Patricia
I barely beat the Phillipses home. And I mean barely. I had just closed the front door behind me when they pulled into the drive.
I had Brenda’s gun.
My first thought was, well, you guessed it. There I was, gun in hand, Brenda and her odious husband about to walk into the house. Bang. Bang. Bye. Bye. Ashley avenged, and the two sleeping children relieved of their self-centered parents. Two good deeds.
Mindy Black would vanish into the night.
Of course, if police realized that Mindy Black were the killer, they would investigate just who she was. My DNA, my fingerprints were all over the place, which was why anything I did to Brenda had to look like an accident or suicide.
Anyway, would it really make life better for either Christina or Kevin?
Who knows what relatives they might wind up with? They could wind up in foster care. The Phillips were narcissistic and neglectful as parents—quite apart from what Brenda did to Ashley—but they weren’t physically abusive.
Beyond where the kids would land, what kind of trauma would they suffer from knowing that their parents had been murdered?
I hadn’t made up my mind about Brenda, and the evening had almost ended in disaster because I’d acted on impulse.
I’d forgotten an important rule. Anything worth doing was worth taking the time to do it right. Spontaneity was fine for gifts or desserts or restaurant outings with a loved one. Not so much for murder.
I’d taken the gun on an impulse, because learning that Georgina Crane and John Petersen not only didn’t care that women died from their fanaticism, they were plotting to ensure that more did—had made me furious. And I’d let myself get carried away.
A mistake.
But there I was, in the front hall, clutching Brenda’s gun. Stupid. Stupid.
I’d not only failed to kill Georgina Crane, but I could be caught putting the gun back or sneaking into my room.
Maybe they wouldn’t connect me to Tom Martin’s murder or suspect that I was contemplating Brenda’s murder. But they could fire me.
I really wanted to stay. For now. For more than one reason.
While I stood there, pondering my next move, the garage door closed. Not the moment to be indecisive.
Race upstairs and replace the gun in the safe? But at my age, and with my knees, I didn’t race that well, especially upstairs. And I’d have to get the key, open the safe, wipe down the gun, lock the safe again, replace the key, and make it to my room in the attic where I was supposed to be sound asleep before either of them reached the second floor.
I did some quick weighing of odds. Was the risk greater that the Phillipses would catch me returning the gun or that Brenda, home late from a night of glad-handing politicians, would open the gun safe before going to bed?
I made my decision. Ol’ Brenda would have no reason to check on the gun. I headed up to the attic. As I opened the door to my room, I heard steps in the hall downstairs. I undressed, put on my grandma nightgown, and slid into bed. The gun went under the mattress.
I turned off the bedside lamp a second before I heard the voices on the second floor. Mr. Phillips’ voice, mostly. I couldn’t make out the words, but he did not sound happy.
I slept in the next morning, which in the Phillips’ house meant sleeping until eight. But hey, it was a Saturday.
I had figured neither of the parents would be up early after getting in so late, and the kids were old enough to take care of themselves for a few hours. Six hours wasn’t a lot, but it was enough. Time to go back to playing housekeeper.
I wondered if the kids had defied the parental television prohibitions in the absence of adults. Those two needed to learn a little rebellion, not too much, but a little.
When I got down to the kitchen, I found cereal bowls, unrinsed, on the counter next to a box of some cereal with more sugar than wheat. The counter was sticky. They’d helped themselves and left it for me to clean up, following the modeling from their parents.
Let it go?
Nah.
The kids were in the basement, watching television, a cartoon that must have been on their parents’ watch list because they didn’t snap it off the second they heard me on the stairs.
“Good show?” It looked like something that I might have watched when I was a kid. A Looney Tunes. Not one of the more recent Japanese things.
“It’s okay,” Kevin said.
“Meh.” Christina shrugged. “Not terrific.”
“Glad it’s not terrific, because you’re both coming upstairs to clean up your mess. Now.”
They were surprised, but they didn’t argue. After turning off the meh cartoon, they trooped up the stairs behind me. It took all of five minutes for them to rinse their bowls, place them in the dishwasher, wipe down the counter, and put away the cereal.
I helpfully pointed out spots that they’d missed. When they finished, I gave the verbal pat on the head. “Good job.”
“None of the other housekeepers ever made us do that,” Kevin said.
“She’s not like any of the others.” Christina shot a glance at me.
That’s for damn sure. They just didn’t know how different.
“Okay, scoot now. Go start on some of that homework and get it out of the way.”
“Are we going shopping today?” Christina’s voice was hopeful.
“Up to your mother. I’ll come up and help with your French in a bit. Now go.”
As they climbed the stairs, I could hear fragments of conversation about the previous night. Which horse was the prettiest? Do you think she’ll take us again? Of course, she will. She’s the best.
With a little help, maybe they’d both turn out okay.
Meanwhile, back to playing housekeeper. I made coffee, cinnamon buns, and fresh squeezed orange juice. I mopped the floor. After the floor dried, I set out cups, plates, napkins, and sugar.
Then I appraised the scene. Clean kitchen. Fresh baked goods.
I could be an ad for the Happy Homemaker.
Of course, there was that gun, which was not the right accessory for the Happy Homemaker. I still needed to return it to its home in Brenda’s safe. But that had to wait until Brenda was out of her bedroom.
Which didn’t happen until around ten. Roland stumbled down first, still in a bathrobe, unshaven, not a pretty sight, trust me. He sloshed coffee on the counter while he poured his cup of stimulant, made appreciative noises at the cinnamon buns, and retreated to the table and his phone.
Brenda showed about fifteen minutes later. At least she had bothered to put herself together and brush her hair. While she wasn’t much happier than her husband, she did manage a cup of coffee without spilling it.
“Do you want to talk about last night?” Roland asked.
“What’s to talk about?” Brenda clicked on her phone.
I busied myself wiping down the counter, hoping to hear more, but Brenda apparently took cues from British movies on displays of emotion in front of the help.
“You don’t need to wait on us, Mindy. I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.”
Well, much as I would have enjoyed watching the two fight, I did have other things to do. “Yes, ma’am. Is it okay with you if I change sheets this morning?”
She made a gesture indicating agreement.
I started to leave the room and then remembered. “Oh, and Christina asked whether I could take her shopping for some new clothes today.”
“Let me drink my coffee, and I’ll talk to her.”
Whatever that meant. Not my first concern that morning. I headed upstairs to change sheets and hopefully return the gun, which I’d been carrying under my apron the entire morning. After wiping it clean of course.