I don’t think there was a dry eye as they hugged, then kissed.
The reception was laid back and just a good time. I sat at a big table with the boys, Peri and of course, Cal. We all turned to watch as Sal led Tiny out to the dance floor for their first dance as husband and wife. I was waiting for something sappy, but the DJ said, “I’d like to introduce, Mr. and Mrs. Salvador Mardones.” The walked to the middle of the dance floor and The Beach Boys’ Wouldn’t It Be Nice started to play as they did a well-rehearsed dance that included steps that looked like they were swimming, and one where the two of them appeared to be surfing. It was so awful that it was good.
When they finished, Tiny took the mic from the DJ and said, “Most of you know my maid of honor, LA’s own mystery solving maid, Quincy Mac. Quincy, bring Cal out to the dance floor. We’ve got a song just for you.”
She looked way too pleased with herself. More pleased than she looked when she saw me in my pumpkin colored dress.
Theresa was chuckling, which made me think that Tiny had floated the idea of this song around the office.
“This might not be pretty,” I whispered to Cal.
We reached the dance floor and Tiny grinned as she nodded at the DJ.
Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust blared over the speakers. Both Cal and I joined the rest of the guests in laughing as we did a dance that made Sal and Tiny’s look good. After the first chorus, she invited everyone to join us on the dance floor and Cal swept me into his arms.
“I mentioned our dinner with Cassandra and Julian to Big G. He wants to know when you’re going to set him up.”
“When I find a woman I think would suit him, I will.”
“What are you doing after the wedding?”
“The boys are going home for one more night at their dad’s.”
“So you’ll be alone in that big house?”
“Not if you play your cards right,” I said with a smile.
Epilogue
“…and Miriam’s worked out a deal with the prosecutors. She gave them the name of the person she sold the paintings to in exchange for a lighter sentence.” I sat at my desk in the office and looked at the wall. In addition to the pictures that Peri gave me, I’d hung my painting. I’d boldly signed Quincy Mac to the bottom. It might not be high art, but I kind of liked it. It wasn’t quite up to the same level as Summer’s painting, which I’d proudly hung in the front of the office, but still, looking at mine, I remembered that I saved my business…a business I treasured.
“So you solved another mystery,” my mother said and I thought I heard a touch of pride in her voice.
“I did.” Dick was seriously beyond excited. He was hounding me to hurry up and finish the script for Steamed, so I could start the next one. He’d decided we’d call this one Dusted, since Theresa dusting a painting is what started everything.
“And you almost got shot,” my mother said softly. This time it wasn’t pride but worry.
“I’m fine, Mom. Miriam didn’t want to shoot me. She was going to lock me in the closet is all.”
I heard her sigh over the telephone line. “Please don’t make getting shot and beat up a habit.”
“Don’t forget saving Cal and solving the mystery. I’m not sure I’ll ever need to do either of them again, but I’m proud of them.”
“You should be,” she said. “I’m proud of you. And it’s not that you solved a mystery, it’s everything Quincy. You run a successful business. You’ve raised three wonderful boys. And now you’re writing a script with Dick. How is Dick?”
“Convinced I’m going to be Hollywood’s new ‘it’ writer. He wants me to thank him when I win my Mortie. You know, I’d thank you, right? You taught me to be strong. To be independent. To not wait for someone else to solve my problems—that I should just solve them myself.”
“Oh, Quincy, I don’t deserve your praise, but thank you.” She paused a moment and I thought I heard something that sounded suspiciously like sniffling. Then added, “Not to change the subject, but how would you feel about your father and I coming to LA for Thanksgiving?”
Here’s the thing, if you’d asked me a couple months ago, I’d have groaned at the thought a holiday of my mother’s complaining about my not living up to my potential.
I didn’t worry about that any more so I found myself saying with genuine enthusiasm. “I’d love it, Mom.”
“And this is Jerome’s Christmas with the boys, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, why don’t you think about coming home to Erie for the Christmas? It’s been years since you’ve spent a Christmas with us.”
Home to Erie. A holiday with my family? I was excited at the thought.
I found myself nodding, even though my mother couldn’t see me. So I verbalized. “I’d love to come home, Mom.”
It looked like I was heading Erie, Pennsylvania for my first white Christmas in a decade and believe it or not, I couldn’t wait.
***
Thank you for reading Dusted: A Maid in LA Mystery! I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please help other readers find this book:
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Did you miss Quincy’s first adventure, Steamed: A Maid in LA Mystery?
Here’s an excerpt:
When I moved to LA, I was an eighteen year old with stars in my eyes. Well, not exactly in my eyes, but rather on my eyes. My high school best friend bought me sunglasses with lenses shaped like stars for when I Made It. Lottie always said the words in such a way you just knew they were capitalized.
Made It.
Yes, I graduated from high school and moved to LA. I planned to be a famous actress. Lottie made me promise I’d wear my star-shaped glasses on my first Oscar red carpet walk. My goal was to take Hollywood by storm.
These days, those glasses are in a drawer in my bedroom and I have two much smaller goals. One is that I want to wear my jeans without a muffin-top. After three kids, I’d developed a bit of a baby-pooch that wants to creep out above the waistband of my jeans. I longed for the days when pants had waistbands that were higher. Back then you could tuck your baby-pooch in. These days your options are exercise, wear Spanx, or learn to suck it in.
I tend to suck it in…when I remember.
My second goal is an empty nest.
It’s not that I don’t love my boys. I do. I have three sons—Hunter, Miles and Eli. They are eighteen, seventeen and sixteen. I’ve been a parent practically my entire adult life. I’m ready for a time when I simply have to worry about me and no one else.
This summer is my trial empty-nest.
The boys left last night to spend four weeks in the Bahamas with their father and his most recent wife, Peri.
Now, my place isn’t exactly a dump, but compared to their dad’s house, my three bedroom bungalow in the out-of-the-way neighborhood of Van George is a cardboard box in some alley.
And while thirty-eight isn’t exactly over-the-hill, next to Peri, the twenty-year-old, I am ancient.
I miss my boys (and I realize the irony in longing for an empty nest, but missing them when they’re on vacation). I try not to mind when my ex takes the boys on fabulous vacations—and most of the time I don’t mind—but getting ready for work in a quiet house, I minded.
My ex, movie producer Jerome Smith, is a nice guy...a nice guy with a taste for younger women. Specifically women between the ages of twenty and twenty-five. The exact ages I married, then divorced him. Or rather, he divorced me.
Jerome had two marriages before me, and three marriages since, all within those same parameters. His current wife’s my favorite. I really like Peri despite the way her breasts perk and mine just sort of...w
ell, hang loosely if they’re not strapped down. I think Peri sort of appeals to my maternal instincts. I don’t have a daughter.
Maybe I’ll adopt her when Jerome divorces her.
TGIF, I told myself. I’m thirty-eight, and until the boys come home from their summer visit with their father, I’m footloose and fancy-free.
Maybe it isn’t exactly the life I’d dreamed of when I moved to LA, but it’s a good life.
Oh, sometimes I still wish that I was starring in some movie of the week instead of heading into Mac’Cleaners.
Yes, that’s right—I no longer have stars in or on my eyes. Rather than achieving stardom, I have three sons and clean houses for a living. It’s honest work, and it’s flexible enough that when I was younger I could take time off and go on auditions. Now that I’m part owner and thirty-eight, I don’t go to many auditions.
Okay, so I haven’t been on an audition in five years—I’ve discovered that I’m a size twelve girl in a size two world.
I missed the fame and fortune boat.
Okay, so I could live without fame or fortune, if only I could figure out what I wanted to do with my life sometime before menopause hit. Owning a business keeps the boys and me afloat financially but lately, I’d had a feeling that it was time for a change. The kids weren’t such kids anymore. Hunter would start college in the fall.
That empty nest is just around the bend. Soon I’ll be able to live my own life.
And I know I want something more.
I’d said I wanted to act since I was six. I never gave any thought to doing something else. But it’s clear that acting isn’t going to be my ultimate career.
So while I wait to figure out what I want to do, I clean houses. I need to figure out soon because I’ll be turning forty in a couple years. Forty sounds so very grown up, and grown-ups should have some idea about the direction they want their lives to take.
But I wasn’t going to think about direction today.
Today, I was going to get my work done and then go do something decadent.
I’d like to say I was planning to go to a bar and pick up guys—well at least pick up a guy—but I’ll probably end up going to the store and picking up Ben and Jerry’s, then head home and try and catch up on all the chick-flicks the boys make me miss.
Feeling a bit better, I walked into the small brick storefront that was only a mile from my house. It proudly proclaimed Mac’Cleaners on the plate glass window with a tartan weaving through the letters. I walked through the small reception room and back to my partner, Tiny’s office.
Big mistake.
There’s nothing worse than starting the day as a single, directionless, mother of three and then walking into the middle of the wonderful world of weddings.
Tiny’s marrying Salvador Mardones in September. September 30th to be exact. And she’s going slightly insane...a bit further over the brink each day.
“Tiny?” I called, hoping she was somewhere in the sea of tulle and satin.
“I’m here, Quincy,” she said from the back corner.
Tiny’s not very...tiny that is. She’s five eight and looks like a model. Skin the color of strong tea and dark hair with a tendency to curl. She’s gorgeous and simply a beautiful soul. We make an interesting pair, what with me having Irish fair skin, a light sprinkling of freckles that might have been cute when I was in my teens, but aren’t as much when at thirty-eight. And my hair...well, it was blond when I moved to LA thanks to Lottie and Miss Clairol. These days, it has gone back to its brownish roots...literally.
Tiny smiled as I walked in, and I couldn’t muster up true annoyance that her smile was messing with my grouchy mood because she radiated happiness. The kind of happiness I knew she deserved.
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” she asked, gesturing at her office.
I surveyed the room. “Yeah.”
“I just can’t help myself. I want this wedding to be perfect because Sal’s perfect.”
Truth is, Sal is perfect. He’s my five five height, balding and has a beer belly that makes my small baby-pooched stomach look like washboard abs.
But he’s truly one of the nicest guys in the world.
Tiny had a history of dating losers. But that was over because Sal...well, he’s a winner.
“The wedding will be perfect,” I promised.
I’d see to it, even though I’d rather have wisdom teeth pulled than plan a wedding this elegant.
Me, if I ever get married again, I’m eloping. Something fast and simple. Someone saying the official words, then me and my new husband back at some hotel having sex. Lots and lots of sex.
It had been a while, which might explain why my mind skipped right over finding Mr. Right and a wedding and went right to the sex.
“Speaking of help,” Tiny said slowly, “we need some today. Theresa’s out.”
Rats.
“It’s my turn, isn’t it?” I asked, though I knew the answer.
She nodded.
When one of our employees calls in sick, we take turns filling in.
Today it was my turn to fill in.
I should have just gone back to bed this morning.
Grumbling to myself, I left Tiny to hold down the fort and took Theresa’s folder for the day. The nice thing about working outside the office is that the day always went fast.
Today was no exception. By three in the afternoon, I was on my way to the last job.
As soon as I finished Mr. Banning’s, I’d decided that I was going shopping for a new pair of shoes rather than Ben and Jerry’s.
More money, less calories.
I thought the trade-off was worth it.
On a day like today, I didn’t just want new shoes—I needed them. So, I grabbed Mr. Banning’s printout from Theresa’s folder. I was anxious to finish this last job.
Mr. Banning’s was a BWP/wL.
A basic-weekly-pickup, with laundry.
I knocked on his door, even though the file said the odds of him being home at three o’clock in the afternoon were slim to nil.
I used our key and let myself in. I surveyed the living room with disgust. There was nothing basic about this job.
The place was a mess.
I mean, a real pigsty. Worse than my boys’ rooms...and that’s saying something. Teenage boys are very toxic.
Mr. Banning was a whole new level of toxicity, though. Underwear was hanging from a chandelier, empty glasses and plates were scattered through the room.
Oh, geesh. Mr. Banning had a Mortie. All TV Network, ATVN, had begun to hand out the award ten years ago and it had quickly become one of the premier Hollywood awards.
Hey, I might not be an actual actress, but I know stuff.
I noticed not out of some sort of awe that I was cleaning a Mortie winner’s home, but rather because the award was sitting in the middle of the leather couch, covered in something. Maybe someone had dipped it into some of the food. Ugh. It looked like they’d tried to wipe it off before throwing it on the couch, but they didn’t wipe hard enough.
To top it off, there were footprints on the light beige carpet. Big footprints. Whoever wore those shoes had really big feet. Thankfully, there were only two. As if whoever made the prints realized they’d tracked in mud and took off their shoes, because those two prints were it.
Well, there’d been at least one considerate person.
I tried to make a mental list of how best to approach this job.
In the end, there was nothing to do but start. I gathered dishes and cups and the pots and pans in the kitchen and had the dishwasher running minutes later. I even hand-washed the Mortie—which was about as heavy as a bag of sugar, heavier than I’d thought the old-fashioned silver television would be—and gave it a thorough polish. When I was done, the inscription on the silver television screen really stood out. Steve Banning. Dead Certain.
I remembered that show. It was a comedy about a medical examiner’s office.
I set the Mortie on the mantl
e, thinking that was a more appropriate place for it than the couch.
There was a desk next to the fireplace. It had an old relic of a computer on it. The keyboard’s cord dangled over the edge of the desk. Yeah, that wasn’t going to work well.
I plugged the keyboard into the back of the tower.
Next, I dragged a garbage can around the room and made short order of the rest of the mess.
I debated whether I should toss the chandelier’s panties out, but opted to put them in the wash with a load of clothes. At least when Mr. Banning returned them to whoever they belonged to, they’d be clean.
Maybe they belonged to him?
The thought was enough to make me decide to concentrate on the job at hand rather than on the underclothing our Mortie-winning client wore.
There was a small steam-cleaner in the back of the Mac’Cleaners van. It made short work of the footprints. I worked on the laundry as I vacuumed and dusted. By then the dishwasher was finished, so I unloaded it then cleaned the kitchen.
I found the bra that matched the panties under the sink.
Personally, I didn’t want to know why there was a bra under the sink. Maybe Mr. Banning had a dishwashing fetish and the mystery naked woman helped him out? The mental image was disturbing.
I knew walking into the place that Mr. Banning liked women.
It said so on his file. Right after BWP/wL it said DOG.
That’s our code for he liked women a lot and liked a lot of them.
Yes, Mr. Banning is a dog...a letch.
But he never bothers the staff, so it didn’t bother us.
Mac’Cleaners is an equal opportunity employee. We stake our reputation on good service and discretion.
This job was going to require a lot of discretion on my part. I wondered if Theresa’s illness had anything to do with knowing that Mr. Banning’s place was this bad and that she’d have to clean it up?
Kitchen done, I moved onto and finished the bathroom as well. Then I folded a load of laundry and put another one in the dryer. With the job almost done, I was getting excited about shoe shopping, which in LA is a unique treat. So many shoes, so few feet. I headed to Mr. Banning’s bedroom.
Dusted (A Maid in LA Mystery) Page 14