Dust mops are deadly in this “irresistible” (Minneapolis Star Tribune) and “wickedly witty” (Chicago Sun-Times) cozy mystery featuring the beloved Ellie Haskell—the signature heroine of Agatha Award nominee Dorothy Cannell.
When the ever-scrupulous and ever-caustic Mrs. Roxie Malloy leaves her employ in tears, Ellie Haskell—busy mother of twins—is forced to find another cleaning person. As she searches for someone who can at least aspire to taking Mrs. Malloy’s place, Ellie turns the household topsy-turvy, overcome with spring-cleaning fever. But when members of the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association (C.F.C.W.A.) start biting the dust, Ellie swaps scrubbing for sleuthing to find out what dark secrets have been swept under the rug.
With the help of her husband, Ben, her feckless cousin Freddy, and an assortment of homemade cleaning solutions, Ellie joins the C.F.C.W.A.’s roster and embarks on a brief stint as a mercenary maid—just long enough to snoop through her neighbors’ things and find out which one has more than dust bunnies and dirty dishes to hide.
Praise for The Spring Cleaning Murders “Irresistible . . . Pick up [The Spring Cleaning Murders] and let the dust bunnies lie where they fall.”—Minneapolis Star Tribune
In spring a young woman’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of scrubbing down walls, turning out cupboards, taking up rugs, and doing the hundred and one other jobs that make her feel at one with Mother Earth. Oh, the joy of routing woodworm from the back-bedroom bureau! (What a recharging of the female batteries at discovering enough dirt under the sofa to plant pansies!) A time for rebirth. A new day dawning in which to repaint the kitchen, hang freshly ironed curtains, and make a pilgrimage to the attic to sort out the clutter of yesteryear. The bliss of knowing one is geared to set the house, if not the world, to rights even if for the moment it is impossible to tell if you are moving in or moving out.
I was feeling on top of the world—partly because I was standing halfway up a stepladder. Another cobweb swatted with an expert flick of the wrist, another stain blotted from the face of the ceiling. Ellie Haskell, housewife extraordinaire! Then, ruining the moment, two small voices inquired sweetly: “Can we go and look for fairies at the bottom of the garden?”
“Not now, dears!” I smiled benignly down at my three-year-old twins, daughter Abbey and son Tam. “Mummy is very busy.”
“Please!” Their little faces fell.
“Perhaps later,” I said, “but right now I have to make the house all shiny and clean so we can live happily ever after.”
“I want Daddy!” Tam dug his knuckles into his eyes.
“Me too,” wailed his sister.
“Daddy’s at work, which is where good children get to go when they grow up,” I told them. “Not,” I added quickly, “that Mummy doesn’t have the most marvelous time when she is home looking after you and making everything nice.”
“You don’t look nice, Mummy.” Tam scowled up at me. “Actually”—this was his word of the week—“you look like a witch.”
“No she don’t!” Abbey, always quick to my defense, gave him a push that landed them both on the floor. And suddenly I wavered, which may have been partially due to one of the stepladder’s legs being shorter than the other. All morning I had been picturing myself as an Amazon. I hadn’t realized that seeing me with an old cloth tied around my head and a feather duster resembling a diabolical magic wand in my hand might end up giving my children nightmares.
I’ll admit that when I glanced up and noticed another cobweb dangling brazenly from the corner above the Welsh dresser, I considered sending the children outside to play by themselves. There is a walled area that was once the herb garden, so I didn’t have to worry about them wandering through the gates and out onto the cliffs. And I could keep an eye on them from the kitchen window. But then I remembered the picture book I had found in the attic that morning. It related the sad and sorry tale of a band of brigand goblins who once upon a time holed up in the rockery of a sweet old lady’s garden. Horrid, knobby little people, all cleverly disguised as crocus bulbs.
I came down off the stepladder and, as the children wrapped themselves around my knees, surveyed the upended kitchen. Surely it would be the height of irresponsibility to grab up a bottle of milk and a handful of apples, slap some cheese between slices of bread, and head with this makeshift picnic out into the garden. But birdsong drifted in through the open window on the back of a sweet-scented breeze, and I remembered how that morning I had barely restrained myself from dusting off Miss Vienna Miller’s legs when she came to discuss an upcoming Hearthside Guild meeting. And she a newcomer to our little village!
“Please, Mummy!” Abbey was tugging me towards the garden door. Feeling like a nun forsaking the convent, I went with my little girl and boy into a world painted with rainbow color for a picnic where dock leaves served for luncheon plates. A gull glided overhead, and a thrush peeked down from the branches of the old copper beech to serenade us with the promise that there would soon be bluebells in the wood.
Tomorrow, I vowed while unwinding the string of a faded kite, tomorrow at the very latest I would get down to some serious spring cleaning. And if a distraction should crop up, something totally unavoidable, such as being invited to tea with dear Brigadier Lester-Smith, then I would definitely get back on track the very next day.
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