Let's Scrooge by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-12-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 4

DETECTIVE SHARPE

The buzzer for the front gate sounds as we’re hosing the bleach water out of the back of the van.

Flint tosses his scrub brush aside to glare up at the speaker mounted near the ceiling. “Who the fuck buzzes at five a.m. on Christmas morning?”

“The Ghost of Christmas Present?” I tease as I strip off my rubber gloves and toss them into the drying rack next to the sink before I pull the phone from my back pocket.

I activate the camera at the front gate to see the shadowed outline of an undercover police car.

Marc, peering over my shoulder, curses. “It’s that detective.”

“Detective Hot Stuff?” Flint jostles in for a peek. “What could he possibly want?”

“Shut up while I find out.” I wait for them to be silent before I press the little audio button under the camera and mumble, “‘ello? Who dis?”

Flint snickers at my bad acting, and Marc reaches past me to slap the back of his head. Flint swats back, and I step out of the way before they have a full-on catfight.

A shadowed figure leans out the driver’s side window. “Ms. Cay, this is Detective Sharpe. May I come up to the house?”

I look down in dismay at my cleanup gear. Answering the door in rubber coveralls won’t look at all suspicious.

“Sure,” I mumble as I walk silently toward the door at the back of the garage. “Just give me a minute.”

I hit the unlock button for the gate before slipping into the tiled bathroom. As fast as possible, I peel out of my rubber jumpsuit and try to scrub the bleach smell from my skin with an industrial, orange-scented cleaner. It just layers one powerful smell over another, but hopefully, the detective’s human nose won’t be able to distinguish between the two.

When I step out, I find Flint using a giant squeegee on the floor while Marc follows behind with a powerful air dryer. It won’t hold up to a close inspection, but the casual observer won’t notice we just finished wiping down the van.

The overhead fans have a powerful enough suction to vacuum out most of the smell, too, so anyone who comes down here will only assume we clean regularly. With all of the household cleaners and vacuums that line the wall, we have reason to smell like bleach. One of our many business fronts is a crime scene clean-up crew, after all.

Leaving them to finish things down here, I sprint up the stairs in my bra and underwear and dart down the shadowed hall. The drive up to the cabin isn’t that long, and there’s only so much time I can delay answering the door before it becomes suspicious.

In the master bedroom, I yank open my pajama drawer and tug on the first thing my hands land on before darting back out of the room.

In the hall, I run into Marc and Flint in their underwear, and Flint plucks the tie from my hair as he passes. My blond locks

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