Mr. Wolfe

at the town's historic castle. Mr. Wolfe knew this, because Klaus, the cleaner was a close friend of his and he had contacted Mr. Wolfe, letting him know that Miss Finley's touring wardrobe was in disarray. The elderly man had been so hysterical, he'd asked him for advice and Mr. Wolfe had given it.
Mr. Wolfe was surprised to learn that Linda, who'd been the wardrobe manager for the tour, didn't let Klaus finish the work. She took the cases on to England, shipping the half-cleaned items back to Germany. In England, she had taken the remaining garments to a commercial drycleaner, hence the disaster of the white, bugle-beaded dress.
He removed the most heavily stained garment. He examined the seams of the gossamer-like pale lilac, floor-length gown made of tissue lamé. He noticed seam and yardage slippage, but he would need to clean the unsightly underarm stains before he could repair the damage to the fine fabric.
Mr. Wolfe prepared a container of barely warm water and began the painstaking process of dampening the first armpit and blotting. He repeated this process with towels and a very fine sponge. After twenty minutes, he detected the first hint of the stain loosening its grip on the fabric, and then began the second phase. He mixed a solution of a couple of drops of ammonia with fresh, lukewarm water and repeated the wet-and-blot procedure.
It worked like a charm.
After doing this with both arms, he spotted a few more stains and removed these as well. He set the garment aside to tackle the bugle-beaded white dress.
Still not satisfied with its less than snowy appearance, he emptied the metal container and started again, adding more soap flakes, a little vinegar and a pinch of baking soda. The dress began to brighten. He swished by hand, listening to his workers laughing and talking.
Apparently even the screws and nails Linda's crew had used were the wrong types and lengths.
He rinsed out the solution in the metal container once more and refilled it. He could still smell dry-cleaning fluid on the dress. It would have to be drawn out. He pondered his choices and decided on a touch of hydrogen peroxide and another pinch of baking soda to the white soap solution.
Mr. Wolfe would allow it to soak a good hour before tackling the bugles by hand. He set the container to the side and gently cleaned the lilac dress. Using several towels after rinsing the garment clean, he blotted it and with a swift glance at the others awaiting his touch, he uncapped his super-secret blend of cold water and several different soaps. With a flourish, he gently put the lilac dress into an ordinary household colander and dipped it into the creamy mix.
"Wow, I always love watching you do this." Miguel's voice was a soft breath at Mr. Wolfe's ear. Even Mr. Wolfe was astonished at the crud that rose off the fabric. Insect residue, a faint yellow stain, a whiff of perfume and, of course, dry-cleaning fumes.
"I smell cum," Miguel said, sniffing loudly.
The cloth was now at its most vulnerable. Letting the colander drain out, Mr. Wolfe gently emptied the dress onto some fresh towels and began blotting. One more clean rinse and the garment would be ready to dry.
One down, hundreds to go.
He allowed the gloved Miguel to rinse and lay the dress out.
"This fabric is gorgeous," the young man breathed. "It shimmers. I didn't notice it before when it was dry."
Mr. Wolfe allowed himself a smile.
"You will now because it's clean." He bent his head back to the bugle-beaded dress. He'd apprenticed under the great Hollywood costume designer, Paul Zastupnevich, who'd taught him the very secretive and detailed work of costume restoration and archival. Mr. Z. would be proud to know that Mr. Wolfe had taken to heart every lesson he'd ever learned.
What Mr. Z. hadn't known by the time he died was that Mr. Wolfe had apprenticed under several great masters.
For five hundred and seventy five years.

Chapter 2
Mr. Wolfe felt every second of his age by the end of most days when he worked. He gave everything to his craft and, yes, he was inclined to be exacting, but he knew the perils of doing things half-assed.
He put in a vigorous day working hard on cleaning the most urgent cases of neglect and almost howled with relief when the air conditioning kicked into gear, just as the sun began to fade.
"It's almost six o'clock," Ambrosio said, coming to stand beside him.
Mr. Wolfe almost barked a sharp "So what?" at him, then remembered that Zara Finley had sent him a text message asking him to call her at six on the dot.
"What in the world would I do without you?" Mr. Wolfe asked his right-hand man.
"Let's hope you never have to find out." Ambrosio hoisted the massive hammer in his hand to his shoulder, gave Mr. Wolfe a sly wink, turned on his heel and returned to work.
Mr. Wolfe allowed his gaze to linger on Ambrosio's shapely ass a moment longer, then called Zara, who answered in a breathless tone he already knew was phony. "Have you been following my tweets?" she asked as soon as she heard his voice.
"Your tweets? No." He almost added, "Who has time for tweets? I'm too busy working!" Instead, he fought his rising rage to keep his tone calm. He even faked a note of interest in the topic. "Why? Is something interesting going on?"
"Why, yes!" Her voice grew even more breathless if that were possible. She only ever used this gimmick when talking to a man. He assumed it was supposed to make her sound like Marilyn Monroe but made him think of a serial killer.
"You have to read my tweets!" she burbled. "I'm so excited, I could faint!"
He wished she would. He might be able to get back to his work then. He stifled an aggrieved sigh. "I'll get my laptop."
"Hurry," she purred.
He took his time.
When he found her Twitter page he was dismayed to see