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? How would you feel if someone rooted through your belongings?”
Marina tapped her lips with her index finger. “You’re right. I wouldn’t like it.”
“No one would. I’m glad—”
“Which gives me real incentive to clean out my underwear drawer. Come along, my dear.”
I trailed along in Marina’s wake. The living room was filled with October air. I shut windows while Marina flipped through the stack of magazines on the coffee table.
“American Educator, National Geographic, Smithsonian .” She tossed the magazines one by one onto a new pile as she read the titles. “No Good Housekeeping, no cooking magazines, not even a People.” She made a humph noise.
“You make it sound as if there’s something wrong with learning.”
“All learning and no fun makes Agnes—and Beth if she’s not careful—a dull girl.” She put her hands on her hips. “Speaking of dull, this furniture defines the word.”
The couch and armchairs were covered with the beige-est of beige fabrics. The material was the velvety stuff that parents of young children avoided due to its amazing ability to attract food and drink stains. The oak coffee table, end tables, and entertainment center were stained a medium honey shade. The drapes looked as if they’d come from a midpriced motel room.
Marina opened the entertainment center. “Take a look at this. Can you get more boring than Frank Sinatra, the Andrews Sisters, and Perry Como? The newest singer she had in here is Paul Anka.”
“Just like her cleaning closet,” I said, then had to explain.
Marina hunkered down to look at the videocassette titles. “Same thing here. No movie made after 1975. The woman was frozen in time.”
“The magazines are current.”
“Bet she read new stuff only so she wouldn’t come across like a freak.” She pushed herself to her feet and grinned. “Didn’t work.”
“Oh, Marina.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t speak ill of the dead. But why? We didn’t like her when she was alive, so why should we go all hypocritical and pretend we like her now?”
“It’s unkind. The poor woman was murdered. She deserves better.”
Marina didn’t look convinced. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
“Of what?”
“That her ghost is going to haunt us for saying bad things about her.” She lifted her hands, wriggled her fingers, and made Hollywood ghost noises. “Ooooo-OOOoo.”
“Quit that.”