The General (Professionals 4)

“Who are you?” a suspicious female voice asked, high, shrill almost. And suspicious.

The staff has arrived.

Early, likely, because they heard the news. And just like any sleazy ambulance chaser, they needed to see the inside details, get some information they could use to leak to their close friends and family members – hell, strangers in the drugstore – to make themselves feel more important.

I turned on my heel, finding a woman standing there in a uniform of similar material as hospital scrubs, but much more neat, tailored. Black pants. Gray top with a white wing collar, white buttons up the front. Her shoes were a pristine white as well, grippy, the kind of shoes waitstaff wore.

She was maybe in her late thirties – young enough still to do grunt work without worrying about her back and knees. Her hair was a bright copper red, the kind that could only be natural. Her eyes were small and wide-set to make room for her strong nose, a brown so dark they were almost black. Her cheekbones cut high, hallowed out. That, her thin neck, her frail wrists, all evident of her almost troubling thinness.

I made a life trusting my gut instincts. And my gut was telling me that this woman was someone you needed to be on-guard around.

I wondered if Jenny saw it, acted accordingly.

I imagined she did.

She seemed smart, keen.

To live in a house where the walls had eyes, where any misstep could have you beaten, yeah, I think she knew this housekeeper was out for herself only.

“My name is Smith. I’m from Quinton Baird & Associates. I am personal security for Mrs. Ericsson,” I explained, reaching into my wallet to hand her a card that was made up specifically to say Private Security. It sat next to ones that said Consultant or Public Relations.

“Oh, good. I came in early because I was worried about Mrs. Ericsson all alone in the house after…” her gaze shifted, having caught something out of place at the corner of her vision. The bucket, rag, smeared bloodstain. “Oh, my,” she said, her brow wrinkling. “She tried…” she trailed off, and I was almost certain the sympathy in her voice was genuine. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Smith, I want to get this taken care of so she doesn’t have to see it when she wakes.”

“If you don’t mind, I will make a fresh pot of coffee.”

“Can you put the kettle on as well?” she asked as she stopped in the hallway that led to the laundry room. “I will bring the missus some tea up to her room after I finish this.”

While making coffee, the back door opened twice more, bringing in the groundskeeper who was decidedly not needed since there was no fresh snow to take care of, but he claimed he was just dropping some rock salt Just in case. Then in came the second house worker, a woman well into middle age, round in the middle, short, with perpetually pink cheeks, dark brown hair pulled into a side braid, her gold-brown eyes heavy with worry. I couldn’t quite decide if it was genuine yet.

After I introduced myself, she went to make Jenny’s tea. “I’m Lydia. I cook here. And pitch in on some of the cleaning when Maritza gets behind on the straightening or laundry. I can’t believe all of this. To think I just saw Mr. Ericsson the day before yesterday…”

There was a lot of that between the staff after Maritza finished the blood, and pointedly took the teacup, placed it on a white serving tray with a small plate of some rectangular, hard-looking, health-type cookies.

I braced myself for her reaction when she came back down, wondering if Jenny would fake it upon waking like she could with some warning.

“How is she?” Lydia asked, fiddling around wiping already clean countertops because she had no cooking to do.

“She must have gotten into her bath wearing her bloody nightgown,” she said, waving a small washbasin where the champagne-colored dress was hanging slightly over the edge. “I don’t know if I should wash it, or if she’d want me to get rid of it.”

“Maybe wash it but keep it away from sight for a while,” Lydia suggested. “In case, for some reason, she wants it.”

“Yeah, maybe that is the best course. She’s not doing well. Her face is cut and bruised. She was strangled, you know,” she added in a whisper as though we had an audience. “Eyes puffy from crying. Didn’t even lift her head from her bed. And what she was wearing.”

Gossip.

Mean-spirited gossip.

About their employer’s supposedly grieving wife.

I excused myself, not exactly sure I could hold my tongue if it went beyond her clothes that she wore after getting beaten as if that mattered at all. As if she should be wearing silk and lace to bed after a night like that.