Seraphina #2
"We don't talk about the moss."
"You looked fuzzy."
"I looked distinguished."
"You looked mouldy."
I dipped the toothbrush into the warm, soapy water before gently scrubbing around Gerald's tiny ceramic beard.
"There you see, it isn't so bad."
Gerald narrowed his painted eyes.
"I've changed my mind."
"About?"
"I preferred being dirty."
Frank groaned as I reached for him next.
"I knew I should've hidden behind the hydrangeas."
"You say that every cleaning day."
"And one day I'll actually do it."
I laughed, carefully rinsing the soap away before setting both of them on a clean tea towel beside the open kitchen window.
"There now you two can spend the afternoon drying in the sunshine."
Frank stretched dramatically.
"I do enjoy the sunshine."
Gerald nodded in agreement.
"I'll admit..."
He looked down at his freshly polished boots.
"I am rather handsome."
"You always think you're handsome."
"Because I am."
Frank rolled his eyes.
"No, you're shiny, there's a difference."
Laughing, I carried the two freshly scrubbed gnomes outside and carefully placed them on the porch railing, where the morning sun spilled across the wood in warm golden strips.
"There," I said, dusting my hands together. "Dry yourselves."
Ignoring their increasingly passionate debate over Gerald's resemblance to root vegetables, I smiled to myself and headed back inside.
Cleaning supplies waited patiently by the sink. I lifted the bucket in one hand, tucked a stack of microfiber cloths beneath my arm, hooked two sponges over the rim, and grabbed the spray bottles with my free hand.
"Right," I murmured to the empty cottage.
"Off we go."
Scrub
Did You know…When you clean a crime scene, your biggest enemy isn't the horror. It’s chemistry. Well in hindsight for some of you, chemistry is horror. Don’t worry I’ll make it easy to understand
Scrub.
If you ever find yourself looking down at a hardwood floor that has absorbed the worst of a human being, you need to understand that organic material binds to cells at a molecular level basically down to the smallest detail.
Scrub.
People think you can just throw some bleach on a stain and watch it disappear.
They are wrong. Bleach simply oxidizes (discolour) the pigment; it doesn't actually destroy the underlying proteins or cellular structure.
If the police walk into a room with a high-intensity ultraviolet light or an advanced luminol spray (in other words a black light), the treated area will glow a violent, unnatural blue because the chemical reacts with the residual iron trapped inside the wood grain.
Scrub
When dealing with a heavy fluid, you never use warm water.
Heat cooks the haemoglobin as I explained before.
It bakes the proteins directly into the porous fibers of the wood, locking the stain into the grain forever.
You use freezing, ice water mixed with a heavy enzymatic cleaner, something specifically formulated to tear apart organic chains without causing a chemical reaction that fizzes (basically any stain remover).
If you see foam, you are rushing. You have to work the paste in slow, rhythmic circles, drawing the shadow out of the grooves with the patience of an artist.
Swish.
Remember to always start from the back of the room, and work your way out backwards.
Why? Because footprints are a signature.
If you walk forward, your boots compress the fibers of the rug or leave microscopic traces of dampness on the floor (floor), creating a clear map of your timeline for a forensic technician to read.
You vacuum in reverse, smoothing the pile as you go.
Pssht
Always check the corners where the floorboards meet the baseboards. Fluid naturally wicks into those tiny gaps, drying much darker around the threads of the screw heads where it thickens into a hidden, crusty ridge.
Buff... buff...
You always check beneath the legs of the furniture. You change your heavy latex gloves before you touch a doorknob, because a single ridgeline of sweat or grease left on a brass fixture can hold your DNA for ten years.
Vrrrrrr
Honestly. It’s all about attention to detail. Every scratch, every smell, every fiber leaves a trail…
I wrung out the last cloth, emptied the cloudy bucket into the sink, and watched the dirty water swirl down the drain.
One by one, I packed everything away. The spray bottles lined up with their labels facing forward.
The sponges squeezed dry and left to air out.
Fresh clothes folded into perfect squares.
Gloves hung over the tap to dry. Everything back where it belonged.
Oh well. The things we have to research just to write a compelling thriller novel, right? I like to imagine my house as a crime scene in need of cleaning. It works like a charm every time. You should try it.
Walking back outside I see Max already sprawled across the porch like he owned the mortgage. His tail thumped once when he saw me. I scratched behind his ears.
"Morning."
He yawned. Same. We sat together in comfortable silence. Or… As comfortable as silence ever becomes. My eyes drifted. Down the dirt road. Toward town. Toward the sheriff's station. Toward someone who probably hadn't slept enough. I frowned looking back at Max.
"What?"
Max looked up.
"I'm not going."
He blinked.
"I'm absolutely not."
His ears twitched.
"I'm staying right here."
A beat passed. Another. I took one sip of coffee. Then another.
"I do need honey."
Max gave me the most unimpressed look I'd ever received from a dog.
"I do."
His expression didn't change.
"And flour."
Nothing.
"Possibly cinnamon."
Still nothing. I sighed dramatically.
"Oh, don't look at me like that."
I stood, brushing invisible lint from Elias's jersey.
"I'm simply supporting local businesses."
Max stood too. Because, apparently, he knew me better than I knew myself. I pointed a finger at him.
"I am not going to accidentally walk past the sheriff's station."
He sneezed.
"That wasn't very supportive.”