Stealing Heaven (13 page)

"I'm just happy, baby. And hey--" She taps my menu.
"You should be happy too."

I look at her and she is looking back at me, still smiling but
with a question shading her eyes.

"I am," I say, and tap her menu back. "What are you
going to have?"

Two hours later, after a lot of flirting with the guys at the next
table (Mom, not me) and a pretty crappy

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piece of fish followed by a very good chocolate mousse, I find out
why Mom is so happy.

"Here," she says when we're in the car on the way back
to the house, and hands me her purse. "Inside, zipper pocket."

I click on the overhead light. Inside the pocket is a newspaper
clipping, an interview with Mrs. Donaldson. She talks about her community
activities, donations and fund-raisers and all that stuff. Mention of her
children, and I smile when she describes Allison as "joyful." Then
the reporter asks about her anniversary party, and Mrs. Donaldson makes a very
bad joke about celebrating marriage by serving dinner to 120 people.

"One hundred and twenty?" I ask. With an average place
setting of three forks, a couple of knives, and two spoons...that's well over
eight hundred pieces, and that doesn't even start to count serving trays and
who knows what else.

"I know, baby. I knew this town was going to be good to us. I
just knew it." Mom turns up the radio and starts singing along.

That's what she's so happy about. Silver. Of course. I don't know
why I even wondered. But she's right

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to be happy. We'll be set for a long time after this.

I wait to feel happy too. I know I won't, not over this, not over
silver, and I don't. I never do.

The less said about the first day of "work," the better.
Let's just say that the rich leave as much junk lying around as everyone else
does only they have a lot more rooms to leave it in. Also, if I ever see
another marble shower--requiring special cleaner that smells so bad it makes my
head ache and my vision spot green--it'll be too soon.

After our last house the crew I've been assigned to drives back to
the office to hear a "motivational speech"--it seems Stu is big on
those--and get tomorrow's assignments. Me, Joan (smokes a lot and very bossy),
Maggie (saving every penny for her family back home; I thought that was nice
the first eighteen times I heard it, then it got annoying), and Shelly
(pregnant, and prone to discussing every symptom of morning sickness in graphic
detail) are going to clean Williams, Sherrill, Stone, and Donaldson.

Donaldson. I knew it was coming, I did, but I just--I didn't think
it would be so soon.

Mom makes a face when she picks me up. "You

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smell like--God, what is that ?"

"Marble cleaner. They're sending me to the Donaldson house
tomorrow."

"Baby, that's great! I know we've got a floor plan, but
still. Learn as much as you can about the security system because the next time
you get sent back, we'll do it."

Yes. Sounds great. Sure thing. "I can't do it."

"You can't do it?" She looks away from the road, looks
at me. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I met the daughter, remember? Allison. At the party. She
introduced us. If she sees me at her house--"

"Oh baby, you talked to her for what, two minutes? And
besides, girls like that don't notice maids. People only see what they want to
see. You know that."

"But..."

"But what?"

But there's something else. I didn't tell you this before, Mom,
but I've been to the Donaldson house. Allison invited me. I've talked to her
for more than two minutes. I met her before the party. I've hung out with her.
I've never done that with anyone we

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were going to rob before. I've never done that with anyone before.

It doesn't matter. That's what Mom would say.
It doesn't
matter.
What does matter are the houses and what's in them.

"Nothing," I say. "I'll do it." I have to. All
I've ever known is taking things and moving on. And so when I see Mrs.
Donaldson the next afternoon, walk into her house with the rest of the maids,
I'm not surprised when she doesn't notice me. I stood two feet away from her
just days ago and shook her hand, but then I fit in, wasn't standing holding a
bag of cleaning supplies and a vacuum. It's just like Mom says. People only see
what they want to.

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17

Joan and I have to clean the second floor (the Donaldsons, like a
lot of rich people with huge old houses, don't use the third) and when we get
there we go our separate ways. Shelly and Maggie clean together, but Joan has
made it real clear that she does her thing and I do mine. It's fine with me and
I head through the rooms Joan told me to do, dust and disinfect and vacuum. I
also check for alarm sensors.

There's one sensor in the master bedroom, in a closet by what I
can only describe as the most obvious safe ever, and that's it. I go downstairs
and ask Maggie if she has an extra container of bathroom cleaner in order to
check the windows. All of them, every single window and all of the outside
doors I pass, have sensors. There's even one on a tiny decorative window high
up on the kitchen wall. This is not

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a house Mom and I could easily get into without an in, that's for
sure. But then we have one. Me.

I go back upstairs and turn on the vacuum. I push it around the
floor, thinking about the silver. Getting it shouldn't be a problem. Stu's too
cheap to buy supply bags, and so everyone has to buy one of those generic black
duffels they sell at discount stores. I bought two, and the second one is still
wrapped in the plastic it came in. It'll be easy to stick it into my regular
bag and bring with me.

The only problem I can think of might be noise; silver clattering
together definitely sounds different from jars of cleaning solution, but
silver, good silver, is usually stored well wrapped. Another problem solved.

Getting it out of the house definitely won't be a problem. In the
two days (it feels more like twenty) I've been Stu's poorly paid wage slave,
four maids from different crews have just up and quit, three of them walking
out in the middle of cleaning a house. That's the beauty of shitty jobs. No one
expects you to stick around, and so when you leave no one thinks anything of
it. By the time someone notices the silver is gone and the police get around to
checking who

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was in the house and all that stuff, I'll be a blur in everyone's
mind, "what's-her-name who quit."

However, all the sensors mean good security, and that means there
might be a surveillance camera set up somewhere. I go back downstairs to find
the security control panel so I can check. It's not by the front door and I
head toward the back of the house. Maggie and Shelly are cleaning arid I move
past them quietly, slip into the dining room, and look around for the silver.
It was in here the other day but I don't see it now. Damn. I'll have to look
for that too.

The security panel is in a walk-in pantry right off the kitchen,
and the Donaldsons have themselves a pretty good system. It's got a battery
backup in case the power goes out or is cut, which is something most people
don't bother with, never mind that cutting the power to someone's house isn't
that hard. But there's no camera, and that's excellent news.

Now I just have to find the silver. I head back into the kitchen.
All the drawers and cabinets hold brand-new-looking appliances and ordinary
flatware. Now what? I look around to make sure no one is watching and make
another slow circuit through the dining room.

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Still nothing. If it's not here or in the kitchen, where can it
be? I have to find it fast. Shelly and Maggie will be done soon, plus I still
have one room to clean upstairs. At least I didn't get stuck with the downstairs.
Dusting that walk-in pantry would be a pain in the ass and--

That's it. The pantry.

The silver is there. I can tell because I recognize the shape of
the boxes on the top shelf. I lean against the wall, relieved, and then pull
one box down and look in it just to make sure.

I'm right, and the silver is wrapped in pouches, just like I
thought. I pull out a piece--it turns out to be a fork--and look at it. Early
nineteenth century, definitely made before 1840. Engraving of some kind at the
bottom, maybe a family crest. Very nice. I look a little closer at the
engraving. It looks like some sort of bird. I turn the fork, trying to figure
out exactly what the crest is.

"It's an eagle. I know it doesn't look like one, but it is.
Or at least that's what my mother says. Isn't it ugly?"

Allison. Damn! I almost drop the fork but manage to shove it into
the box and back on the shelf.

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"I'm really sorry," I mutter, careful to stay turned
away from her. "I was dusting when the box fell off the shelf. I promise
it won't happen again."

"Don't worry about it. You should probably be on a stool or
something so you don't hurt your back reaching that high. Do you want me to get
you one? I think there's--"

"No, it's fine. I'm done in here anyway," I mumble, then
duck my head and walk quickly by her.

I go back upstairs, careful not to move too fast, to act like
everything is fine, and start dusting the last room Joan told me to clean. That
was close, too close. What if she'd recognized me? I suppose then I wouldn't
have to worry about her talking to me anymore--I'd be just a maid and like Mom
said, girls like her don't notice maids.

But she did. She didn't know who I was but she acted just like she
has every time I've seen her. She talked way too much. She was nice. She even
offered to get me a stool. And I'm going to steal--it doesn't matter. She said
the silver was ugly, plus her family has money, won't go broke because it's
gone.

Telling myself this doesn't make me feel much better.

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I sigh and glance around, wonder if anyone will be able to tell if
I don't vacuum the room, and then realize Allison is standing in the doorway.

"So were you gonna say hello?" she says.

"Hey," I say cautiously. "You saw me ..."

"When you came in. I saw you get out' of the car. Did you see
me?"

I shake my head. Oh, this is so bad.

"I didn't think so. I waved, but you didn't wave back. I
would have come to say 'hey' sooner but I had to listen to my mother discuss
her stupid party and then I ran into someone in the kitchen who'd just had a
bunch of silver fall on her head."

Oh, this is so beyond bad.

"I'm sorry about that, by the way," she continues.
"I mean, there I am blabbering away, and I'm such a loser because I didn't
even realize it was you until you were walking away and then I was like, oh my
God, that's Sydney!"

Okay, this is fixable. I just have to say the right thing. I can
do this. "Look, I know you must be mad about me being ..." I point at
my uniform.

"What, a maid?" She gives me a look. "Why would I
care about that? Is that why you didn't

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say anything to me?"

"Well..."

She rolls her eyes. "Silly. Is your head okay? Do you need
some ice?"

"I'm fine." She doesn't really know why I didn't say
anything to her. She thinks I'm embarrassed about being a maid, that I was clumsy
and dropped silver on myself and that's it. Nothing more. She believes me. She
doesn't look at me and see--she doesn't see what I am.

"So what have you been up to?" she asks.

"What?"

"You totally ran out of here the other night and I haven't
seen you since. So I'm just wondering why you left, what you've been up to. You
know, friend-catching-up type stuff."

"I...I guess I got kinda freaked out about everything, with
me having this job and all," I tell her, which is sort of the truth
because right now I am totally freaked. I mean, first she sees me as I'm
checking out the silver, and then she believes my lame story. And now, in spite
of the uniform, in spite of everything Mom has always said, she's still
standing here wanting to talk to me. She's saying we're friends. The

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only people who've ever said they were my friends before were cops
who'd try to butter me up to get me to rat on Mom. "You didn't--did you
tell your mom I'm working here?"

She shakes her head. "She's kind of like--well, you know how
some people just assume things about other people? My mom is like that.
Actually my whole family is like that. It's embarrassing. Besides, she's
totally obsessed with this party and wouldn't hear me if I said I was going to
light myself on fire,"

Okay, everything seems fine. I should tell her I need to get back
to work, stop talking because Mom and I don't need any more information from
her, but instead I find myself saying, "How's Brad?"