Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

In by Ten, Dead by Five or, Murder at the Dry Cleaners by Michele Stone Kilmer

The glare of neon lights pulsed through the grimy window like a psychedelic hangover, splashing color all over the steel, Formica, and linoleum interior. This was the dry cleaners: by day, a haunt for workers and the occasional customer. But, at night, after the people left and the lights went out, it was a different world. Then it was my world. The name’s Macintosh. I’m a trenchcoat.

It was raining hard the night the skirt came looking for me. I’d been lifting a few with Tommy the Tweed over at the spot-cleaning bar when she slid in like a bar of wet soap. In this neighborhood you see a lot of skirts but not like this one — long and slim, hot red with a deep slit that could unravel your seams. Unlike the rags you usually see around here, she had class. She smelled of money. One hundred percent silk — definitely not my type.

“Mr. Macintosh?” she asked in a voice that slid like satin off an ironing board.

“That’s me, sister,” I agreed. “What can I do for you?”

She shifted on her hanger, looking around. This wasn’t her kind of place, and I wasn’t exactly the kind of rag she was used to hobnobbing with, either.

“Mr. Macintosh...”

“Mac,” I told her. “Just call me Mac.”

This was plainly too informal for her. She straightened indignantly. “Mr. Macintosh, I am here only because I need your help. I am terribly worried about my sister Jackie. She’s a jacket, and she seems to be missing.”

I’d heard this kind of thing before. Usually it was nothing. Someone got filed under the wrong ticket, and the rest of the order pushed the panic button. I shrugged, shoving my sleeves deep into my pockets. “What’s your hanger, kid?”

“Hanger?” It took a few seconds. “Oh! My name is Sylvia. Sylvia Silksuit.” Her seams began to pucker. “You must find Jackie for me. I just know something has happened to her in this dreadful place!”

“Hey! Don’t get all drip-dry on me.” I handed her a hanky that was only a little dirty. “I know you ain’t a regular here. In fact, I can’t say I recall ever seeing you here before.”

“No,” she sniffed, pointedly ignoring the hanky. “I’m... that is, we’re tourists. Our customer brought us in this morning. We were supposed to check out by five. Jackie and I got separated at the counter. I got dry-cleaned and was supposed to meet her at the presser. Only, she never came.”

“Was there anyone else on your order?”

“No.” Her voice quavered, and I thought the waterworks were starting up again. I got the hanky out, just in case, but she managed to shut it off. “No, there were only Jackie and myself. We were a suit. Now I’m all alone.”

She sounded so lost I wanted to put my sleeve around her, but I knew she wouldn’t go for it. So I stuffed the hanky in my pocket and offered her a friendly grin. “Take it easy, kid. I’ll snoop around and see what washes up. I’ll get back to you.”

She slid away, and I turned to the crowd hanging around the spotting bar. The usual residents were there, along with some regulars, monthlies, and a few tourists from out of town. Who would know anything about some ritzy rag that got herself lost? In a dark corner a nylon sweater was draped all over a leather jacket, and across the room some old flannel shirts were needling a pair of new designer jeans. Two army jackets were arm-wrestling on the pressing board, too engrossed in the joy of trying to tear each other’s sleeves off to notice anyone. Harry Hibiscus, the resident playboy Hawaiian shirt, was guzzling starch with a flashy red Spandex dress. He was usually pretty stiff by this time. No use asking him. Then I spotted old Pete Plaidpants over on the rack. He was the oldest rag here.

Us residents had been here varying amounts of time, brought in and long since forgotten. In a few cases, the rag’s customer had met with some misfortune before getting back for the pickup. But most were like me: the customer just never forked over the dough to spring us. Whatever the reason, we were stuck here, and old Pete had been around as long as anyone could remember. He was sharp, was old Pete. He just might know something. I strolled on over.

“How you hangin’, Pete,” I asked, sliding onto the rack next to him.

“Hey, Mac,” he greeted me, crossing his legs to make more room. “How’s it with you?”

“Just the usual,” I replied. “Hunting up missing buttons, gettin’ the goods on a wandering rag, you know... By the way, Pete, you seen anything of a red silk jacket? A tourist. Size, oh, maybe nine, ten?”

His belt loops frowned as he thought. Finally, he said: “Yeah... yeah, I did see one like that earlier today. A real looker. Ritzy like. She was cosying up to Buddy Blueblazer over by the water heater. Why? What’s up?”

“She’s missing.” I scanned the room. “Blueblazer, huh?”

“That’s right. Looked like they were getting real chummy. A tourist, you say? Maybe she decided to quit her traveling and stay here. Did you check the boiler room?”

“Not yet, but I will. Thanks, Pete. I think I’ll go have a chat with Blueblazer.”

He flicked a pocket towards the sink. “I saw him and Millie headed that way a while ago.”

I wove through the rags and found Buddy snugged away with a pink angora sweater named Millie Mothbait. She was a cute little rag, but kind of shopworn... like she’d been blocked once too often. She slid her cuff off Buddy’s lapel as I came up.

I gave her a short nod and turned to Blueblazer. He came in about once a month, and I had never liked him. Maybe it was because he was too goodlooking, with his wide shoulder pads and trim, tapered seams. Or maybe it was the way he kept shining those brass buttons all the time. But he had something. The dames sure came unzipped over him.

“Macintosh?” he said, a thread of surprise in his soft drawl. “To what do I owe this honor? Buy you a drink? How about some perchlorethylene? New batch just came in today.”

“No drink, just information.” I asked him about Jackie. He got real tense, glancing sideways at Millie. At first he denied even seeing her, but when I told him Plaidpants had seen them together, he admitted that much.

Millie, who was known to be the jealous type, was fuming, but she didn’t seem very surprised. And that surprised me. I poked around a little more, but I already knew what I’d find. And, sure enough, by morning I had the case solved. All that was left was to tell Sylvia. As I made my way to where the “specials” hung, I tried to think of an easy way to break it to her. There was no easy way. I gave it to her straight.

“Sorry, kid. I found your sister in the bottom of the washing machine.”

“The...” She went limp, horrified. “The washing machine! But that can’t be! Jackie was... was...”

“I know,” I told her gently. “She was ‘Dry-clean Only.’ It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

It wasn’t until later that I told her sister had been helped into that machine, and about the small tuft of pink angora I found clutched in the button of her sleeve.

Millie finally came clean and admitted shoving Jackie into the laundry basket in a fit of jealousy. From then on, her life was washed up. The last I saw of Millie, she was being led away by a couple of burly uniforms with gold stars.

Sylvia’s customer was so steamed by what had happened to Jackie that she stormed out, leaving Sylvia to become a permanent resident. She’s settling in now, and getting over her loss.

And me? I’m finding silk might be my type after all.