A Steve McQueen Lookalike

It most likely goes without saying that keeping help at Schuyler Manor is not an easy thing to do. After her housekeeper won the lottery and promptly quit, Mavis Schuyler has been burning through maids with the speed of an Indy race car driver. As she has told herself repeatedly, good help is truly hard to find--especially at eight bucks an hour.

Carrie Remington waited for the sound of the front door slamming before doing what she always did whenever Mavis Schuyler left the house. She waved good-bye with one finger before getting to work. Everyone had warned Carrie that working for Mrs. Schuyler was like working for a combination of the Grinch, the Wicked Witch of the West and Imelda Marcos but had Carrie listened? Nooooo. She had not. She was too desperate for a regular--albeit tiny--paycheck. Besides, she was in her thirties, a grown woman. Surely she could handle someone like Mavis Schuyler.

Hauling out the steam cleaner, Carrie cursed under her breath as she pulled it toward the family room. She hated the steam cleaner. It had so many hoses and attachments that she was constantly bumping into things and leaving marks on the baseboards that Mavis inevitably spotted the moment she returned from her massage or facial or latest shopping spree. Carrie pretty much despised Mavis.

She was halfway through steaming the couch in the family room when the front doorbell rang. Pushing a strand of strawberry blonde hair out of her eyes, Carrie went to answer it. Opening it, she immediately wished that she was wearing something more attractive than the grey uniform with the white apron that Mavis insisted upon. Standing on the front steps was a medium height, well built man who just happened to be a dead ringer for Steve McQueen, Carrie's all time favorite movie star. Licking her lips, she said, "May I help you?"

The Steve McQueen lookalike gave her an amazingly effective smile. "I certainly hope so. Is this the Schuyler residence?"

"Yes, it is."

"I'm looking for Claudine Markham."

"She isn't here right now. I believe she's at work."

The man leaned against the door frame. "Would it be all right if I waited?"

While it would be totally all right with Carrie if this man not only waited, but if he came in and shared a cup of coffee with her before they started planning their future together but her saner self prevailed. After all, even gorgeous men could turn out to be psychopaths. "Well...who are you?"

He smiled again and Carrie could almost swear that his teeth glinted like diamonds. Why was this guy in Schuyler Square? He should be off riding a motorcycle to Hollywood to star in the next blockbuster. "I'm sorry. I should have introduced myself. I'm Larry Markham."

"Claudine's brother?"

"No. Her husband."

"Her husband?" This was going to be news to Brad Schuyler since he had just asked Claudine to marry him. Carrie stepped to one side to let Larry into the foyer. "I didn't know Claudine was married."

Larry flashed his brilliant smile once again. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure if Claudine knows about it either."

Schuyler Square Day 57 A Kinder, Gentler Mavis...Not

Mavis walked through the kitchen door blindly. A police officer—not Peter—had given her a ride home and while she was sure she had been polite to him, for the life of her she couldn’t remember a single thing he had said to her during the entire ride. Her mind seemed to be frozen and she couldn’t get the image of Ron lying on the black and white tile floor of the Schuyler Square Country Club kitchen out of her mind. Ron was dead! And she was his widow.

His extremely wealthy, still attractive widow a small voice inside her head pointed out. Who will surely be able to find another rich husband--perhaps one who doesn't have the personality of a toad.

True. Once the shock wore off, Mavis was sure that money and her natural good looks were going to do a lot to pull her out of any lingering malaise.

“Mavis!” Rosanne turned from the stove, spatula in her hand. For one brief, mad moment Mavis almost envied Rosanne. Her servant’s life had to be so simple and easy compared to her own. What would Rosanne ever have to worry about? Oh, to have been born of peasant stock! Life would be so much easier. “Sit down,” Rosanne urged. “You look like you’re going to faint.”

Obediently Mavis sank into one of the oak kitchen chairs. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat down in the kitchen. Had she ever? Probably not. Kitchens and Mavis didn’t mix well. She shuddered. Ron had been murdered in a kitchen. Why would he have been there in the first place? Ron didn’t like utilitarian places either.

“Can I get you anything?” Rosanne inquired. “I could make some coffee or tea—“

Mavis shook her head. “I’d like a glass of wine,” she said. “White, please.”

Rosanne’s eyebrows shot over the word ‘please.’ Mavis really needed to turn over a new leaf if merely being polite was so shocking to her cleaning lady. Well, perhaps this was the time she could do that. Now that Ron was gone maybe she could begin a new chapter in her life, a warmer, gentler chapter.

Rosanne set a glass of wine down in front of her. Picking it up eagerly, Mavis took an enormous swallow. “Rosanne!” she said angrily. “This isn’t cold enough! Don’t you know that yet that white wine has to be properly chilled? Maybe you don’t do that in your trailer park but here we chill Riesling to 47 degrees exactly! This is at least 52 degrees and it tastes like swill when it's warm.  I’d appreciate it if you’d stop reading your soap opera magazines long enough to remember that fact!”

Wordlessly, Rosanne picked up the wine, carried it to the sink and dumped it down the drain. Then she turned and left the kitchen without another word to Mavis.

Well, Mavis thought, she’d work on the warmer, gentler thing another day. When she wasn’t quite so frazzled.