scarf was tied around most of her hair, the ends of her light red mop sticking out the top and flopping around in all directions.
“You look as if you stepped out of a 1950s
“How perceptive of you, daahling.”
“Why the fifties?”
“Don’t you read the obituaries? That’s when Agnes was born.”
My own clothing was well-worn running shoes, jeans unfit to be worn in public, and an aged Northwestern sweatshirt. The purple had faded to a light plum, and half the letters had peeled off, proclaiming that I was now an alumna of NOR WE ERN. “One of us,” I said, “is dressed inappropriately. Wonder who it is?”
“Only time will tell.” Marina smiled grandly. “Shall we?”
I’d parked my car in Agnes’s driveway and walked to Marina’s house. Now we made the journey in reverse. Marina chattered about the Saturday activities of her husband and youngest son, Zach. I half listened to the hiking plans, but most of my attention was on the ranch house in front of us. Beige vinyl siding; brown shutters; juniper bushes in front; maple trees and a fence in back—so average it was hard to believe it actually existed.
We climbed the concrete steps to the front door. I took Gloria’s key from my purse, inserted it into the dead bolt, and stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Marina leaned close. “Is it stuck?”
I’d always wondered if I could sense where a murder had taken place. Was anything left behind? Maybe a piece of tormented soul would chill my blood. Maybe there’d be a silent cry of anguish that only certain ears could hear. Or maybe—
“Let me try.” Marina brushed my hand away and unlocked the door easily. “You must have been turning it the wrong way, silly.”
We stepped inside and into a dusky gloom. “Eww.” Marina blew out a breath. “Stinks in here.”
Marina marched to the nearest window, unlocked it, and pushed the frame high. “I don’t care if it is twenty degrees colder outside than in. This stink has got to go.” She circled the room, opening drapes and windows.
I flipped on the light, flooding the room with a wash of light, and stood transfixed.
Marina opened another window and brushed her hands. “There. Hey, what’s the matter?”
I stared at an amoebalike stain on the carpet. The stain and its accompanying smell were organic; a cloying odor that made the back of the throat feel as if it were coated with gunk. Agnes had died right there, leaving behind a spot made up of things I really didn’t want to think about.
“Oh, ick.” Marina wrinkled her nose. “That’s where this ranky stink is coming from. Why on earth didn’t Agnes clean it up?” Marina’s thoughts caught up with her words. “Oh,” she said, and sat down hard on the couch. We stared in silence at the spot where Agnes had breathed her last breath, where she’d left her last mark— literally.
I supposed I’d been in hospital rooms where people had died and I’d passed crosses on roadsides put up to mark the location of fatal traffic accidents, but those were different, somehow. This had been someone I’d known. The last beat of her heart had faded away on the very floor at my feet. I stared at a single marble bookend that sat on the coffee table; its mate was in the hands of the police.
“Well.” Marina rocked herself forward and to her feet. “This isn’t getting the eggs fried. You want I should clean this up?”
I gave her a grateful look. “You don’t mind?”
“Don’t be a goose.” She gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Now. Where do you think Agnes kept her vacuum cleaner?”
We went from living room to dining room to kitchen, both of us skirting the stain with as wide a berth as possible. Next to the garage door, we found a closet full of cleaning supplies.
“I’ll vacuum the . . . the living room,” Marina said. “And there’s some carpet spot cleaner. You clear out the fridge. We’ll be done with the nasty chores in a tick.” She trundled the upright vacuum cleaner across the linoleum and soon had it running at full volume, sucking up the last pieces of . . .
I rubbed my eyes. Sometimes a vivid imagination was a curse. I took a deep breath. We had three hours; I needed to get to the store by eleven. Standing here being creeped out from what had happened to Agnes wasn’t very productive. I rolled my shoulders to loosen the tension in my neck and got to work.
The closet was stocked with cleaning supplies, but there was something funny about it. I stood there, looking at the cans of powdered cleanser, the toilet bowl cleaner, and the furniture polish, trying to figure it out. Only when I saw the aging can of Glass Wax did I catch on. There was nothing new. Agnes didn’t stock anything in her closet that had been put on the market in the last thirty years. No plug-in air fresheners, no premoistened cleaning cloths, no dryer sheets.
Weird.
I found a box of garbage bags and pulled one off the roll, wondering what I’d find in the refrigerator. I tried and failed not to think about the B horror movies Marina had forced upon me. Eyes mostly shut, I opened the door.
A quart of milk, a carton of sour cream, a bag of lettuce, eggs, and assorted condiments. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. There was no reason for severed hands to be in Agnes’s refrigerator, but you never knew.
I dumped the liquids and near-liquids down the drain, ran the disposal, and was filling the garbage bag when Marina reappeared, pushing the vacuum cleaner ahead of her. “I sprayed the spot remover,” she said. “It needs to set for a while. Need some help?”
In my hands were jars of mayonnaise and pickle relish. “It seems a waste to throw away perfectly good food.” I looked at the jars, considering options.
“Well, I don’t want them. People who live alone double-dip.”
I dropped the jars into the bag and reached for the ketchup bottle.
When you don’t have to make any keep-or-pitch decisions, emptying a refrigerator doesn’t take long. Marina hauled the bag over to her house and I wiped down the shelves with a mixture of baking soda and water. Agnes would have approved, I was sure.
With grunts of effort, we wrestled the fridge a few inches away from the wall. I squeezed my arm into the gap and unplugged the cord; then we found blocks of wood in the garage to hold the fridge and freezer doors open.
Marina went back to the living room and sponged up the spot remover while I checked the kitchen cupboards for perishables. Potatoes, onions, and open bags of flour and sugar went into another garbage bag.
“Done!” Marina announced. She emptied her bucket of water into the sink and rinsed out the sponge. “We’ll get Don the dry cleaner to take those drapes. There’re some spots on that one that won’t come out.” She dried her hands on a kitchen towel hanging from a cabinet knob and grinned. “Now for the fun part.”
“Didn’t know we were here to have fun.”
“That’s the problem with you, Beth.” My best friend looked at me sadly. “You still haven’t learned that every moment is an opportunity to have fun.”
We’d had this conversation before, and it always ended the same way—with my agreeing to whatever Marina was planning. I still didn’t know if it was because I lacked a backbone, or if it was because she was right.
Due to time constraints, I didn’t bother arguing.“Whatever you have in mind had better not take more than half an hour. I need to get to the store.”
She huffed. “Not nearly enough time. But”—she held up a traffic hand—“we’ll make it work. Despite the rumors, I can be efficient, especially regarding this particular task.”
“Which would be what?”
Marina’s hair was beginning to escape the scarf, and dirt smudged her forehead, but her cheeks had a youthful glow. “Snooping!”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” The idea of going through Agnes’s personal belongings gave me the willies.
“That’s not a reason.”
“What about privacy? She’s dead, but does that give us the right to poke through her private possessions?
