts in the media yet, but they could. There’s no murderer this time. There’s just someone who is stealing and forging artwork. I don’t know about you, but most of the artists I’ve met don’t seem very murderous to me.” I’d never really met an artist but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of any who were overly violent. “Oh, they might cut off an ear now and again but generally it’s their own ear. They don’t do murder.”

  “Quincy—”

  I interrupted him again. “So as I see it you have two choices. Keep scolding me like I was some misbehaving child, in which case I’m going to ask you to leave, or shut up and kiss me.”

  He looked as if he were going to explode. Apoplectic is the word I’d use to describe him.

  Man, I loved that word.

  Finally he pulled me into his arms and kissed me until I couldn’t see straight…until the world seemed to tilt on its axis…until my knees very literally were weak.

  He pulled back and looked me in the eye. “Let me say two last things. Don’t get yourself killed. I’ll be pissed. And if you run into trouble, don’t let your pride keep you from calling me. You’re important to me, Quincy. Very important.”

  All my annoyance faced away with that last sentence.

  “You’re very important to me, too, Cal. But I’m not someone who can simply sit back and trust that everything will work out.”

  “And as much as it aggravates me, it’s one of the things I love about you.”

  He froze at that word…love.

  It was a deer in the headlights sort of freeze.

  He hadn’t said he loved me, I assured myself. He’d simply said he loved something about me.

  Phew. That was good. I wasn’t sure where this new relationship was going, but I was enjoying it. I didn’t want to spoil it with serious talk too soon.

  That’s what happened with Jerome. I met him after I’d broken up with the most immature man I’d ever dated. I fell head over heels, married him, gave up my non-existent, but potential career and had his three sons…then he divorced me and moved on to the next younger woman.

  Here’s the thing, I don’t regret my time with Jerome. We’d turned into good parenting partners. Good parents, I thought. He’d given me the boys…who were my greatest achievement.

  But no way did I want to lose myself in another man that fast.

  I didn’t want to lose myself at all.

  So, I ignored the word and kissed Cal again.

  After a second, he ignored the word as well and kissed me back.

  It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it obviously worked for both of us because it was a great kiss.

  The night of the play, I sat with Cal on one side and my mother on the other. My father had arrived and sat next to her. Tiny and Sal were there. My ex and Peri were there, too. Their names struck me again. Jerry and Peri. When I was growing up my grandmother’s best friend, Jean married a man named Gene. To avoid confusion we referred to them as Mrs. Jean and Mr. Gene.

  I hadn’t thought of them in years. I smiled at the memory.

  “What?” Cal whispered.

  “You’re cute,” I said because it was true and because it was quicker than explaining about Mr. and Mrs. Gene/Jean.

  The house lights dimmed, and the curtain went up.

  There was Eli, front and center. I knew that somewhere, lurking behind the curtains, Miles was probably pacing, anxious hoping that the play would be a success.

  He needn’t have worried…it was.

  The cast all took their bows, then called for Miles to come out. He humbly bowed as well, accepting the audience’s adulation as if he’d expected it.

  After the curtains came down and the house lights came up, we all started talking about how terribly talented my kids were. Peri was crying. Seriously, she dabbed at tears. I shot Jerome a look and he smiled indulgently at her, then shrugged at me still grinning. She was good for him.

  I rememb
ered Hunter’s worries, but I didn’t see any evidence of Jerome growing tired of Peri…at least not tonight.

  A few minutes later the cast came out into the audience, everyone looking for their family and friends.

  Miles and Eli came out together and headed toward our crowd. I looked at our family. It was an eclectic collection of people. A tall, coco-colored maid with her short, pudgy lawyer fiancé, two very proper physicians, another maid who was desperately sucking in her baby-pooch, a ruggedly handsome cop, a producer and Peri, who was closer to the boys’ ages than the rest of ours.

  I watched my boys being enveloped by everyone as Cal reached out and took my hand. He gave it a tight squeeze, and I felt a suspicious moisture in my eyes. I am not Peri. I don’t tear up at Hallmark commercials.

  But at this one moment, everything was perfect in my universe.

  And as a woman who was practically on death row just a month ago, I’d take it.

  Chapter Six

  First thing Monday morning I finally heard back from the third forgery victim. I’d left countless—okay, not countless, but a lot of messages, asking to bring our insurance investigator over.

  I called Dick and asked if he was available.

  He was.

  I think that’s the lovely thing about having a friend who’s a writer…they can juggle their schedule easier than a lot of people can. I promised myself not to abuse his friendship. He seemed to be enjoying the investigation, but he still needed to work.

  Dick and I went to the Graham’s house. It was one of the largest in the neighborhood. It practically screamed my-owners-have-money-to-burn.

  I have never experienced having-money-to-burn.

  I knocked at the front door, then rang a doorbell that sounded like a Cathedral organ.

  Miriam Foster, aka Ms. Designer Shoes from the Arthur Wadsworth Gallery, opened the door.

  “Miss Foster?” I said. She was probably here for the same reason I was here…the stolen paintings. “How nice to see you again.”

  For a second, I thought I saw a flash of recognition but I blinked and she simply looked blank, as if she didn’t know me.

  So, I reintroduced myself. “I was at the gallery the other day. I looked at some Kirchoff paintings and one by a guy named Jolly.” I still thought that was a stupid name for a man, but I realized he’d had no say in it. I blamed his parents.

  “Oh,” she said, not exactly clarifying if she remembered me or not.

  I suppose if she found me lacking in my khakis then she found me even more so in my jeans and Mac’Cleaner shirt. I was beneath her notice. Fine. I wasn’t here to see her anyway. “We’re here to see Mrs. Graham. She’s expecting us.”

  “I’m Mrs. Graham.”

  “Your business card said Miriam Foster.” I remembered because the card was on my white-board.

  “I use my maiden name for business purposes.” Her eyes narrowed as she assessed me. It seemed as if this was the first time she’d really seen me. “So you own the cleaning service that stole our paintings.”

  “Mac’Cleaners had nothing to do with your paintings being stolen. This is Mr. Macy. He’s here from the insurance company to investigate what went on.”

  Dick cleared his throat. “Please show me where the art hung.”

  Miriam strode across her marble floors, wearing a pair of designer heels. I might like shoes, but even when I’d been married to Jerome, I’d never worn shoes with names. I had a lot of shoes, but they were bargain shoes. So I had about as much of an eye for shoes as I did for art…which meant not much of one. These looked like the pair she wore at the gallery. That’s the height of frivolousness, buying two pairs of expensive shoes that no one could tell apart.

  “There,” she said, pointing to her east wall, that was now blank, other than four heavy duty looking hangers. “We’re devastated. I love Kirschoff and we bought early in his career. To have them stolen from us…”

  Miriam paused and looked as if she were passing a kidney stone. I think it was her version of pain.

  “It feels like having a child taken from us.”

  Now, I understand having possessions you treasure. I have a white mug that belonged to Louisa Mac. The story goes her teacher went on a trip and brought all his students back a mug with their name on it and dated 1873. If my house was on fire that mug would be the first possession I’d grab…but only after my kids were all out.

  I guess comparing a painting—even an expensive work of art—to children kicked up my mom-gene.

  “Do you have children?” I asked.

  Her kidney stone must have passed because she reverted back to what I was pretty sure was her default expression…haughty. “No. What does that have to do with our stolen artwork?”

  “Nothing.” I was pretty sure she wouldn’t understand if I tried to explain. “I was just curious. I have three boys.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Now, I’m not sure, but I think that was meant as an insult. That kidney-stone expression had been replaced by an almost sneer.

  “And you’re a maid,” she added.

  Yep, I’m sure it was an insult.

  “I own the business,” I said with pride, then I wished I hadn’t tried to defend myself to this woman.

  “Well, you should have done a better job screening your employees.”

  “You don’t know that Theresa had anything to do with the missing art.”

  “I know she was one of the few people who had a key.”

  “Who else did?” I asked, forgetting Dick was supposed to be the insurance investigator.

  Obviously, Miriam hadn’t forgotten. “Isn’t he supposed to be asking the questions?”

  I jerked my head in Dick’s direction. “It doesn’t matter who asks them, he needs to know.”

  “I do,” he agreed.

  “I already told the police and the other insurance agents that my husband’s partner, our cleaning service—meaning you—and our neighbor, Julian Mello, all have keys.”

  “Your husband’s partner is?”

  “Neville’s partner is John Meyers. Their investment group is Graham and Meyers Associates, and if you’re implying that John came in and stole our paintings, you’re way off the mark.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  Dick reached out and touched my arm. “I’m sure Quincy didn’t mean to imply anything. I need to know who had keys in order to eliminate them as suspects.”

  “I’m positive my neighbor and my husband’s partner did not steal my art. I can’t say that I have as much confidence that someone from Mac’Cleaners didn’t take it.”

  I was back to wishing this was a movie. Pretty Woman to be exact. Any moment Richard Gere would walk in and scoop me up and carry me away from this place. Never mind, that fantasy was from An Officer and a Gentleman, and I was Quincy Mac. I’d already proven that I didn’t need a man to rescue me.

  “Thank you for your help, ma’am,” Dick said.

  He grabbed my arm again and led me toward the front door.

  “Thank you for your help, ma’am,” Dick said again and led me out of the house.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “I don’t like her,” I mumbled. “She was very stuck up when I met her at the gallery and once she realized I was a maid today, she was even worse.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters is figuring out who stole the art.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, let’s see if Robert will run a check on Graham and Meyers Associates and more specifically John Meyer.”

  I nodded. “I’m going to owe your friend a ton of money.”

  “I’ve been to his house. I’m betting you can barter housecleaning for technical expertise.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Awful.”

  “I’ll ask him.” And I knew just who I’d send to clean his awful house. Theresa.

  Dick and I walked down the block to the neighbor’s house. Now in most neighborhoods, you could toss
a ball and hit a neighbor’s house. Not so much on this particular street. It wasn’t only the distance but the large stone wall and various trees and bushes that separated the two properties that would make tossing a ball at Julian Mello’s house an issue.

  Julian Mello was built like a linebacker. I’d heard that phrase and never understood it until the moment when I stood in front of the giant of a man. He wasn’t only a big man, but he had a rock-hard looking build. Let’s put it this way, if he’d been Mr. Banning’s murderer and I’d had to fight him for my life…I would have lost.

  But he was saved from looking ominous by the small black dog he was holding. Seriously the dog couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds, if that. It yapped at us, as if it took its guard-dog duties very seriously and would protect Mr. Mello at all costs.

  “Mr. Mello, I’m Mr. Macy. I’m investigating your neighbor’s thefts. They said you have a key to the house?”

  He smiled, not in a scary, I’m-a-psychopath-and-want-to-murder-you-or-at-least-steal-your-art sort of way, but in a I’m-a-big-guy-but-I’m-very-sweet way. “Please come in. And you are?” he asked me.

  “Quincy Mac. I’m one of the owners of Mac’Cleaners, the Gifford’s cleaning service.”

  “Oh, Miriam seems to feel you stole the painting.” There was a lilt in his voice that said he found this notion amusing.

  I couldn’t decide if he felt that way because he thought we did it or that we couldn’t have done it. “I don’t think she’s blaming me specifically but rather one of my staff. And while that particular employee is not known for being overly reliable, she’s not a thief. Or burglar.”

  “And you both came to see me because I have a key and you want to know if I did it.” He laughed. “If I had, I probably wouldn’t admit it. Unless you were The Closer. Now, there’s a detective that can make people confess to just about anything.”

  “You watched that, too?” I asked. “I hated when it was canceled. I think I was their number one fan.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he challenged with a smile. “Ask me my dog’s name.”

  I had a suspicion, but I obliged. “What’s your dog’s name, Mr. Mello?”