Cleanup by Norah McClintock

CHAPTER ONE
    M aria called me before I got out of bed. She said I didn’t have to pick her up. She would get to work on her own.
    I should have known something was going on. But I didn’t give it any thought. I liked Maria. She was the only person I knew that I could speak to in Spanish. She was alone in the country. And she was lonely, like a lot of illegal immigrants. She was on the run from gangsters back in Colombia. I had tried to convince her to make a claim for refugee status. But she was terrified of being denied and being deported. I felt sorry for her.
    But aside from being newcomers and co-workers, we had little in common. Maria liked to chatter about all the things she was going to have one day. “You have to think positive, no, Connie?” The things she wanted were things she had seen on TV or in out-of-date magazines she bought at the library for ten cents each. They were things like shoes and purses, dresses and jewelry—things I used to have.
    Things I told myself I didn’t miss.
    I double-checked the two trays of cleaning supplies in the trunk of the beat-up Toyota hatchback that I’d bought for next to nothing—but still on installment— after six months of taking the bus. I put my thermos of coffee, my sandwich and my piece of fruit on the front seat. Then I drove north, to one of the city’s wealthiest neighborhoods.
    The gates across the driveway of Mr. Withers’s house were open. So was the side door, the one Maria and I used. Usually the gates were closed and the door was locked.
    Frowning, I nudged the door with one shoulder and poked my head in. “Missy Maid!” I called.
    That’s not my name. It’s the name of the company I work for. My name is Connie, short for Consuela.
    Mr. Richard Withers, the owner of the house, didn’t appear from the kitchen the way he did every morning when Maria and I arrived. He was a distinguished-looking old gentleman who lived alone except for a cook who came in from ten in the morning until five in the afternoon every day to prepare his meals. He had an easy smile, and when he handed over his list of tasks, he always said “please” or “if you don’t mind.”
    But he didn’t answer my call that day. Instead, Maria did, in panicky Spanish.
    â€œConnie, thank God. I don’t know what to do. I think he’s dead.”
    â€œWhere are you?” I shouted.
    â€œUp here. In the bedroom.”
    The bedroom? What was she doing up there?
    I dropped my two trays of cleaning supplies and hurried through the mudroom, which I doubt had ever seen any mud. I ran through the kitchen and up the back stairs to the second floor.
    Richard Withers was in his early seventies. He had had a heart attack when he was sixty and had been careful ever since. He ate sensibly and exercised regularly, as was obvious from his lean build. But I knew about heart disease—two of my uncles had died from it. So I expected to find that Mr. Withers had had a second, fatal, attack during the night. Poor man, dying all alone, I thought.
    That’s why I wasn’t prepared for the scene that greeted me.
    It was clear that Richard Withers had not died of a heart attack. Nor had he died alone. Not unless he had bludgeoned himself over the head with the foot-high brass angel that was lying in a pool of blood beside his motionless body.

CHAPTER TWO
    M aria stood next to the body. Her large black eyes were fixed on the old man’s face. Her cinnamon skin had a chalky hue. Blood stained her hands. The sheets were tangled on the bed. A pillow lay on the floor. Artificial scents filled the air—shampoo and soap, perfume and men’s cologne—and I felt myself becoming congested. But, for once, I didn’t worry about my allergies. I was too stunned by the sight of Mr. Withers lying on the floor in front of me.
    Questions for Maria exploded in my head: What happened? When did you find him? How did you