Closet Confidential (8 page)

Luck was with me and my friend Ramona was working reference. I spotted her silver brush cut and denim skirt across the room. A ray of sunshine caught her dangling silver earrings. Ramona is not always such a ray of sunshine herself, but she is invariably intelligent, businesslike, and up for finding whatever you seek.

“You’re keeping out of the news lately,” she said as she approached.

The reference regulars shot her dirty looks for daring to speak while they read their
New York Times
or
Atlantic Monthly
. Of course, Ramona can trade dirty looks with the best of them, so they quickly transferred their pursed lips and narrowed eyes to me. I’m not nearly as sensitive as I was before I got hauled off to the police station in my frog pajamas and bunny slippers while the WINY cameras were rolling.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

“So,” Ramona said. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Just saying hello. I planned on checking the library’s supply of organizing books and magazines for a client who’s on a tight budget. I couldn’t come by without dropping in to see you.”

“I’m always a bonus. Make sure you use the online catalog, too. We have tons of stuff and it’s not always in, but your client can request items online and we’ll let her—or him—know when they come in.”

“Perfect. And it’s her. For some reason, all my clients have been female. By the way, you’ve lived in Woodbridge all your life, haven’t you?”

“Except for the two years getting my master’s in library science.”

“Great—I wondered what you know about—”

Ramona threw back her head and guffawed. “I knew you hadn’t just dropped in, Charlotte.”

Naturally that drew another round of disapproving stares from the category of folks that Ramona calls the Information Prima Donnas, IPDs for short.

“No need to break a rib laughing. But, you’re right. It so happens there is a matter that I’m curious about.”

“Out with it. I don’t have all day.”

“Fine. Anabel Beauchamp’s death.”

“Whoa. No sugarcoating there.”

“No. I’m doing some work for the family, and there’s been a suggestion that—well, that someone killed her. It’s crazy, I know.”

“Not so crazy to want to know that. I would in your position. Of course, I’d probably start by asking the police.”

“Been there. Done that.”

“And?”

“And it was a straightforward accident, with the slightest hint it might not have been.”

Ramona nodded; the silver earrings actually jingled up close. “They would prefer an accident, of course.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re a city department, like us. Their funding depends on getting results. We all measure our results using stats. That’s what keeps us afloat. Every time you walk through the door and ask me a question, Charlotte Adams, I add you to the tally.”

“So you think the police wouldn’t acknowledge that Anabel’s death might not have been an accident to keep their stats up?”

“Of course not. But I do think they wouldn’t go looking for extra murders because they’re curious. They have plenty to do with the deaths that are obviously foul play, not that Woodbridge has all that many. Plus, a big chunk of their activity seems to be chasing after you.”

“Very funny.”

“Maybe you could become a departmental line item.”

“You’ve given me something to think about, Ramona. So tell me, did you ever babysit for Anabel or have any other connections I should know about?”

“I knew her through her work, but not well. I do have a lot of clippings and information about her. I can gather them up for you. She was very well thought of, and she made the papers with her work before her death. She wasn’t afraid to stand up for what she believed in. And the funeral was a big deal. I don’t remember seeing you there.”

“She died while I was in Europe, visiting my mother, who managed to give me the slip quite a few times. We didn’t find out that Anabel had died until too late.” I was starting to feel very guilty about missing this funeral.

“People spilled out of the church. I never saw so many tears. All kinds of people, rich and poor, old and young. Lots of media, too, but that might have been because of her mother.”

“Right. She’s the one who thinks that Anabel’s death was murder.”

“Oh right, Lorelei. She’s nothing like her daughter, that’s for darn sure.”

“And that’s supposed to convey some information?”

“And come to think of it, you dropped the ball, Charlotte.”

“In what way?”

“In the way that you asked about Anabel but never questioned if I had any dealings with Lorelei.”

“Did you?”

A library page skittered out an office door and up to Ramona. “They want you in the office. Now.”

Sometimes I wondered if there was someone on the management side who tried to break up every conversation that I had with Ramona. But of course, that was silly.

I made a note to myself to ask Ramona about Lorelei when she called to say the clippings were ready. Knowing Ramona, that would pay off. In the meantime, I had plenty to keep me busy. I hoped she’d call before I headed back to the Beauchamps’ house at three that afternoon.

In the meantime, I hit the nearest Dollar Do! to see what might help in Wendy’s closet upgrade. I checked the storage and the kitchen section, identifying lots of useful little tools. I didn’t buy anything, because Wendy would be making those decisions and there was no point in starting until we knew what she’d be keeping in her closet.

Next I hit the building supply store to check out inexpensive closet organizers. It looked like even the most cost-effective systems were going to put her over the hundred-dollar mark, but a double-hanging closet pole could come in very cheap and double her hanging space for shirts and jackets.

I had more luck at the new linen store. I’d noted some deals on the flyer they’d sent around. What was more, I had a coupon. Sure enough, the cost of the slim-line closet system, pole, matching hangers, and a system to hang belts, scarves, pants, and shoes would come in well under Wendy’s budget. This would be our first stop when it came time to make decisions about how to settle the closet. I also liked the deal on the hanging cloth shelves—less than twenty dollars. We were unlikely to get a dresser with the amount we had, but these could go a long way to corralling T-shirts, sweaters, and anything that needed to be folded. I noted everything down in Wendy’s file and left smiling.

I didn’t plan to charge Wendy Dykstra for my browsing time. It’s all part of business reconnaissance and built into the charges for most clients. She was my first client for a hundred-dollar closet makeover, but she might not be the last. My clients tend to be quite affluent because getting the services of an organizer is perceived to be a luxury. Not that it should be: Everyone who does a thorough organizing job—on their own or with professional help—finds that it saves them time, money, and misery. Even so, it’s well down the list of most people’s perceived necessities and as scary as a root canal for lots of folks. With this in mind, I decided it would be worth developing a kit to help people do the bulk of the work themselves, with me teaching them to analyze their needs and get started. I could provide reading material, photos, illustrations, checklists, worksheets, and resources, and, if necessary, a couple of phone calls or a visit to incite them to keep moving.

This idea was all quite a bit of unexpected fun, and I took notes at a furious rate in my little paper organizer. I didn’t want to lose any of the ideas dancing in my brain. There’s something nice about coming up with an extra line of business. I stopped off at my apartment to let Truffle and Sweet Marie out for an extra walk.

When we came back, I checked the food supply. There’s empty and then there’s my fridge, which gives new meaning to empty. My Betty’s toast and jam was long gone, and I didn’t want to eat the B & J’s New York Super Fudge Chunk, the Cheerios, or the Mars bars for lunch. I wondered if I would ever turn into a Wendy, happily feeding a family and humming as I did so. Somehow I suspected it wasn’t in my genes.

People who have it in their genes seem to accumulate families or open restaurants. I headed for my favorite café. Ciao! Ciao! has the best takeout in town, and this seemed like the right day for it. About once a week, I drop by Jack’s bicycle shop and bring him lunch. He does a lot for me. I had a very reasonable rent on the entire second floor of the Victorian house Jack had inherited from his parents. I had someone to walk the dogs without even being asked whenever I was in a bind and frequently a Hawaiian-shirted shoulder to cry on. The occasional lunch seemed a small price to repay. And that morning he’d done me the favor of getting up early to meet Tierney. Mind you, he’d glared at Tierney throughout breakfast. For a guy who was just short of a PhD in philosophy, every now and then Jack’s a bit light on subtlety.

I arrived at CYCotics carrying three prosciutto and provolone on ciabatta bread sandwiches, and a pair of jumbo coffees. I figured Jack’s breakfast would have worn off by now. I opened the door to CYCotics and was stunned to see a customer. Who knew? He always maintained he had clientele and that CYCotics did a good business. He even claimed to have two part-time employees who did repairs and tune-ups. I had never seen any sign of that. Jack and the customer engaged in a long and esoteric discussion of Italian bike pedals. As usual, Jack was physically into the discussion, waving his long arms, as the pineapples on the Hawaiian shirt swayed along. I sipped my coffee and thanked the universe that I had my job and not his.

“Told you,” he said when the customer had departed, but not before making a serious deposit on a pair of astronomically priced pedals. “I have customers. So what do I owe you for the lunch?”

“On the house. I am grateful that you came with me this morning.”

“Always glad to help you. You don’t have to buy me lunch, although you did have to buy me breakfast.”

“Accept it, Jack.”

“All right,” he said, giving up without a fight. “But why did you need me to be there? That was the most banal conversation.”

I wasn’t sure I’d agree as Jack and I have had some conversations that would make the banality Olympics. When we got going, either one of us could bore for the U.S. of A. “I didn’t want him to think I was making a play for him.”

Jack’s hand stopped inches from his mouth, the sandwich so close and yet so far away. “Why would he think that?”

“I don’t know. He’s got a sense of himself. We had a date a couple of—”

The sandwich hovered. “A what?”

“A date. You’ve heard of dates, Jack.”

“Yeah, but you had a date with him? I didn’t hear anything about that.”

“Maybe I forgot to mention it. Maybe you were tied up with the shop. Maybe I was busy. Maybe I thought I mentioned it and I didn’t. Maybe it was when what’s-her-name was in the picture.”

“Huh.”

“Not again with the ‘huhs.’ You can’t read anything into that, Jack. Anyway, even if you did read something into it, there’s nothing to read, because he never called me back for another date.”

“Not so fast with all this information. You said a date. Where did you go? What did you do? What—?”

“Boundaries, Jack. Remember boundaries?”

“Well, I’m supposed to be your friend. I’ve been in your life since grade school, and now you’re sneaking around with this silky—”

“He’s not a silky anything and I wasn’t sneaking. Didn’t you have a relationship with that woman last fall?”

“Now it’s a
relationship
with this dude? Out of the blue, like that? Upgraded status?”

“It is not necessary to snap your fingers.
You
were the one who had the relationship with you-know-who.”

“That was not a relationship. It was a series of misunderstandings, miscommunications, and deliberate misleadings.”