After the Murder, We Sand the Floors

Chapter from a murder mystery, inspired by a true life encounter with a drum sander.

Early the next morning I picked up the floor sander from the Happy Homeowner rental shop. It came with sandpaper disks as gritty as Stan’s unshaven face. He hoisted the machine from the back of my Civic. His thick hands lingered on the handlebar. “Cool.”

“Now this is a complicated machine,” I told him gently. “Are you sure you know how to run it?”

“Piece of cake.”

“Because if it’s too difficult—”

Stan’s wide shoulders stiffened. I had insulted him. “Not that I don’t trust you,” I added quickly.

It took the two of us to haul the sander up the stairs to Andrea’s apartment. Stanley had cleared her furniture from the living room. Through the doorway to the kitchen, I could see her futon folded and standing on one end against the refrigerator. The drafting table, where she spent so many hours drawing portraits of shriveled fruit, was pressed up against the stove. The living room floor was bare, excepting the bloodstain.

The stain had darkened overnight. Now it was a deep purple, like the scarf Andrea always wore around her long neck. My heart sank. “We’ll never get this out.”

Stanley was on his knees, examining the underside of the sanding machine.  “This baby can handle it.”

Grunting from the weight of the machine, we set it up right. I plugged in the electrical cord. Stanley revved the engine and roared off in a cloud of wood dust. Ink bottles and a cluster of jars holding Andrea’s sharp pens rattled on the windowsills. A scent like Christmas trees filled the air.

 “Wait—!”

Gripping the handlebar, Stanley plowed forward. And to think only yesterday he had been teary-eyed over Andrea’s unexpected death. Today, Stanley Wachala was an overgrown boy with a brand new toy. I leapt to pull the plug. “This is NOT a Harley-Davidson.”

Stanley stared mutely at the silent machine.

“You have to be careful,” I told him.

Stanley leaned on the start button. Was he even listening to me? I brushed my fingertips across the floor and held them up so he could see the powdery wood dust. “Douglas Fir. It’s very soft.”

“You said you wanted the stain out.”

“Yes, but gently. Go with the grain of the wood, Stanley.”

 “You done this before?”

“I saw a demonstration on HGTV.” I pushed the plug back into the wall socket. “It’s important to go with the grain.”

Stanley shrugged and pressed the start button again. The machine rumbled back to life. Flecks of plaster fell from the ceiling. Andrea Smythe’s drawing of a leering zucchini vibrated on the wall. If she were here, she’d cover her ears and complain of migraines. I half expected her to appear at the door, dramatically pressing a hand to her aching head. The head that spilled all that blood.