Her profit from this job would go a long way toward paying for that kind of equipment-if she didn't lose her temper and blow it. Though it was more than Beverly's attitude that made her uncomfortable about this bid. She wasn't looking forward to cleaning the house where Janet Jeannot had been killed so brutally. She'd been a fan of Janet's, had admired Janet's work for years. She wasn't sure how she was going to feel, working there, where Janet had been murdered.
But that was childish, she was being childish. She couldn't help Janet; she couldn't change anything.
When she was still in art school, she had sometimes seen Janet at a gallery opening or a museum reception among a group of well-known painters. She had never had the nerve to approach the artist. Why should Janet Jeannot care that some gangling art student idolized her work?
But now she wished she had spoken to her. She hadn't learned until she moved to Molena Point three weeks ago, what a down-to-earth person Janet had been. Maybe a word of admiration, even from an art student, would have meant a little something.
Of course when she told Beverly, over coffee that day, how much she had admired Janet, she received only a haughty sniff. As if a common cleaning and repair person couldn't possibly distinguish an exciting painting from the Sunday comics. Now, following Beverly inside, she wondered if Beverly herself had appreciated Janet's work. Stepping over the burned threshold, Beverly gathered her skirts around her giving a little disgusted huff at the sour smell.
What did she expect, attar of lilies? There'd been a fire there: the white walls, the white rugs and furniture were dark from smoke, the rooms smelled of smoke and dampness, and strongly of mildew. There were drip lines running down the smoke-darkened paint where water had leaked in from the fire hoses.
"I will want all the food removed from the cupboards, and that cat stuff thrown out." Beverly directed her glance to the dusty water and food bowls on the floor by the kitchen sink. "She kept a cat, but I suppose it's dead or has found somewhere else to live.
"I want you to clean the refrigerator thoroughly, and pack up all the dishes and cookware. Those will go to the Goodwill-there's nothing here worth keeping. I want the house completely emptied except for the rugs and furniture. You will see to having those properly cleaned, so that I can sell them." Beverly stood waiting, as if to be sure that Charlie understood.
Charlie dutifully noted the details on the pad inserted in her clipboard, then picked up the wet throw rugs and carried them out to the deck. Wringing them out, she hung them over the undamaged portion of rail. She'd drop them off later for cleaning-a good professional would do a better job than she ever could with a rented steam cleaner. Straightening the rugs, looking down the hill, she admired the view. Maybe someday she'd have a place like this. She wondered where the cat was, the one that belonged to the dusty water and food bowls. That would be the white cat that Wilma had helped to search for. Wilma thought the poor thing had died in the fire; they'd found no sign of him.
She stood in the big living room for a few moments, assessing the smoke-stained walls. They'd need a heavy scrubbing before she painted. The floors would be fine with a good mopping; nothing could hurt that Mexican clay tile.
"I'm in here," Beverly called imperiously.
Out of sight, Charlie stuck out her tongue, then moved obediently toward the bedroom.
This room was huge, too, and so bright it took her breath. It would make a wonderful studio. She'd kill for that view down the hills. Beverly stood beside the unmade bed, shuffling through a tangle of scrapbooks scattered across the rumpled sheets. The sheets were streaked with black dirt, too, and when she looked more closely she realized they were pawprints.
So Janet's cat had survived, had been in the house-or some cat had. Must have slipped in through the charred hole under the front door. Beverly seemed not to see the prints or was ignoring them, caring nothing about the cat.
Before she left, Charlie thought, she'd put out fresh water, food if she could find any, maybe leave the bowls under the entry deck where Beverly wouldn't notice.
"I'll want her clothes boxed up for charity. She had no valuable jewelry, only junk. Please look through the closet and dresser now, so you will know how many containers you will require. I will want a complete and detailed list for tax purposes." Beverly flipped through each album, left them in an untidy pile, and turned to inspecting the bookshelves, moving books and glancing behind them. It occurred to Charlie to wonder if Beverly Jeannot really ought to be in there. Maybe she hadn't any more right to be in this house than the general public, until the police cordon was removed and the trial was finished.
Opening the dresser drawers, she found them half-empty. Not as if Janet's clothes had been removed, rather as if Janet hadn't had much, as if perhaps the artist saw no need for an abundance of clothing. Her few jeans and sweatshirts lay neatly folded. There was one nice sweater, in a plastic storage bag, a dozen pairs of socks, two pairs of panty hose. Janet had worn plain cotton panties. She didn't seem overly fond of brassieres-she had only one.
Beverly, preoccupied and intent, moved from the bookshelves to the desk, opening drawers, shuffling through the contents. Charlie watched her, then checked the closet It was half-empty, too. Janet must have unpacked from her San Francisco trip before she went to bed. There was a small, empty suitcase on the top shelf beside a folded garment bag. The clothes on the chair must be what she took off that night, as if she'd been too tired to put them away. The closet contained a wide, transparent storage bag with three dress-up outfits: a beige silk suit, a print dress, and a gold, low-cut cocktail dress. Two more pairs of jeans hung neatly beside a second windbreaker and some cotton shirts. This completed the wardrobe. She heard Beverly pick up the phone and punch in a number, listened to her asking for Police Captain Harper.
She could imagine how that imperious tone would go over if she used it on Harper.
She had met Max Harper only once, but she knew enough about him from Clyde to know the dry, lean man didn't tolerate being patronized. What cop did? Listening, she returned to the dresser and pretended to inventory jeans and sweatshirts.
Beverly must have pull, in spite of her rudeness, because within seconds she had Harper on the line.
Though likely it wasn't pull at all but Beverly's connection to Janet. For all she knew, Beverly herself might be suspect in some way.
"Captain Harper, the man you sent up here to search this house has left an unacceptable mess. I can't imagine why he would do this-he has pulled nearly all the books off the shelves for no apparent reason, has, in fact, trashed the entire bedroom."
Charlie didn't see anything trashed. She could imagine the chief of police raising an amused eyebrow, puffing away on a cigarette while Beverly ranted.
"What do you mean, I'm not allowed in the house? This is my house now. Have you forgotten that Janet left the house to me? Surely your police rules apply simply to the general public. I don't…"
Abruptly Beverly stopped talking, was quiet for some minutes, then, "Captain Harper, I came up here on legitimate business. I would remind you that I don't live in Molena Point, and that my time here is limited. I came up here to assess the interior damage and to arrange for much-needed repairs-once you have released the premises. I'm sure you know that much of the damage was caused by your police officers and city firemen. I am, in fact, facing monumental cleaning and repair costs, thanks to you city workers."