The next day, Derek was up early and I joined him for coffee before he left for the day. Seeing him dressed for work in a beautiful dark gray suit, white shirt, and swirly navy-and-gold tie that by itself probably cost more than all the shoes in my closet, I was reminded of the mean girls from the office party. At this point, I didn’t even care about the flavor-of-the-month comment. What bugged me all over again was that they could talk so rudely and vocally about a woman their boss was obviously dating and cared for enough to bring to the party. It showed disrespect for Derek, and I hated them for that.
As my father says, sometimes people just suck.
After Derek left, I took a shower and dressed, then went to work. There was so much to do on the Kama Sutra, but first I wanted to get little Tyler’s beloved book finished and back to him.
So I spent the next three hours working on Where the Wild Things Are, separating the text block from the cover, resewing the signatures, and reinforcing the spine with a strip of heavy card stock. I replaced the endpapers with a thicker piece of stock that would strengthen the joints. Then I slid sheets of Mylar in between the front and back endpapers and the text block and glued everything down.
After that, I slipped the book between two pieces of wrapped plywood to keep it secure, then placed it in Big Betty, my heavy-duty antique brass book press, and clamped it securely. The book would remain there for twenty-four hours so the glue could dry, then be good as new for Tyler.
At eleven, I drove over to Robin’s to meet the cleaning crew. Yesterday I’d suffered a twinge of uneasiness when Derek and I left them alone to work in her apartment. But I’d been assured that the company employees were fully bonded, and besides, they’d come highly recommended by Inspector Jaglom. That had to count for something. Now, walking through the apartment with Tom, the head guy, I was happy to see that my trust had not been misplaced.
I learned two things from Tom that I’d never realized about crime scenes before. The first was that when blood was spilled, the scene became a biohazard site. Robin had tracked Alex’s blood from the bedroom to the bathroom and across the floor of her living room. These cleanup guys took their job seriously; they dressed head to toe in disposable hazmat gear.
The other thing I learned was that crime scene cleanup was covered by Robin’s homeowner’s insurance, so Tom wouldn’t take my check. Go figure.
But back to the biohazard issue. Not only had the guys cleaned and wiped down every surface where all that creepy fingerprint dust had scattered, but they’d also disinfected every square inch of the floors and walls surrounding the bed where Alex had died. They had stripped and disposed of the bloody linens, only to discover that the mattress itself would have to be thrown out.
I cringed when Tom told me that, knowing it meant that Alex’s blood had seeped through the sheets and into the mattress. I asked them to dispose of the box spring, as well, knowing Robin would never want to sleep on any part of a bed where Alex’s blood had been spilled so violently.
But in the midst of all the negative vibes, there were Tom and his team. Compassionate and respectful, they left Robin’s place sparkling clean and smelling as fresh as springtime. I couldn’t thank them enough for the work they’d done.
On the way to the mall, I had a long telephone conversation with Robin, who let me know she wanted the exact same superdeluxe mattress she had before. So I spent the afternoon buying her a mattress and box spring, then shopped for sheets, two new pillows, a down comforter, a duvet, and some cheerful mix-and-match throw pillows. I made sure everything I bought was the most beautiful and most expensive I could find. I knew my finicky friend well enough to know that that was exactly what she would’ve done.
That evening, I decided to experiment with making a shepherd’s pie. I had warm memories of my mother’s version, and I wanted comfort food after spending time with Robin’s crime scene cleaners.
Derek called to let me know he was running late, so once dinner was in the oven, I took the opportunity to work on the Kama Sutra. The only French dictionary I’d found at the mall that afternoon was for children, so I didn’t know how much help it would be, but I would consult it anyway. I’d also bought The Knucklehead’s Guide to the Kama Sutra, thinking it might come in handy. And I booted up my computer in case I needed to find references online.