34. Martha
Martha
How do you know you’re at a gas station in Beverly Hills?
It’s the only place where someone can get a full tank of gas without literally moving a single muscle.
From across the street at the dry cleaners, I watch as a woman in a Bentley pulls up to the pump, sits in her car on her phone, while three guys in uniform run around her car, filling the tank, checking the oil and the tires, cleaning all the windows, and fussing around the hubcaps like bees near a hive.
When they’re done, they stand back with their rags while the boss—the eldest man in his gas station uniform—goes to the driver’s window and waits for her to roll it down.
Button pressed, the window opens two inches.
She flings him a twenty, careful to avoid touching his hand with hers.
“Entitled bitch,” I mutter under my breath.
“Here we are!” I turn as the small woman with a short red bob and an unidentifiable foreign accent returns from the back of the shop and hangs up the bundle of dry cleaning for me to examine.
She looks tired, and her purple eye shadow isn’t helping matters.
I feel like saying something about it but bite my tongue like a good Martha.
“A big order today. These have been here for a while.”
“Yes,” I say distractedly.
She begins ringing up the ticket on the cash register. “I gave Mrs. Redfern a 10 percent discount. She’s a frequent customer. You work for her?” She glances at me, but I ignore her.
There are mostly suits, a few dresses, and a stack of bathroom linens. I go through each item, checking that it’s all here.
She pauses after ringing up everything. “Oh, I forgot. There’s one more item.”
She disappears behind the counter for a bit.
I stand impatient, ready to get back to this afternoon’s tasks.
She returns with a bundle of linens marked with a pink ticket in her arm.
“Mrs. Redfern told me to just throw them away since we couldn’t get out the stains this time.
But it’s such nice fabric, I wanted to make sure. ”
“What stains?”
She goes to the linens covered in plastic. “From the linens. Here.” She unwraps something cream-colored and shows me. “These stains.” She points a finger at the dark, brown-colored stain. “See?”
I look closely at the deep red-brown stain, a large circle in the fabric.
“There are more on the others. We did our best, but the stains had already set. It’s a shame. Very nice fabric. Very expensive. Tell Mrs. Redfern we did our best this time and we’re very sorry.”
“You get these stains a lot?” I ask her.
She looks at me, a hint of knowing in her eyes. “All the time.” She shakes her head and leans across the counter. “I don’t ask questions. I just clean.”
I finish paying and pick up the bundle. “Thanks.”
When I get home, I give Lucita the dry cleaning and hold back the bundle of linens. She takes the cleaning from me and starts toward the upstairs.
“Lucita?”
She turns. “Sí?”
“Do you know what happened to the linens? What these stains are?”
Lucita shakes her head, her expression concerned. “No. I have no idea.”
She heads upstairs, her gray-and-white uniform rustling against the plastic of the dry-cleaning bags.
After I finish a few phone calls, I check Bambi’s appointment book and diary—hardly any upcoming jobs, except for the Cancun shoot, still weeks away.
It’s almost 8:30, time to start getting ready to leave, when I hear Bambi’s car and straighten up in my chair, knowing she will come into my small office at the back of the house.
I hear her high heels along the hallway as she walks toward me, stopping to see what’s in the kitchen, then moving, moving through the house, toward the office.
I glance up from the computer, forming a light smile. “How was your day, Mrs. Redfern?” I’ve grown used to the salutation and address. It’s fitting for good Martha.
“It was fine. Long. I wanted to thank you for stepping in at such short notice and helping out around the house.”
I smile a wide, flat smile. It’s not an unfriendly smile, but a slightly dampened, unenthusiastic smile, which I’ve practiced. “It’s my job, Mrs. Redfern.”
“Yes. Well, we appreciate your efficiency.”
I nod, just once.
“I have some unfortunate news on the dry cleaning.”
Bambi stares. “Yes?”
“The stains. They weren’t able to remove them.”
Bambi blinks. “What stains?”
“On the linens.”
Her face is blank until a wave of something hits her hard and fast. She breaks, ever so slightly. If you blinked, you might have missed it. “I told the dry cleaner to throw those away.”
“Unfortunately, she didn’t,” I tell her. “They’re upstairs.”
Bambi shifts her weight, something sparking within her. “Well, go get them, would you?”
“The cleaners said to tell you they gave you 10 percent off. Since it’s not the first time they couldn’t get the stains out.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is that right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Redfern.”
“Well, that was nice of them. Wine stains are difficult to get out, after all.”
I lean forward, feeling suddenly intense. A long sigh escapes me. “Mrs. Redfern, can I ask you something?”
“Yes. What?”
“Why did you hire me?”
“What, Martha?”
“I mean, did you really want someone to sit here and just, you know, pretend along with you?”
A flash of anger breaches her. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a serious question. Is that what you hired me for? To play pretend?”
Her expression hardens. “I don’t like your tone, Martha.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Redfern.”
Her eyes narrow, like I’ve said something offensive.
“I haven’t seen a bottle of red wine in this house since I set foot in here, and since I’m in charge of shopping and groceries now, I think I’d know if a bottle were here. I also know for a fact your husband only drinks Macallan and beer.”
Bambi crosses her arms over her chest, making herself appear smaller. “And?” Her eyes dart around the room, searching the walls and the floor.
“How many times has this happened, Mrs. Redfern?”
“Martha, this conversation is over.” She stands.
I stay seated. “No, it isn’t.”
Bambi turns, shock evident behind her composure.
“How many times has this happened, Mrs. Redfern?”
She stares long and hard in my direction, then turns abruptly. “Good night, Martha,” she calls behind her and walks toward the stairs.
I log out of my computer and collect my things to go. Outside, the autumn sky is hazy with city light, the stars blurring like looking through amber. Somewhere nearby, a house has a fire going, the scent of the wood burning pungent in my nose.
Emmy texts me about dinner, but I tell her to just order pizza again. Before I drive off, I pop open the visor and touch my index finger to the little piece of Emmy’s hair nestled inside the pouch of fabric.
Killer.
The word hums deep within, and I know it’s from Nicola. A shiver runs through me as I sit idling in the Redferns’ driveway.
Killers, the both of them.
It’s time to have a chat with ol’ Nicola, so I call her forward, encouraging her.
“I don’t think Bambi had anything to do with this.”
Oh really? The evidence is right there. My daughter’s hair is in your hands. And what about the photograph? That’s clearly her in the passenger seat. She was there and did nothing!
I stare down at my fingers, now involuntarily stroking the little piece of hair, the long, fine tendrils that match Emmy’s.
See?
“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “Bambi had nothing to do with this. That wasn’t her that day. She’s got her own troubles.”
Because she knows what Redfern really is. Doesn’t she?
She’s got me there. But then again: “That doesn’t make her a killer, too.”
No. It makes her an accomplice.
Bambi Redfern is many things, but an accomplice to murder doesn’t seem to fit. Then again, keeping her husband’s reputation intact by hiding his true nature is exactly her M.O.
So, what are you going to do about it?
“Nothing, for now.”
You can’t play judge and jury by yourself, Martha.
I start the car and pull out into the road. “I can, Nicola. And I will.”