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minivans which had spawned in suburbia like the swallows of Capistrano. This was a full sized white monstrosity which averaged about twelve miles to the gallon and sported a nasty rust spot on the rear quarter panel. I bought the van a few months before Neil left the navy at an automotive charity auction. I’d been the only bidder, which I guess is a very accurate illustration of how bad the vehicle appeared. Neil likes to call it the White Cloud of Death, although I’ve yet to run anyone over with it. That skunk on the drive from Virginia didn’t count, and he’d definitely had the last word.
    The engine sputtered to life, and I backed slowly out of the driveway, very slowly to avoid hitting anything in my blind spot. Like another house. Despite being the size of an aircraft carrier, the van was a pretty smooth ride, even though I wasn’t about to get ‘hey baby-ed’ at any traffic lights. I’d put in a few storage nets, but the box with my Swiffer duster and grab-it dry floor mop slid against the back of my seat as I took the sharp curve down to the Kline’s driveway. There, a new problem faced me. Where to park?
    The tree-lined circular drive in front of the house was freshly blacktopped; I caught a whiff of the stuff they’d used to seal it. There was a parking space in front of the garage, but I didn’t want to block anyone in. I sighed and put the White Cloud of Death into reverse, backed down the driveway, and parked half in a ditch behind the mailbox.
    Getting all of my cleaning supplies up to the front door took two trips, but I’ve always been compulsively early, so it was five minutes to nine when I rang the bell. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata echoed throughout the cavernous entryway, only slightly muffled through the door. It figured they wouldn’t have a ding-dong chime, too pedestrian. Footsteps melted in with the final notes, and I blanked my expression as the door opened.
    “Good morning,” I said in my professional voice.
    Alessandra Kline’s long-sleeved yellow wrap dress did nothing to embellish her gaunt frame. Her thin-lipped scowl told me someone had done number two in her Wheaties.
    “The help uses the back entrance,” she informed me before shutting the door in my face.
    I blinked several times, wondering if that had really happened. Where was the apologetic woman who had penned the letter of regret? I took the check out of my pocket and was very tempted to shove it under the door. She’d have to live with her bacteria-ridden sink and grime-encrusted tile. I watched the White Cloud of Death drip oil on the driveway and felt a bit better. I could always buy a new car with this extra money, one with more than two seats.
    “Okay, Maggie, you can leave, anytime you want to.” I spoke Neil’s words aloud, and it gave me the courage to haul my two loads of cleaning supplies to the back of the house. I knocked on the kitchen door.
    “You’re late,” Alessandra Kline informed me as she stepped aside to admit me to the kitchen.
    I looked at the wall clock, and sure enough, it was two minutes past nine. I opened my mouth to respond but I closed it. I’d be damned if I’d dragged all this stuff up here and then had to turn around and drag it home without using it. I still had a shred or two of pride, so I wasn’t about to apologize either.
    Mrs. Kline didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by my silence. She turned to the work island, and I had to tamp down my kitchen envy. I hadn’t seen this room on my last visit and I stared in awe at the marble countertops and stainless steel appliances. It was, in a word, mag-frigging-nificent.
    But it could definitely use a good cleaning.
    A ring of grime marred the sink, and an assortment of crumbs loitered under the maple cabinets. The floor appeared relatively decent, but I knew how to make it shine.
    “I see you’ve brought your own materials,” Mrs. Kline said, waving a hand at my stockpile. “For now, I’d like you to clean the