Mistletoe, Merriment, And Murder

by Sara Rosett

  I nodded. Abby was quite a bit more relaxed than I was when it came to controlling clutter. Actually, clutter didn’t bother her at all. I made a mental note not to look in the guest room. I was sure clothes and shoes would be flung all over the place.

  “So why didn’t they take your clutch?” I was sure she’d left it on the counter, too.

  “It had fallen down onto one of the bar stools on the far side of the counter. They probably didn’t even see it. That was lucky.” She settled her large tote bag with her school work on her shoulder. “It’s got to be a disappointing haul for them—maybe they’ll quit after this. I mean, how much can you get for a GPS, a cell phone, an almost empty purse, and a beat-up duck decoy? One of the security police guys said the thief is getting sloppy.”

  “Really? Compared to the other break-ins?”

  Abby nodded. “Apparently, at the other houses, the locks were picked.”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” I said.

  “I know. I overheard two of the security police officers talking about it.”

  The boys burst into the kitchen at the same time Livvy came out of her room, holding her book high like a trophy. “Found it,” she announced.

  “Get your coats. Time to go,” Abby said, herding everyone toward the door. And suddenly the house was quiet, except for an intermittent low whine from the laundry room. I glanced up at Wisk, who regarded me with a steady, somewhat superior blue gaze.

  Abby stuck her head back in the door. “I forgot to tell you. I called Cecilia and she’s going to take care of Wisk for me until Jeff gets back. I figured two unexpected houseguests were more than enough for you to handle. She’ll swing by this morning and get him. All you have to do is put him in his carrier and leave him on the back porch. Bye!”

  The door slammed shut. As the garage door rumbled up, I eyed Wisk. Was it my imagination or did he seem to have a “bring it on” look in his eyes? I walked casually toward him. He flicked his tail once and was gone, a white smudge splashing through the kitchen and down the hallway.

  This might take awhile.

  An hour later, wearing a long-sleeved white crew-neck sweater to cover the scratches on my arms, I parked in front of Marie’s house. Neither Wisk nor I had liked it, but Wisk was now stowed in his carrier and ready for Cecilia. I grabbed my tote with my organizing brochures, climbed out of the minivan, and checked my khaki slacks for cat hair. Marie lived in Wiregrass Plantation, a neighborhood heavy on white pillared porches and red brick with sweeping rooflines. The area had once been a pecan grove and the massive trees dotted the neighborhood with gridlike precision. The bare, gnarled branches created an interlocking canopy overhead.

  Having grown up in the wide-open plains of Texas, the ranks of trees I saw in Georgia still awed me. These trees were different from the pine tree farms that grew along the local highway with the trees packed close together, each of them growing straight as an arrow. The twisty branches of these tall, widely spaced pecan trees spread wide, some of them so large that the canopy of one tree would shade a whole lawn in the summer. Craning my neck back to look at the shards of blue sky visible through the interwoven branches, I made my way up the short flight of steps to the porch and rang the doorbell, holding the lapels of my kelly green, hip-length raincoat. It was a clear, sparkling cold day and I wished I’d worn a heavier coat or at least zipped the lining into the one I was wearing.

  Marie’s neighbor, an older man in a red-and-black plaid flannel jacket and an Atlanta Braves baseball cap was outside, untangling strands of Christmas lights. A ladder leaned against one of the pecan trees in his yard and coils of extension cords were lined up on the driveway. He saw me and I waved. He nodded his head in greeting, his hands full. I waited a few moments, then rang the bell again.

  Maybe she’d forgotten. I stepped back and looked over the front of the house. All the blinds were closed tight and there was no flicker of movement or shadow that I could see in the Palladian window over the door. I was reaching for my cell phone when the door edged open a few inches. Marie unlocked the glass storm door and stepped outside. “Hi, Ellie. Sorry, I was in the back.”

  “No problem,” I said, and moved toward the door, but Marie didn’t budge. She stood, shoulders shifted to one side in a half slump with her hands clinched together at her waist. She looked . . . scared, I realized. “Marie, are you okay?” She kept her gaze fixed somewhere around my knees and nodded her head a few degrees. “Are you sure? If it’s a bad time, I can come back later,” I said, and then instantly wished I could take that back. I wanted this job, if only to beat out Gabrielle. If I left now, I doubted Marie would ever call me back.

  Marie swallowed hard. “No,” she said in her soft voice and shook her head so that her orange, fluffy hair trembled. “Come in,” she said, and then she disappeared back through the small opening, slightly ducking her tall frame as she went in the door.

  I pushed on the front door to open it wider, but it didn’t shift even a centimeter. I frowned and poked my head inside. I saw stuff.

  Piles and piles of stuff. I blinked, my heart sinking.

  Things were stacked everywhere. It looked as if a waist-high tide of debris had flowed into the room and hardened in place, a sort of modern-day Pompeii. As I looked closer, the mounds of stuff resolved themselves into haphazard stacks of individual items. Some of the stacks were mostly clothes or shoes, but others were random masses: a tea kettle tilted precariously on a pile of boxes, a tennis racket jutted out of a bewildering stack of magazines, umbrellas, hangers, and . . . were those Star Wars figurines? I realized I was staring and that my mouth had literally fallen open. I shut it with a snap as Marie said, “Sorry about my untidiness. I just can’t seem to . . .” Her voice trailed away and I really looked at her for the first time since I’d edged in the door. Tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes. She looked so vulnerable and miserable.

  I realized how hard this was for her. I hoped my face hadn’t betrayed my shock. It probably had. I wasn’t prepared for anything like this, but I arranged a smile on my face and did the only thing I could think of—I fell back on the little spiel I’d given so many times. “Okay,” I said briskly, “I have a few questions to go through with you that will help me figure out how I can help you.” I forced myself not to look at the heaps lining the hall. “Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk?”

  Marie nodded. Relief seemed to edge into her face. “Let’s go in the kitchen,” she said, and I followed her down the small trail that was just wide enough for one person. The narrow hall opened into what I guessed was the living room. Piles of objects ranged around the room, obliterating walls and furniture. A small space was carved out around a large-screen television and a loveseat. “Watch your step here,” Marie advised. The trail we’d been walking ended as Marie stepped up about a foot onto a layer of junk that coated the entire living-room floor.

  Marie walked sure-footed over the uneven stratum and I followed more slowly, arms outstretched to keep my balance. As I half walked, half climbed through the room, my gaze fixed on individual items—a black sock, a box of light bulbs, a stereo speaker, an antique doll with a china face, a dented Scooby-Doo lunch box.

  Stuff and stuff and more stuff. It boggled my mind. Where did Marie get all this in the first place? I knew she and her husband, Cole, had moved here about a year ago. There was no way all this stuff had arrived here in moving boxes. They would have blown their weight allowance by thousands of pounds. But how could she have accumulated all this in under a year?

  What had I gotten myself into here? I couldn’t organize this. This went beyond clutter—this was hoarding, I thought, already trying to compose a graceful way to bow out of this job, because this wasn’t an organizing job. This was a situation that required a mental health professional. Of course, I couldn’t say it that baldly and I was here for a consultation. I should complete the consultation and then ease my way into stepping back from the job.

  “Here we are,” Marie said as
she ducked down so she didn’t hit her head on the kitchen door frame. A few things from the living room had spilled over into the kitchen, but for the most part, the kitchen floor was clear. I breathed a little easier, relieved to get out of the chaotic part of the house. The kitchen wasn’t completely normal, though. The edges of the cabinets and the walls were lined with low stacks of canned goods, large containers of laundry soap, and economy-size packages of paper towels. It felt a bit like I’d wandered into a discount-store warehouse.

  The counters were stacked with more of the same type of items—a twelve-pack of Dove soap perched on a case of Raisin Bran Crunch cereal and an extra large jar of salsa. The oven was free of debris as was a tiny corner of the countertop beside it, which was probably where Marie prepared her food. She led the way to the kitchen table, which had some empty space in front of two chairs. The rest of the table was covered with a mishmash of china teacups and tiny commemorative spoons. I sat down and gently moved spoons with the words, “Yellowstone” and “Twenty-second Olympiad” over to make room for my papers.

  “So let’s go through my questions,” I said as Marie sat down gingerly. She looked wary, as if she might spring up and run out of the room at any moment, but as I worked my way through my standard questions in a matter-of-fact voice, she seemed to relax. Normally, I’d take a look at the areas a person wanted me to work on, but I decided to skip that step. I wasn’t up to another climb through the living room and I didn’t know if Marie could handle showing me more of her house. This was also the point when I’d talk with clients about different options, gauging how involved they wanted to be in the organizing. It always required some involvement, but some people simply wanted me to start them on the right track and then they would complete the job themselves, while others preferred to have me do the majority of the work. I mentally crossed those questions off my list. Working solo on Marie’s house would be a never-ending job that I wasn’t equipped or staffed to handle.

  I put my pen down and licked my lips. “Marie, I’m going to be honest with you.” Her face, which had been looking more comfortable, tightened. “Your . . . situation is more than I can manage—”

  “I know,” she jumped in. “I know it’s a big job, but, please, I need your help.” She leaned a gangly arm across the table and picked up a spoon. She focused on it as she spoke. “I know I need help. I’ve been seeing Dr. Harper—she’s a psychologist—and she recommended I hire a professional organizer. She had a list of people, all from Atlanta, but they’d charge me to drive down here.” She shrugged, her finger tracing the grooves on the spoon. “But it wasn’t that, not the money. It was that I couldn’t stand to have a stranger sneering over me, judging me. That’s why I asked you. I knew you wouldn’t do that. You might not understand why I do this, but you’d never make me feel like a . . . I don’t know . . . a failure, I guess.” She glanced at me quickly, then looked away, her eyes wide and scared.

  “Marie, that’s nice of you to say,” I faltered. I wanted to say no, I couldn’t help her—because I really couldn’t. This was way beyond my organizing abilities. “But I don’t think I’m the person you need. I don’t have the skills to help you.”

  She placed the spoon back in line very carefully. “I’m alphabetizing them, see? I’m going to get a cabinet and put it on the wall. Display them. I’ve been looking for a cabinet at yard sales, but haven’t found one yet.” I nodded, not quite sure what to say, but she didn’t wait for a response from me. “I’m trying. I’m really trying.” She waved her hand at the spoons and the teacups lined up so carefully. “Cole’s deployed. He’s been gone for five months and if he comes home and sees the house like this . . . well, I don’t know what will happen. I was always messy, but it was never this bad . . . Anyway, I have to do something. I’m afraid if Cole comes home and sees all this . . . he’ll . . . well, I don’t know what he’ll do. It was getting out of control when he left for the deployment . . . Back then, it was just the dining room that was packed with stuff. Since he left . . . things have overflowed. I didn’t know where to put it all, so I just stacked it in the living room, but now that’s overrun, too.” Marie paused for a second, then said quietly, “Back before Cole left on the deployment, he told me he couldn’t live like this,” she glanced guiltily out to the living room, then quickly looked back at me. “Please, just talk to Dr. Harper before you say no. Would you do that?”

  I looked at the debris creeping into the kitchen from the living room, then back at her tense face and her fingers clinched around the small spoon.

  “Okay. I’ll talk to her.”

  Tips for a Sane and Happy Holiday Season

  Entertaining

  Make entertaining and hosting houseguests easy. Give yourself permission to save time and cut your stress level. Use plastic plates and cups instead of the fine china, especially if you’ll be the one doing all the washing up! You don’t have to bake everything from scratch, even if that’s the way it’s always been done. Pick up a pie or rolls from the bakery so that you don’t have to spend the whole holiday in the kitchen.

  Chapter Four

  “I’m glad I had a cancellation and you were able to come over immediately,” Dr. Harper said in a gravelly voice as she gestured toward a chair upholstered in pale green. Her silver-gray hair was parted in the middle and hung straight to her shoulders, framing a face that proclaimed she loved the sun. Her curtain of hair briefly swung forward, screening her deeply tanned and wrinkle-scored face as she took a seat.

  “Yes, it was good timing for me, too.” I’d called her office when I left Marie’s house and driven straight there when she said she could see me. I had a follow-up appointment with another client at noon, but Dr. Harper’s office was close enough that I could work in a stop. Her office, a frame bungalow, was located in a neighborhood that sprang up near the base during the building boom after World War II. Now, almost all the houses had been converted to business offices and discreet signs for attorneys, accountants, medical specialists, and dentists dotted the lawns.

  I settled into the chair, which was positioned on a rug of cream-colored shag with enormous loops. A low, dark wood table with a pot of African violets separated the matching chairs. The chairs faced a large window, which looked out over a mammoth elm tree that dominated the backyard. Behind us, the room was decorated in various shades of white and green with splashes of purple and orange on the pillows and in the abstract artwork on the walls. There was a white desk facing two ivory slip-covered chairs, a few low, white filing cabinets, a round table with four chairs, and a soft green sofa with bright pillows scattered across it. The effect was cheerful and sterile at the same time.

  “So, Marie.” Dr. Harper put her palms together. She was wearing jeans and a stylish, loose, gray shirt with tight sleeves pushed up to her elbows, revealing tanned arms and age-spotted hands with short, unpolished nails. A long scarf patterned in yellow, gold, and royal blue touched the floor as she leaned forward in her chair. “I’m afraid I can’t get into specifics . . .”

  “I don’t want you to. That’s not why I called you.”

  “Why then?” She gazed at me, waiting. She almost succeeded in masking the undertone in her voice, but not quite. There was something there . . . impatience? Irritation? But her face was clear and blank. Maybe I was wrong.

  I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling a bit like we’d somehow gotten off on the wrong foot. “Marie asked me to talk to you. I had an initial organizing consultation with her this morning and, to be honest, I don’t think I’m the person to help her.”

  “Why is that? You’re a professional organizer.”

  “Yes, but her problem isn’t clutter.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’ll help her with the deeper issues. She needs you to guide her in the actual cleaning out and organizing of her belongings.”

  Yes, there was something there, a faintly superior attitude that rankled me, just a bit. No wonder Marie hadn’t wanted to use one of the organizers Dr. Harper
recommended. I was feeling slightly disapproving vibes coming from her and I hadn’t done anything but sit down in her office. “Have you seen her house?” I asked, a bit impatient myself.

  “Yes. It will be quite a job. I’d figured you would be anxious to get the job organizing for Marie. It will be a tremendous amount of work. Many hours involved.”

  “That’s not why I’m here. The amount of work—” I paused and looked up at the ceiling, “it would be massive, but I’m not concerned about that. Of course, new clients are essential to me as a business owner, and I always want to grow my business, but I don’t think I’m the right person to help Marie. I’m not trained to handle this type of client. I deal with clutter, not mental health issues. It seems to me that Marie needs an expert in this type of thing. That’s not me.”

  She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips together, then sat back abruptly in her chair. “I think you’re exactly the right person.”

  “What?” I was so sure she was going to say the opposite that I was caught off guard.

  “Yes. You don’t want the job and that’s why you’re precisely the best person for it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You’re concerned for Marie. I can see you understand how delicate her situation is—that is a very important part of dealing with a case like this. You won’t go in like a drill sergeant and tell people to shape up and order them around. I think you have the sensitivity to deal with her carefully. She told me you’re not a close friend, so I expect you’ll be able to hold the line where it needs to be held and not give in to her when she needs a boundar y.”

  A smile split her face, a real smile, deepening her wrinkles, and I felt as if she’d abruptly switched her opinion about me. “I’ll confess, I had a friend I wanted Marie to use as her organizer. I’ve worked with this woman before and she’s terrific. When Marie told me she’d asked you instead, I was wary. If I seemed a bit hostile, I apologize. I thought you’d want details on Marie’s background. Why she’s the way she is. People are morbidly curious about these things—look at all the television shows focused on hoarding and junk.” She shook her head. “Sorry, I’ll save my voyeur lecture for another day. The other essential thing about you is that you don’t want to milk the project forever. That’s critical for Marie. Some organizers would see working for Marie as a cash cow, a never-ending project. It is essential that you help Marie get started. Train her to thin her possessions, then classify and organize her belongings so that she can carry on without you. Set her on the path, give her the skills she needs, then let her continue on her own.”