ferociously to the job at hand, I found Bobo's errant checkbook and propped it on his mother's dressing table, where she'd be sure to spot it. Thinking was slowing me down; I still had to do Howell Three's room, and though he isn't the pig Bobo is, he isn't neat, either.
On my Tuesday at the Winthrops', I pick up, do the wash and put it away, and clean the bathrooms. On my Friday visit, I dust, vacuum, and mop. The Winthrops also have a cook, who takes care of the kitchen, or they'd have to hire me for a third time slot. Of course, on Fridays, too, I have to do a certain amount of picking up just to reach the surfaces of things I need to dust, and I get aggravated all over again at the people who are lazy enough to pay me to clean up their mess.
I soothed myself with a few deep breaths. Finally, I realized I was upset not because of the unthrifty Winthrops - their habits are to my benefit - or even because of Marshall Sedaka's possible involvement with Pardon Albee, but because right after I'd finished here, I had to meet with Claude Friedrich.
Chapter Three
He was exactly on time.
As I stepped back to let him in, I was again impressed by his size and presence.
The big thing about fear, I reminded myself, is not to show it. Having braced myself with that piece of personal junk philosophy, I found myself unable to show the policeman much of anything, besides a still face that could be construed as simply sullen.
I watched him scanning my sparse furniture, pieces that were on sale at the most expensive local stores, pieces I'd carefully selected and placed exactly where I wanted. It is a small living room, and I'd chosen with its size in mind: a reclining love seat with a footrest, rather than a sofa; a wing chair; small occasional tables; small pictures. I have a television set, but it, too, is not large. There are no photographs. There are library books, a large stack, on the bottom level of the table by my chair.
The prevailing colors in both upholstery and pictures are dark blue and tan.
"How long have you lived in this house?" Friedrich asked when he'd finished looking.
"I bought it four years ago."
"From Pardon Albee."
"Yes."
"And you bought it when you came to Shakespeare?"
"I rented it at first, with an option to buy."
"What exactly do you do for your living, Miss - is it Miss? - Bard?"
Titles are not important to me, nor is political correctness. I didn't tell him to call me Ms. But I saw that he had expected me to correct him.
"I clean houses."
"But a few things more than that?"
He'd done his research. Or maybe he'd always known about me, every detail of my life here in Shakespeare. After all, how much could the chief of police in this town have to occupy his mind?
"A few things." He required elaboration, his lifted eyebrows implying I was being churlish with my short answers. I suppose I was. I sighed. "I run errands for a few older people. I help families when they go out of town, if a neighbor can't. I get groceries in before the family comes home, feed the dog, mow the yard, and water the plants."
"How well did you know Pardon Albee?"
"I bought this house from him. I clean some apartments in the building he owned, but that is by arrangement with the individual tenants. I worked for him a couple of times. I saw him in passing."
"Did you have a social relationship with him, maybe?"
I flared up to speak before I realized I was being goaded. I shut my mouth again. I breathed deeply. "I did not have a social relationship with Mr. Albee." As a matter of fact, I'd always had a physical aversion to Pardon; he was white and soft and lumpy-looking, without any splendors of character to counterbalance this lack of fitness.
Friedrich studied his hands; he'd folded them together, fingers interlaced. He was leaning forward, his elbows resting on his thighs.
"About last night," he rumbled, shooting a sudden look over at me. I'd seated him on the love seat, while I was in the wing chair. I didn't nod; I didn't speak. I just waited.
"Did you see anything unusual?" He leaned back suddenly, looking straight at me.
"Unusual." I tried to look thoughtful, but felt I was probably just succeeding in looking stubborn.
"I went to bed