Spruced Up (6 page)

 
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 30
^th
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 mantle, 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.

 
If his living room was a pit, I really didn’t want to know what condition his bedroom was in.  Knowing that all that stood between me and some Santee Alley bargain shopping was this bedroom, I opened the door, took all of one step in and...screamed.

 
It wasn’t a frustrated scream.

 
It wasn’t even a this-guy-is-such-a-pig sort of scream.

 
No, it was more like a there’s-a-bloody-dead-body-on-the-bed sort of scream.

 
Loud, long and more than a little crazed.

 
I wanted to keep screaming and run right out of the house, but I managed to get myself under control.  The killer had to be long gone, or else he—or she—would have attacked me as I cleaned.  I was safe.  I couldn’t say the same for poor Mr. Banning.

 
I reached in my back pocket, pulled out my cell phone and called 911.

 
“You’ve reached Los Angles emergency dispatch.”

 
“I need help,” I blurted out.

 
“What is the nature of your emergency?” the man on the other end of the phone asked.

 
“Mr. Banning’s dead.  There’s blood on his head and his eyes are open.” 

 
Those eyes were going to give me nightmares for the rest of my life.

 
“Your address ma’am?”

 
“I’m at, he’s at—” I had to think a moment, but then I somehow pulled his address from the fog that was my mind and blurted it out.

 
“Who are you?” the operator asked.

 
“I’m the maid.  Quincy Mac.” 

 
Now, some people prefer the term domestic engineer, or some fancy title.  I call it like I see it.  I’m a maid.

 
I had no idea why I thought of what to call myself at that moment.  Maybe it was nerves.  After all it’s not every day I find a dead client. 

 
Thinking about my job description was easier than thinking about those eyes and all that blood.

 
“Ma’am are you sure he’s dead?”

 
“I don’t think there’s any way someone could look that bloody and blue and still be breathing.”