The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag:
Skeletons in the Closet
Jennifer L. Hart
The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag:
Skeletons in the Closet
Jennifer L. Hart
The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag: Skeletons in the Closet
Copyright © 2008
Jennifer Lynn Hart
Cover illustration by Jennifer Lynn Hart © 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Dedication
In loving memory of Betty M. Kiley.
Who loved a good mystery almost as much as a good laugh.
I miss you, Nanny.
Acknowledgments
Big thank you to my editor M.E. Ellis and the staff at Wild Child Publishing for taking a chance and putting in a great deal of time and effort.
A special shout out to Dan Allen for running the website while it lasted, and J.T., thanks for all the grafix. To my most excellent proof readers, Rachel Saltzman and Elizabeth Krijgsman, thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedules.
To Amy Duncan, Kat Marshall, Roy and Ginger Smith, and all of my other favorite readers, even if I just entertain you guys, it’s been worth it.
And to my husband, Scott, you’ll never know how much it means to have someone listen to me rant. Thanks for not making me feel crazy and for watching the munchkin brigade whenever I need to write. I couldn’t have done it without you.
Chapter One
One of these days the world will be invaded by aliens, and I’ll miss it. Since I average at least an hour to get dressed, the mother ship will enslave the human race while I’m struggling with pantyhose. Do other women have these problems?
I don’t know about the rest of my gender, but I average an hour, not due to my technique for applying makeup or picking out the perfect outfit. My hour consists of stupid hold-ups. For instance, one evening not so long ago, I climbed from my shower, did the eyeliner and mascara bit, and turned my attention to my hair. I’d pulled my semi-dry tresses into a bun while doing makeup, but one scraggly gray stood straight up in the air, a traitorous rebel surrendering to the onslaught of age. I didn’t want to pull the bugger because I’ve heard that three more will take its place. Who knows if this is actually true, but why take the risk? So I combed the gray, and that’s when I saw it.
Dandruff.
Shit.
Why didn’t I use the Head-n-Shoulders? So now the crisis: should I ignore the dry, flakey scalp and forgo the awesome black dress for something else or rewash my hair?
Neil pounded on the bathroom door. “Are you almost ready?”
I gazed in the mirror. The gray hair and the dandruff had joined forces and were on a full-fledged campaign to ruin my appearance.
“I’ll be done when I’m done,” I announced through the door.
“Come on, Maggie, we’re gonna be late.”
I rolled my eyes. Big shocker. Neil and I were always late. As the parents of two young boys, we blamed our tardiness on the kids, but in truth, I’m usually at fault.
I poked my head around the corner. “Go check on the boys.”
“Yikes,” Neil said as he scanned the horror of his wife. “Take your time.”
Neil is a retired navy SEAL. It takes some effort to scare him.
I turned back to the mirror.
“What I need is a game plan,” I told my reflection. I grabbed a pair of cuticle scissors from my vanity table and attempted to cut the gray. This was not as simple as it may sound. Trying to sever just the gray required both a steady hand and compensation for the backwards motion in the mirror. A few of the dark brown strands were sacrificed for the greater good. Next up, the dandruff.
The pipes groaned as the ancient water heater worked overtime, and I tapped my foot for a few beats before climbing under the spray. I lathered my hair with the Head-n-Shoulders, rinsed and repeated. Next, I used the fruity shampoo and conditioner, because a woman can never smell too fruity. The hot water went AWOL during the final rinse, and I stepped shivering from the glassed-in shower. I used the towel to swipe the steam from the mirror and stifled the urge to scream. My waterproof mascara streamed down my face, giving me that Bride o’ Frankenstein effect.
I washed my face with cold water and scrubbed like crazy to remove the black streaks. After five minutes, my face had turned bright pink from scrubbing and exertion, but the hideous black lines appeared significantly lighter. I broke out the foundation and covered the mess as best I could, re-did my eyes, and blew my hair dry. One final check, to assure myself the gray hair and dandruff had been subdued, and I donned my bathrobe.
I marched out of the bathroom and found Neil spread eagled on our queen-size bed while my sons, Josh and Kenny, bounced on the mattress around him. Neil’s eyes remained closed.
“It’s safe,” I informed him.
“Mommy, Josh didn’t brush his teeth,” Kenny told me mid-bounce.
“Kenny didn’t either,” Josh re-tattled on his brother.
Hands on hips, I squared off like a drill sergeant. “What am I going to say?”
“Go brush our teeth,” Kenny and Josh chorused in a flat tone. They gave one final bounce and scurried off to their bathroom. Neil rolled to his side and looked up at me.
“Better?” I asked him.
“Except for the RuPaul make-up.”
“I had some issues.”
“Maggie, you always have issues.”
“But you love me?” I flashed him my hundred watt smile.
“I love you, but I think I need a beer.”
* * * *
After a decade of service to his country, Neil left the navy and uprooted our family from Virginia Beach to the wilds of Massachusetts. Neil has New England imprinted on his DNA, and when he’d begged me to move to Hudson, I didn’t have the heart to refuse. We bought a three bedroom, two bath ranch built in the early nineteen sixties and now inhabit a small suburban neighborhood which we can barely afford. I’ve become adept at dime stretching.
Our house is furnished in classic hand-me-down style. The sofa and loveseat—new once upon a time, but after ten years of constant kiddie torment, not to mention a six-foot, almost two-hundred pound man flopping down on them on a regular basis—fall into the category of “seen better days”. The end tables were rejects from Neil’s parents—the corporate attorneys—and I stumbled across the entertainment center during a garage sale hop. Literally tripped over the darn thing.
I love garage sales. Where else can one find almost new stuff at an unbelievable bargain? Neil and the boys hate garage sales, or more accurately, they hate going to garage sales with me, since I pick through everything until I find a bargain. The need for frugality runs in my Scottish blood. Neil calls me Uncle Scrooge, but he usually doesn’t complain since my thriftiness afforded him the big screen TV and DVR.
Neil, already on his second beer, kept his gaze glued to a football game when I sashayed down the hall in my black dress. I stood in front of the TV and twirled in a circle, always a sure fire way of getting a man’s attention.
“Whatcha think?” I asked.
“Nice.” Neil craned his neck around me to see the sc
ore.
“Aren’t you recording this game?”
“Yeah, but I thought I could catch a few plays while you finished getting ready.”
“Well, I’m ready.”
Neil stood and stretched before clicking off the set. He actually looked at me this time and smiled. “You know we’re already late….”
I glared at him as I recognized his let’s fool around tone. Honestly, I love that Neil always wants to fool around with me, but I’d spent way too much time in dress-up mode to forgo the public appearance.
He shrugged and gave me a quick kiss. “Worth a shot.”
Neil corralled the boys down the hall and into their jackets while I retrieved the bottle of wine from the refrigerator and my purse from the half-moon table in the hall. We’d been invited to a soirée (seriously, the invitation actually said soirée) at the home of our new neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Douglass J. Kline. The Kline’s house—one of the larger ones in our development—stood sentinel at the top of the cul-de-sac on almost half an acre. It was also one of the newest homes in the area, and I was dying to get a look at the place up close. We’d been on nodding terms with the previous owners, but we’d never been invited inside the vast estate.
The November night was cool, especially for my thin Southern blood, and the crisp air stung my nostrils with the smell of fallen leaves. Kenny and Josh ran ahead of us along the sidewalk, heralding our impending arrival with the thunder only little boy feet can produce and shouts of “Eat dirt, Scumbag!”
Precious, aren’t they?
“Boys, simmer down!” I called out while Neil wore his proud papa expression. Neil never worried about making a good impression. Why should he? With his perpetual tan, intelligent hazel eyes, not to mention a physique to rival Michelangelo’s David, Neil defines classically handsome. As a navy SEAL, he’d served his country for over a decade and was currently well respected in the community as an employee of Intel.
I always fret about making a good impression. I’m five-six in heels and have a build that Neil calls statuesque and I call fat. I’m a domestic engineer, also known as a stay-at-home mom. My family and my house are my career. I’m sure in some areas of the country this is still perfectly acceptable, but in Tax-a-chusetts, dual income is the norm.
Every light blazed in the downstairs portion of the house, and soft music filtered through the din of voices. Cars lined the circular drive, and a few distinguished-looking men staked out the front porch, seated comfortably in Hampton Bay wicker. I waved as I recognized Sam Cavanaugh from next door and got a nod of acknowledgement in return. A podiatrist in his early fifties, Sam drove a metallic blue BMW from the golf course to the office. I think he liked to pretend to be James Bond, when in truth he was more like Lyle Lovett with love handles. Whatever gets him through another day of looking at people’s feet.
The boys waited at the bottom of the stairs for us, eyes wide and mouths agog. I hoped I didn’t look quite as star-struck by the finery. Nothing says ‘bumpkin’ like a little drool on the chin.
Neil extended his hand to Sam and the other two men. Introductions, brief and to the point. The tall, lanky man in his late thirties introduced himself as Jason Macgregor, attorney at law and a friend of Doug’s. The shorter, heavyset man with the bald spot appeared roughly the same age and vaguely familiar, but when he introduced himself as Kevin Bartley, I drew a blank. I guess he just had one of those faces.
“I was wondering when you’d get here.”
I turned around to see my friend and next door neighbor, Sylvia Wright, had joined the congregation on the front porch. A tall, strawberry blonde in her early forties, Sylvia looked ten years younger. Her hair was done up in an elegant twist, and her sea-green dress clung like a second skin. It made me wish I’d bypassed seconds on the lasagna at dinner. A perpetual flower child, Sylvia taught yoga at the local gym, but I liked her anyway.
“Hey, Sylvie, what’s shaking?”
“Not much. Did you just get here?”
I waved my hand in a vague gesture. “You know, the kids.”
“Have you met our hosts yet?”
I shook my head, and Sylvia linked her arm through mine and led me into the house. I shot a look over my shoulder at Neil, who remained in a deep discussion with the porch squatters over the game they were missing. I suspected Neil wasn’t the only one with the DVR running.
Kenny and Josh abandoned the Chatty Cathys on the porch and bee-lined for the refreshment table. I called out one last warning for them to behave before focusing on the crowd, picking up on several snippets of football related banter.
“Someone should tell our hosts that they should have elected another night for their soirée. Haven’t they received the memo on Monday night football?” I whispered to Sylvia.
“They’ll learn soon enough, especially with New England in a top position this season,” she whispered back. “The only reason for such a good turn out this time is because everyone was curious.”
I took in the swarming foyer and agreed with Sylvia’s assessment. The place was packed, more than half of the faces new to me. We entered the drawing room on the right. Tasteful furniture, high end bric-a-brac, and a quality Oriental rug on the floor. I felt fairly certain I wouldn’t be running into Mrs. Kline during my garage sale scavenger hunts.
Sylvia stopped to get her bearings and looked around. Since she had a good two inches on me, even with heels, I was hopelessly lost.
A mountain of a blond man approached us. “What brings two fine women like you to a shindig like this?”
Sylvia swatted him playfully on the arm. “Knock it off, Eric. Do you see our hosts?”
Eric grinned down at his wife. The two of them together reminded me of a bride and groom on a Norwegian wedding cake. Tall, fair, and perfectly sculpted.
“I haven’t seen them recently, but I thought they were giving a tour to a group of newcomers.”
“Oh, perfect! We can snoop with the excuse that we’re trying to catch up with the tour.”
I shook my head at Sylvia’s enthusiasm, but inside I was just as excited at the prospect. It wasn’t every day I had the chance to explore a mansion.
* * * *
Sylvia and I peeped into three of the upstairs rooms and found an unoccupied guest room, a room filled with boxes, and the master suite. Tastefully done in earth tones, the room’s color scheme matched the adjoining bathroom perfectly. My heels clicked on the heated marble floor, and I enviously eyeballed the warming towel racks. The jetted tub was larger than my kitchen.
“Would you look at this?” Sylvia exclaimed as she scanned the bathroom. “There’s a chandelier in the bathroom, for crying out loud!”
I gazed at the fixture in question and silently admitted it seemed a bit excessive. What else could be expected from people who hosted a Monday night soirée?
We peered in the medicine cabinets (hey, if you’re going to snoop, you might as well go the whole hog), but found nothing of interest. Typical hodgepodge of makeup, cough syrup, Band-aids, and antibacterial ointment as well as antidepressants prescribed to Alessandra Kline. She probably shot them back with a vodka martini while lying on a chaise ogling the shirtless pool man. No wait, that’s my fantasy. We shut the bathroom door and exited the master suite. Still no sign of the tour group, thank goodness.
“Well what do you think?” I asked Sylvia.
“I’m glad I don’t have to clean this place,” Sylvia said. She walked to the next door and jiggled the knob. “It’s locked. I bet all the good stuff is in here.”
“Just what is the good stuff, Sylvie?”
“You know, whips, chains, dismembered body parts. Haven’t you ever read a mystery novel?”
I had, but I didn’t think we’d find any of that in the Kline residence. More accurately, I hoped we wouldn’t, because I had no idea what I would do in case of such a discovery. There are certain things you really don’t want to know about the people in your neighborhood, Mr. Rogers aside.
“W
hat are they like, Sylvie?” I asked, hoping for something to refute the American Psycho images flip booking in my head.
“Old money, definitely old money.”
“What makes you say that?”
Sylvia tapped her finger against her cheek. “Just a vibe I get. The wife seems pleasant enough, even if her nose is perpetually up in the air. But the husband, well, I only had a glimpse of him. They have that ‘I’m above all this’ aura, you know?”
I really didn’t. Sylvia was an expert when it came to things like aura and cosmic vibrations, but I remained too firmly planted in reality, worrying about making credit card payments and such.
Sylvia gave the door handle one last jiggle and grunted in frustration. “I guess we aren’t destined to discover what’s behind door number four.”
“You might ask me to unlock it,” a deep male tenor broke in.
We both jumped.
“Oh, Mr. Kline!” Sylvia smiled and composed herself, while I wondered if I could force my heart to start up again.
Our host was average height with thick salt-and-pepper hair and a push-broom gray mustache. Amusement lit his extremely pale blue eyes set in a deeply tanned face that would put George Hamilton to shame. “We had heard mention of a tour and we were looking for you and your wife—”
Mr. Kline raised a hand and smirked at Sylvia. “No need for explanations, my dear. Curiosity is very natural. Speaking of which….” He gave a pointed glance my way.
“Oh, forgive me, Mr. Kline,” Sylvia said, waving a hand in my general direction. “This is my friend and neighbor, Maggie Phillips. Maggie, this is Mr. Douglass Kline.”
Mr. Kline extended a hand to me, and I shook it. “Please, I insist you call me Doug. Maggie Phillips, you say? Any relation to Ralph and Laura Phillips?”
“They’re my in-laws,” I told him.
“Ah, well, you have my sympathies, my dear.” He smiled at what must have been a bemused expression on my face. “I had the misfortune of crossing your father-in-law in court a few years back, and well, let’s just say his reputation is well deserved.”
The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag - #1 Skeletons in the Closet Page 1