One Foot in the Grove (14 page)

The three of us marched into the empty dining room and stopped short. The room, decorated with my grandparents' finest antiques, was littered with piles of dirty dishes, empty bowls and platters, soiled napkins, and food-encrusted silverware. Daphne's white linen tablecloth was blasted with multicolored globs of food and drink.

“Well, I'll be damned,” whispered Precious.

“It's alright,” Daphne sighed. “We have all mornin' to clean. The antebellum tour will take most of the day.”

Outside, there was a loud
pssssshhhttt
of air brakes. We all went to the foyer and looked out the front door. A big white box truck was parked next to the house. Printed on the sides of the truck were the words
DIXIE SHINDIGS
under a cartooned pair of dancing magnolias.

“Daphne, what's this?” I asked.

“Oh fiddle-dee-dee! I completely forgot. Since y'all have come back, Eva, there have been
so
many last-minute RSVPs for tomorrow's Chamber of Commerce meeting that we simply don't have enough room for everyone. I've leased a tent.”

“A tent? Like, the kind people use for weddings?”

“Yes.”

“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” mumbled Precious.

Daphne waved to the men at the truck. “Be with y'all in a moment!”

“Daphne, what do you mean, there's so many ‘last-minute' RSVPs?”

“I couldn't figure it out at first,” said Daphne from the porch. She straightened a few pillows in the wicker chairs absently. “This meetin' has been scheduled for months. Usually, there's no more than twenty or so folks at these events. However, since you came back, the responses have been pourin' in. Earlene Azalea said folks are comin' because they want to see
you
.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“It's that runaway bridey thing, ain't it?” said Precious.

“I'm afraid so,” said Daphne.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“You shouldn't be feelin' bad, Sunshine,” said Precious. “There's a tree stump in a Louisiana swamp with an IQ higher than most of these folks in town.”

“If that what it takes to get folks here, then I'm willin' to play along,” said Daphne. “Now that we have their attention, we need to wow folks with our service, cuisine, and Daddy's olive oils. Actually, I'm seein' it as a marvelous opportunity to promote our new businesses. So, today, if y'all can clean the two suites upstairs, Earlene Azalea and I will take care of the rest of the house. She'll be over to help out while her daughters are recovering.”

“Are the twins alright?” I asked.

“They're fine. Just a bit shaken-up. Earlene Azalea thinks they're more tired from the concert than anything else. Now, I need to speak to these folks about the tent.” Daphne stepped down the front porch stairs. “Fiddle-dee-dee, someone's left their boots out here. One of the men, I suppose.
Miss Precious, will y'all take these dirty boots out back and set them by the hose? We can spray them off later.”

“Sure,” said Precious.

Already, Daphne was in the drive, giving instructions to the tent people.

“I'll head upstairs and meet you there,” I said to Precious. “I want to disappear before Daphne comes back, changes her mind, and sentences us to the dining room.” My ankle and ribs hurt. I wanted to get though the cleaning as fast as possible.

“Sure thing. While we clean upstairs, we can come up with tomorrow's gossip 'bout you.” Precious chuckled. Boots in hand, she tromped through the house, toward the kitchen. “I reckon it's gonna be mighty tough followin' today's news!” She laughed out loud.

“Gee willikers!” sighed Precious as we stepped into the Gambinis' suite.

The opulent bath and pink bedroom was a guest favorite. And it had been my room as a girl. Before the upstairs redesign to accommodate guests, the en suite bath had been a small sewing room accessed from the hallway.

“Yup. This is pretty loathsome,” I said, looking around at the disheveled bed and piles of soiled clothing on the floor. It was weird to see such a mess in my old room.

“I'm sorry, Precious,” I said, turning to her. “I know Daphne is grateful to have your help. We all are. But this is our problem, not yours. I can do this if you want to leave. I'm sure your boss would love to have you back at Greatwoods.”

I'd been terribly curious about Greatwoods and Ian Collier. It was frustrating not to remember him. Could Ian Collier be a part of what had happened? This neighbor—a man whom no one in town seemed to know at all—should be every bit as much a suspect as I was . . . maybe more so. After all, he'd been out in the woods during the time the
murder happened. And why was he so secretive? Why the barbed wire around Greatwoods?

Maybe Precious could tell me about her boss.

“Aw, Sunshine,” said Precious, “don't worry yourself. I ain't gonna leave ya here alone! No offense, but y'all are lookin' bone tired. We got work to do. C'mon. Let's get started. It's only two suites . . . How bad can it be?”

Precious and I each carried a box of cleaning supplies into the bathroom that Daphne had redecorated with pink-striped wallpaper, bronzed fixtures, crystal sconces, and a reclaimed bowfront vanity with a marble top. The room was a shambles. Toilet paper was unwound all over the floor, and bags and boxes of toiletries and shaving paraphernalia were scattered on a counter spattered with creams and beard shavings. And hadn't Bambi said her husband had slept in the bathroom after being sick? I grabbed a can of disinfectant from my cleaning box and sprayed. Everywhere. Precious just nodded her approval as she stood taking it all in, hands on her hips.

“So, Precious, tell me about Ian Collier,” I said, putting on a pair of rubber gloves. Opening the shower door with two fingers, I was suddenly grateful for Daphne's tall rubber boots.

“Why do you wanna know 'bout Mister Collier?” Precious pulled up her gloves and threw open the window.

“Well, he did sort of rescue me. I don't even remember seeing him. What does he do?”

“He's a businessman, I guess.” Precious flipped up the toilet lid and got to work. I was grateful for her stoutheartedness, remembering Bambi telling the detective that Guido had spent half the night embracing the fixture.

“What kind of business?”

“Something with international security. That's all I know. And more than I should say.”

“Securities?”

“That's what I said, ain't it?”

“How did he end up at Greatwoods?”

“Bought it, I guess.”

“Where's he from?”

“Not from around here, that's for sure.”

After a few minutes and a quick rinse, I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a rag to dry it down. My ribs were aching big-time, so I leaned against the sink for a rest. I stared hard at Precious. “You're not being very helpful, here, Miss Precious.”

“Look, Sunshine, I like you and all, but Mister Collier's my boss, and I don't go talking about him. Not for nothin', not for no one, understand? He's been very good to me.
Very good
. He likes his privacy, and I aim to help him keep it that way.” She flushed the toilet.

I hobbled back into the shower and polished the fixtures dry. “Well, surely, you can tell me something about him. Is he single? Married? How old is he? He must be good-looking. Daphne nearly melted when she was talking about him. I think she's interested.”

“Whether your big sis is interested in Mister Collier or not, Sunshine, Mister Collier's private life is just that, private . . . Ack!”

Precious screamed.

“Precious? What is it?” I turned and saw Precious on her tippy toes, huddled way back in the bathroom corner, shaking and pointing toward the sink.

“Big. Bug. Or a bat!” Her eyes were round, like a night owl's. “Dead bat!” she shrieked.

Cautiously, I stepped out of the shower, went over to the sink, and looked down.

“Hahahahahaha!”

“What? What is it?” Precious demanded. “Tell me!”

I couldn't stop laughing. I laughed so hard, my ribs ached even more. In fact, seeing big Precious cowering in such a state of fear and panic, and realizing what it was that had made her that way, I doubled over in giggles. Still, it literally pained me to laugh, so I tried to stifle my hysterics.

“It's a dead bat in the sink, isn't it!” Precious cried. “Isn't it!”

“Close,” I said. A tear—half from laughter, half from pain—streamed down my cheek. “Actually, it's a false eyelash.” I burst out laughing again.

After convincing Precious that it really
was
just a giant false eyelash in the sink, we hustled as quickly as we could to finish cleaning the suite. Precious stripped the bed, while I went to the linen closet in the hall and grabbed fresh towels and sheets. Although I was much slower than I should've been due to my wrecked-up body, Precious more than made up for my handicapped effort. While I set up the bathroom with fresh towels, soaps, and glassware, like a great cleaning tornado, she swept over and polished the bedroom floor in record time. And at the end of it all, she mopped the bathroom floor Guido Gambini had slept on while I was short of breath and had to rest in a bedroom chair. Daphne would never find regular help as good as Precious, either in the kitchen or in housekeeping.

Precious lived up to her name.

It wasn't long before we'd moved on to the Malaguttis' suite. Although the bedroom was large—decorated in what I'd call “elegant country” style—every inch of it was in chaos. All of the flat surfaces in the room—the floor, opened suitcases, four-poster king-sized bed, upholstered chairs, my great-grandparents' antique side table, even the opened antique drop-down desk—were draped and covered with clothes, shopping bags, toiletries, accessories, brochures, food . . . you name it.

“Great day!” said Precious with a grim look, as she stepped into the bathroom.

I used two reluctant fingers to remove a chewed-up cigar butt from the marble countertop that was covered in ashes, beard shavings, toothpaste spatter, and dried shaving cream. I tossed the soggy cigar into a little gilded garbage can, already piled high with trash. The grime was a stark contrast to the soft butter yellow walls, floral chintz fabrics, and delicate antiques.

“There's certainly no glory in the hospitality business. This is nasty,” I said.

“Just like the last suite. Birds of a feather sure flock together,” said Precious, shaking her head. “Only these are dirty ol' birds. Just look at this mess. I gotta tell ya, I ain't got much dog for this fight.”

Precious looked around the bathroom, put her hands on her hips, and announced, “Well, I'm not doin' this without some fresh rubber gloves. You wanna pair? I'm goin' down to find me some spankin' new ones. It'll make me feel better.”

“I saw a box of gloves in the pantry. We could use some more cleanser, too. There's some in the laundry room. If you don't want to carry it all up, you can use the dumbwaiter.”

Precious turned and ducked her head under the doorframe into the bedroom. I heard one of the chandeliers in the bedroom chitter and tinkle as she clomped down the hallway and then down the back stairs. I decided to tackle the bedroom.

When I was a teenager, I had a summer job cleaning half a dozen cabins at a lakeside camp. The crusty old biddy who owned the camp, Miz Poppie, cleaned with high-speed military precision. And she taught me to do the same. I'd stripped all the cabin beds—rotating and flipping the mattresses each time before remaking the beds with fresh linens. Miz Poppie had taught me to first spin the mattress end to end, then lift and flip crosswise. Next, I'd replaced the dirty linens and remade each bed—hospital corners and all—before fluffing the pillows, “chopping” them in the middle with my hand to make sure they looked extra comfy. Also, I'd mopped in a precise figure eight pattern; emptied garbage; washed windows and doors; scrubbed counters, sinks, and showers; hand washed dishes and silverware; cleaned the refrigerator; and restocked cabinets.

Unfortunately, I never managed to maintain my own home with the same verve. Not even close. More recently, I'd been looking forward to the professional cleaning service Zack had promised to hire after we were married. I should've known the promise was too good to be true. Just like Zack.
Stop it, Eva
. Regardless, Daphne's impossible standard of
perfection meant that I needed to pull out all the stops when it came to cleaning. Feeling like crap or not, I needed to do better than my best.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My
GEORGIA VIRGIN
tee had a tear in the sleeve and stains all over it. My hair was a tangled mess. My face was scratched; so were my arms and legs. My eyes were dark and hollow. I looked as bad as I felt. Maybe worse. Like an outlaw. No wonder Daphne wanted to hide me from everyone.
That's not going to happen
.

I needed to suck it up. I channeled Miz Poppie, took a deep breath, and tapped into my cabin-cleaning psyche. I decided to start with the beds. Then, I'd vacuum, dust, wipe the windows, and straighten the furniture before finishing with the disgusting bathroom. Really, I hoped that Precious would cover the bathroom when she got back, so I wouldn't have to step in there again. My injuries were getting the best of me. I was losing steam, fast.

“What a disaster,” I mumbled as I shuffled in my sister's green rubber boots over to the bay window. I slid open the floral-patterned chintz drapes. I couldn't help myself. I was worried about Dolly. I scanned the well-kept gardens and lawns below, looking for my pup. It was all I could do to keep from going out and searching for her. Still, Daphne said the pup was in the yard, so I tried not to worry. I'd find Dolly just as soon as Precious and I finished cleaning.

I went to the bed and pulled back the cotton ivory matelassé blanket and embroidered percale top sheet before yanking off the bottom sheet. Given the disgusting mess I'd seen in the bathroom, I decided to swap out the mattress pad for a clean one. I ripped off the soiled pad. The plushy, satin-corded mattress underneath looked to be very pricey. And new.

“Daphne will kill me if I let this mattress get soiled.”

I shuffled to the hall and picked up fresh linens and a thickly quilted mattress pad from the closet. Sharp pain shot through my ribs as I carried the load. In my head, I heard Miz Poppie's lecture about the importance of maintaining clean and functioning bedding and the need to guard against
dust, bedbugs, dead skin, lumpy linens, sagging mattresses, stains, and more.
Ugh
. I grabbed a fabric-covered cord on the side of the thick mattress. I pulled hard, ignoring the pain in my ribs, and pushed the mattress around, spinning it so the top end relocated to the bottom end of the bed. Then, bracing for pain, I heaved the mattress sideways toward me, so that some of it was off the bed frame. I took a big breath, bent my knees, and, with both hands and all my weight, put my shoulder under the mattress and pushed the long side of the hulking thing straight up into the air.

About the same time I cried out in pain, Precious screamed in hysterics downstairs.

Then I saw the pistol. It was under the mattress, right in the center of the box spring.