Maid for It by Jamie Sumner

Author:Jamie Sumner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Published: 2023-09-05T00:00:00+00:00

22 THE ACCIDENTAL DETECTIVE

I DID NOT WANT TO take Sloan with me to Mrs. Ivey’s. She’s a nice old lady who doesn’t need to hear Sloan moan about cleaning the crusty bits out of Petunia’s bowl. But Sloan insisted.

“I want to practice,” she said. “Improve my time.” She’s turned cleaning houses into a competitive sport.

And of course, today is one of those rare days that Mrs. Ivey is up and about when we arrive. Sloan shakes her hand and then wipes her own on her T-shirt when Mrs. Ivey wanders into her bedroom to answer the phone. “Skin like tissue paper,” she says, and I roll my eyes.

I’m passing the trash bags to Sloan when we hear Mrs. Ivey’s voice through the door. “His birthday falls on Good Friday this year,” she says. “I thought you could bring the kids down for Easter weekend since you don’t have to work.”

The pause after this is so long that Sloan and I exchange a look.

“Do you think she died in there?” Sloan whispers. I glare at her but then hear Petunia scratching at the bedroom door to get out. It’s weird for Mrs. Ivey to ignore her.

“Well, Maria, that’s up to you, but I wanted to mention it.” Maria is her daughter, the one who never visits, or so she tells me. “No, I know it’s Charlie’s senior year.”

Another pause.

I peel a trash bag off the stack and shake it loose, trying not to listen, but it’s hard. Charlie is Maria’s son, Mrs. Ivey’s grandson. They live somewhere over in Georgia, I think.

“You know how hard your daddy’s birthday is on me. No, I’m not—I just miss you both. I thought we could—” She stops, and I can’t tell if she’s collecting her thoughts or Maria is talking over her.

Mrs. Ivey’s a proud lady. Her house might be small, but she likes things just so. It kills me to hear her begging her own daughter for a visit. After another minute, Mrs. Ivey says, “I know, I know. I love you too. Bye now.” She finally lets out Petunia, who gallops toward us like a tiny racehorse, and Sloan and I scatter to opposite ends of the kitchen so we don’t look like the eavesdroppers we are.

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