Staying Home Is A Killer. Sara Rosett
she left here?”
“No. She got right on her mobile phone as she walked back to her car.” Mabel pronounced it “mo-bile.” “Maybe she called you right then.” Mabel leaned forward. She’d obviously been thinking about Penny’s death. “Have you checked your caller identification?”
“No. Not in a while. In fact, not since the police took my phone with built-in caller ID and answering machine. I’m sure the police will track down the murderer, so you don’t need to worry about it.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about it. I’m sure you’re going to figure it out like you did last time. With a little help.”
“Mabel, I’m not going to do anything about Penny’s death, and you should leave it alone, too.” I was relieved when a crash from the kitchen interrupted me. I sounded too much like Thistlewait. This was like a twilight zone conversation with me taking the role of Thistlewait and Mabel saying my lines. Maybe I was more like Mabel than I realized.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got Corell,” Mabel said when a second clatter sounded from the kitchen. “Just come back around when you’re ready to investigate. I’ve been keeping an eye on the neighborhood for a long time. I know quite a bit about everyone.”
Except for a short, perfunctory visit from the Vernon detective investigating Penny’s death, Detective Jensen, I didn’t think about how or why Penny died during the next day. Jensen assumed I didn’t have anything to add to his investigation and I was distracted since he interviewed me while Livvy was sick. She came down with the flu and I spent Wednesday night and most of Thursday holding her, cleaning up the bathroom, and examining every twinge of my stomach to see if I was about to start throwing up, too, which in an odd way would have been a relief because then I could postpone my Friday morning consultation with Clarissa Bedford.
But Friday morning, I ate my waffles with Livvy and downed a glass of orange juice without any strange stomach pangs or grumbling. I felt fine, so I had to rush around and grab my newly designed flyers and brochures. I kissed Livvy, waved to Mitch, and headed out the door as I jammed the papers into a folder labeled EVERYTHING IN ITS PLACE. ELLIE AVERY, PROFESSIONAL ORGANIZER.
On the drive to the base, I crept along freshly iced roads. I felt a flutter in my stomach, but I knew it was nerves. Clarissa’s beauty pageant perfect looks and standoffish manner made me uncomfortable, but she was an important client and would be a good reference, so I’d better get with it. I didn’t have to like someone to work for them.
In the special section of base housing for colonels and generals, I drove slowly until I found the nameplate that read BRIGADIER GENERAL JACKSON BEDFORD. I pulled into the driveway of the largest two-story house right on time. Clarissa Bedford opened the door. “Hi. Come on in.” She looked like a life-size Barbie doll, tall with flowing hair, big boobs, flat tummy, and long legs. Her face with careful makeup, including a wide lipsticked smile, reinforced the image. Today she looked like Workout Barbie with her wavy brown hair caught up in a ponytail that bounced as she led the way to the kitchen. “Coffee?” she asked as she refilled her mug. A white T-shirt, navy windbreaker and sweats, and pristine white tennis shoes completed her outfit. It looked like the clothes had come straight out of the little pink plastic-sealed boxes.
“No, thanks.” I sat down on a bar stool and pulled out the brochures and folders. They were wrinkled. She sat down beside me and I explained what I did, saying I would need to look over her closets and then give her an estimate of how long it would take and what I’d charge. “I can help you organize any room in your house. Garage, bedrooms, kitchen, anywhere.” I tried to smooth the wrinkles from the brochures.
“Jackson cooks for us,” she said shortly.
Okay, the kitchen was his territory and she wasn’t messing with it.
I managed to keep from biting my nails while Clarissa skimmed the brochure. My other jobs had been for friends. This was the first time I had to sell myself.
She looked up at me with her hard brown eyes. Comparisons to Barbie seemed ludicrous after looking into her eyes. Barbie did not have cold, assessing eyes. “So is there a charge for this estimate?”
“No. Estimates are free.”
“All right.” She jumped off the stool. “There’s just one closet.”
She led the way through the dark house. The curtains were closed, lamps off. After our interview Clarissa must be leaving for the day and wouldn’t be back. I couldn’t see very well, but the house looked like it was furnished in a traditional style. I caught a glimpse of a cherry-wood Queen Anne table and chairs, leather couches, and wing-back chairs flanking a fireplace.
Scattered throughout the living areas were items General Bedford must have brought back from his trips. A Japanese tea set’s gold trim glowed dully in the dim light. A statue of the Virgin Mary draped with rosary beads was arranged on a wooden trunk with intricate carvings, similar to the one Mitch had brought back from the Azores. Turkish rugs muffled our footsteps as we crossed the living room, climbed the stairs, and walked along the upstairs hallway.
Clarissa moved through the house without touching anything. The furniture, sturdy, classic pieces, didn’t seem to be Clarissa’s style. Paintings of idealized scenes dotted the walls, girls in pigtails with ponies or kittens. I wondered if the furniture and decor were leftovers from the era of the first Mrs. Bedford. Clarissa seemed like she’d favor contemporary styles that weren’t fussy or ornate.
I paused beside several black-and-white photographs lining the hall above a table budding with a dusty silk flower arrangement. The photos were of a shiny-faced young man, his military hat tilted at a cocky angle. He leaned causally on a T-38, a jet used for training. I pointed to the photos. “In case you’re worried about the photos Penny picked up from your husband for Frost Fest, I called Hetty Sullivan and she’s picking them up tonight.”
Clarissa gripped the doorknob of one of the doors lining the hall. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Her eyes were frigid and her posture stiff. She threw the door open and crossed the room to the open closet. “This closet and these boxes,” she said sharply, pointing to several boxes stacked on a queen-size bed.
I pulled out my legal pad and jotted some notes. I opened the boxes with Clarissa at my elbow. I realized I was moving slowly and watching her out of the corner of my eye. She was tense. She reminded me of Livvy’s jack-in-the-box, about to explode.
“Okay, what are your goals? Do you want to weed out old items and reduce the amount of things you have stored? Sort and throw away what you don’t need? Or do you want to keep everything, but make it neater and easier to get to?”
She relaxed a little. “A little of both, I guess.”
I stifled a sigh. So far, of the people I’d organized for, no one could answer this question. The usual answer was “I don’t want it to be such a mess.”
“Most of it belongs to Jackson,” Clarissa continued. “He never wants to get rid of anything, so keep his stuff. But my things, I could get rid of some of them, I guess.” She sat down on a corner of the bed that wasn’t covered with cardboard boxes while I looked through the closet.
“So where are you from?” I asked. It was one of my standard conversational gap fillers that I’d developed since becoming a military spouse. Everyone had a story, and the question was a way to get them started.
“Savannah, but I’ve lived in the Northwest for years.”
“I thought I heard a slight accent on your message. What brought you up here?” I scrawled a few figures as I talked, then tore the page from the pad.
“Medical sales. I have the Northwest region.”
“Well, here’s what I’ve got,” I said and she stopped examining her red polish to look over the page I handed her. “I figure it will take me about six hours to sort everything and organize it. I’ll need to buy some sort of containers, plastic bins or shelving, depending on what you want. This includes my time,