The Maid's Diary(16)
“Why did you even invite me here to tell me this?”
“To give you a heads-up. You’d have been blindsided.” He leans closer. Jon can smell his meaty, boozy breath. “I wanted you for that job, Jon. But I was voted down. So now I want to give you this small window of opportunity to strategize. You used to know how to fight, JonJon. You used to fight dirty. You never took shit when people tried to cut you off at the knees. What did you do when they said you wouldn’t make the gold? You showed them. You brought home not one medal, but two. Or has BergBomber lost his edge?”
Tension straps across Jon’s chest.
Henry leans back. “Everyone has a crack. A weakness.” His gaze holds Jon’s. “Everyone, Jon, everyone has a past. Everyone has made a mistake. Everyone has a secret. A vulnerability.” He pauses. “Especially young men like Ahmed Waheed.” He slides a small white card across the table. “Find his.”
Jon picks up the card. It displays a simple logo. PRESTON PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS. His mobile rings on the table. It’s Daisy. Jon lets it go to voice mail. How is he going to tell Daisy that her father has let them both down? He feels tricked. Baited and switched. He stares at the card.
“What’s this?”
“Someone who specializes in such things. Ex-cop. Knows what he’s doing. When you call, ask for Jake. Tell him Henry Clay sent you.”
Henry gets up and leaves.
Jon stares at the card. The woman at the bar watches. He feels as though he’s sitting on a bomb counting down, waiting to explode.
THE MAID’S DIARY
After releasing my mom’s ashes, I follow GPS directions to Rose Cottage, my new clients’ house. On the passenger seat beside me is the empty urn. Ash still sticks around the rim. Bits of my mom. Somehow I’ve still managed to keep part of her despite my best efforts.
Rose Cottage is in Point Grey, a high-end community west of the city, near the university, with nice beaches. The neighborhood houses many of the “one percenters” I clean for.
As I drive over the Burrard Bridge and glimpse the North Shore Mountains across the water, I think about the Glass House on the opposite shore. It’s one of my long-standing jobs. The house belongs to Vanessa and Haruto North, and I can imagine old Beulah Brown, their neighbor, sitting in her upstairs window with her new binoculars trained on the happenings across the inlet. Maybe she’s even watching the traffic as I drive over the bridge.
As I take the off-ramp and get closer to Rose Cottage, anticipation grows. My spirits lift. I love getting new clients. It’s like a first date—you just don’t know what to expect but hope to be pleasantly surprised. A new house is a new package. A fresh mystery. Full of clues that might lead to hidden secrets. What will this house tell me about the occupants? For how long will these new clients entertain and intrigue me? How vested will I become in solving their mysteries? Will they have social media accounts I can follow? Might they even be worth stalking in person? I wonder if a detective feels similarly when approaching a new crime scene.
I pull into the driveway and study the house. Rose Cottage is no cottage. Perhaps it was once, but now it’s a completely redesigned and renovated structure. West Coast modern. Solar panels on the roof. Lots of glass and unfinished wood that is supposed to scream “I care about the environment.” There’s a sign stuck in the freshly laid sod on the front lawn that reads PASSIVE DESIGNS SOLAR HEATING. My first question is: Did the occupants of “Rose Cottage” leave the sign to prove a point? Is this who they are? Wealthy with a guilt-driven narrative that screams: I care. About climate! The environment! Racism! The underclass!
I check the Rose Cottage worksheet on my phone. Holly has indicated the clients want service twice per week. Mondays and Fridays. A deeper clean on Mondays, after the weekend. A more superficial one on Fridays.
No one appears to be home. I exit my car and ring the front doorbell to be certain. (I once walked in on clients having sex. I never want to repeat the experience.)
Once I’m certain the place is empty, I follow the instructions on my phone to retrieve a front-door key from a lockbox. I open the door, go directly to the security panel on the wall, and punch in the listed code to disarm the security system.
I stand for a moment in the hallway, breathing it in. All clean lines, modern, mostly white interior with bold splashes of color and touches of rustic. From the entryway there is a view through to a lush garden. Excitement crackles through my blood. Yes, I know, I know—it’s the addictive dopamine, adrenaline, serotonin—a delicious hormonal and biochemical cocktail mainlining into my veins. A salve to my whomp of grief this morning. And I grab hold of it. I allow the protection it gives me from my deeper feelings.
I go fetch my Dyson and other cleaning supplies from my car, change my shoes, hang up my rain jacket, and pull my cobbler apron over my head. Then I start my walk-through. (As always I remain cognizant of the potential for nanny/maid or pet cams that would require adjustments to my snooping behavior.)
Kitchen first.
It’s white and black. Wine fridge. High-end espresso machine. Breakfast dishes have been left in the sink—eggy with bits of toast. Dirty coffee mugs. A half-eaten grapefruit. On the edge of the kitchen island is a piece of paper. I gravitate toward it. It’s a printout of an ultrasound scan alongside a reminder note for some appointment. Something cold washes over my skin. I pick up the scan and feel a punch deep in my belly. I glance up, shocked. Although I’m not sure why. The fact that the occupants of Rose Cottage are a pregnant couple as well as wealthy enough to hire a cleaning service twice a week should not surprise me. Yet something about it burrows into my chest.