The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag - #1 Skeletons in the Closet

by Jennifer L. Hart

  Oh shit, both my mother’s voice and my own inner monologue chorused. I had totally given him the wrong impression, pulling off a Don’t stand so close to me. I snatched my hand back and picked up on the not so subtle throat clearing coming from the doorway.

  The portly woman in the doorway was in her late sixties, and she didn’t bother to hide her distaste. It took me a minute to place her as the Kline’s cook.

  Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. You’ve really stepped in it this time….

  I did my best crustacean scuttle all the way home.

  * * * *

  I called a few of Marty’s friends, trying to track him down, but came up with squat. My brother had done his David Copperfield escape-from-the-jaws-of-commitment-and-then-disappeared-into-the-night routine. Kenny and Josh stepped off the bus, and I had a list of chores for each of them which I needed done over the weekend. Both boys are more computer savvy than I ever hope to be, and I’d assigned them to research the men who my mother-in-law had invited to Thanksgiving dinner.

  Neil had called her and attempted to change the venue to an upscale restaurant, but he reported it had been like trying to dislodge a giant sequoia with a plastic sand shovel. So I was stuck. Nothing new there.

  I’d finished my shopping list based on my mother-in-law’s menu when Neil arrived home. I dreaded telling him about my encounter with Mr. Kline, because no matter how I phrased it in my head, it sounded awful. There was no simple way to explain what had happened.

  “What’s up, sweets?” Neil gave me a peck on the cheek and stuck his head in the refrigerator. I wrung my hands and debated what to tell him.

  “I hit on Mr. Kline,” I blurted out.

  Neil emerged with a bowl of antipasto salad and a huge grin. “Do tell.”

  “Well, I uh, went to get my phone, ya know?” I looked up at him hopefully. He nodded, and I scoured my mind looking for the right words. “So, I was there, and he had my phone in his office, and there was this chastity belt….” I trailed off as Neil gagged on a piece of mozzarella. “Do you need me to do the Heimlich?”

  “No, I’m good. You just took me by surprise there. Maybe I should wait to eat anything until I hear this.”

  “Well, I found out that Mr. Kline knew, you know, about Mrs. Kline, and he didn’t seem as intimidating, more like depressed.”

  “So you thought you’d cheer him up,” Neil finished my thought.

  “Exactly!” I said, elated that Neil understood.

  “And you decided to hit on him.” Neil shook his head.

  “NO! I mean, I didn’t intend to hit on him, more like I was trying to bolster him up, you know? But he took it the wrong way, and that’s when the cook walked in….” I bit my lip, wondering if I could explain my way out of this.

  “What exactly did the cook walk in on, Maggie?” The words were dangerous, but amusement danced in his green gaze.

  I put my hands on my hips. “You’re having way too much fun with this.”

  “Gotta take it where I can get it.”

  I was about to tell him exactly where he should put it, when the doorbell rang. I looked at the clock. Almost eleven. I tromped down to the front door and turned on the outside light. And began hyperventilating at the sight of two police officers on our door step.

  Marty.

  I looked at Neil, who was about to open the door, and he studied me for a second before squeezing my hand. I knew he understood what I was afraid of.

  Oh, God. Please let my brother be all right.

  “Mrs. Margaret Phillips?” The taller of the two police officers stepped forward.

  I couldn’t speak. Neil answered for me. “This is Maggie.”

  “Ma’am, I’m afraid we need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Is he dead?” I practically shouted at the young officer, wishing he would get to the frigging point.

  The policeman exchanged glances with his stockier companion before answering. “No, ma’am, he’s fine, but we have him in custody. If we could come in for a few minutes—”

  “What’s he charged with?” I demanded. Marty arrested. Dear Lord, what had he gotten himself into now?

  Neil pulled me back from the doorway so that the policemen could come in. I pushed against his chest, but his hold was like a vice.

  “Officers, maybe you should start at the beginning.” Neil’s calm voice washed over me, but instead of calming me it upset me even more. He knew my brother needed me and he was standing there asking the officers to prolong the process.

  “Mr. Kline was taken into police custody at fifteen-thirty hours. He claims you are his alibi.”

  “What? I don’t understand. What about Marty?”

  “Marty?” The men exchanged another one of those looks.

  “Maggie, I don’t think they’re here about your brother.” Neil spelled it out for me. I sagged against him in relief. Marty wasn’t hurt or in jail. It was only then that the rest of the officer’s statement registered.

  “Mr. Kline’s alibi? What does he need an alibi for?”

  The stocky officer cleared his throat. “The murder of his wife.”

  Chapter Five

  Saturday morning arrived, frigid and glumly overcast. I donned a shapeless cobalt dress which Neil detests but gives me a feeling of comfort. I didn’t bother with makeup and after I twirled my hair into a fat bun, I walked down to the bottom of the driveway to collect the newspaper. I left the paper on the kitchen counter and started the coffee. Kenny and Josh wouldn’t be up for several hours yet, boys in training for the adolescent sleep patterns. I looked out at the gray morning and tried not to think about the night before.

  It didn’t work.

  The police officers had stayed for over an hour, questioning my whereabouts and my relationship with Mr. Kline. I’d protested that I didn’t have a relationship with Douglass Kline, informed them that I’d only spoken with him twice. The older officer asked me to come by the station after lunch today so I could speak with the chief investigator. I reluctantly agreed. The thought of more of those probing questions made me shudder.

  “Uh oh,” Neil said from the doorway. “You’re wearing the muumuu, that’s never a good sign.”

  “It’s not a muumuu,” I protested, but my heart wasn’t in it.

  “Everything will be all right, Uncle Scrooge.” Neil draped an arm around my waist and kissed the top of my head. “Do you want me to come with you to the precinct?”

  I did, but I didn’t want him to miss work for something so ridiculous. Neil was saving his scant few vacation days for the holidays, which he’d missed way too many of during his tenure with the SEAL teams.

  “I’ll be fine. I’m going to ask Sylvie to watch the boys. I don’t want them to know about all this.”

  Neil released me and unfolded the newspaper. “Um, Maggie, I don’t think we’re going to be able to keep it from them.”

  I looked at the front page headline. SOCIALITE MURDERED: JEALOUS HUSBAND IS PRIME SUSPECT. Under the headline there were two pictures, one of Alessandra Kline with a benevolent smile, an expression which didn’t reach her eyes, and a gold turban wrapped around her head. The other photo was of a man being led into the police station, his face turned away from the camera. I could only assume that was Mr. Kline.

  I grabbed the paper from Neil and read.

  Alessandra Kline, wife of business mogul Douglass Prescott Kline, was found inside her car which was parked in a parking garage in downtown Boston yesterday afternoon. Mrs. Kline was pronounced DOA by the paramedics; cause of death presumed to be several gunshot wounds fired at close range. It did not take investigators long to confront Douglass Kline, who admitted in a brief statement via his legal council that his wife had been having an affair.

  “My client knew of his wife’s infidelity, but was at no time of a mind to end her life. My client has an alibi who will state that he was at his home in Hudson at the time of Mrs. Kline’s death.”

  No information has been released about Mrs. Klin
e’s lover or Mr. Kline’s alibi.

  Mrs. Kline was forty-seven years old.

  The paper went on to list Doug’s business successes and Alessandra’s charity work. I swayed slightly, and Neil reached a hand out to steady me.

  “They’re making it seem so sordid, using alibi in the same sentence as lover.”

  Neil shook his head, his voice laced with disgust. “Sensationalism sells. I guess this close to a major metropolis a dead society wife isn’t enough, so they have to cast innuendo into the mix.”

  “Yeah, but Neil, that innuendo is about me!” I said, my voice getting louder. Neil made shushing noises, which only fueled my aggravation. I hate it when someone tells me to shush or calm down—it always has the opposite effect. “I bet the cook had something to do with this!” I virtually shouted.

  “Ms. Scarlet, in the conservatory, with the revolver.” Neil, being Neil, knows how to deal with my high drama. “Maggie, I know this is a pain in the ass, but really, what can we do? You’ll go down to the police station, explain to them what happened again and again until they tell you that you can leave, and we’ll take it from there.”

  Why is it that I so often feel like the craziest person in the room? I guess I usually am, but it’s definitely a frustrating feeling.

  Neil poured himself a to-go mug of coffee, kissed my forehead, and headed out the front door. I stood on tiptoes and craned my neck to see if a bevy of reporters had camped out on our front lawn, but all I saw was Sam Cavanaugh walking his Great Dane, Sampson, in the early morning light.

  I fixed a mug of coffee and added my French vanilla coffee creamer, one of my five allotted guilty pleasures. I have, for almost six months now, been on the Make-It diet. This is a diet of my own creation, and once I perfect it, I’ll be the next Atkins or South Beach guy. Then I can finally stop shopping at Wal-Mart. I’ll send someone else to buy the cheap toilet tissue instead.

  The Make-It diet is very simple. The dieter is allowed only five preprocessed items on their menu, such as coffee creamer, five trace amounts of things you personally can’t function without. And for everything else, you have to make it, ingredient by ingredient, the way our grandmothers did. Whatever it is that you want to eat, you have to prepare. No readymade meals or bakery items. If I want a chocolate layer cake, I have to make it—no running out to the 7-11 for a late night hostess cupcake fix. No boxed cake mixes or readymade pie crusts either. No scratch, no dice. I think that’s what I’ll call the diet book.

  The idea behind the Make-It diet is that if you want to eat something badly enough to go through the trouble of preparing it and cleaning up after it, you deserve to have it. There are several kinks in the diet, like what to do when you live in a house with growing boys who always munch on chips and pizza rolls. And what about American staples such as pizza and Chinese food which are only a phone call away? Like I said, I haven’t perfected it yet.

  I called Sylvia and arranged to leave the boys with her at noon. Sylvia teaches an advanced Pilates class on Saturday mornings for people who don’t have enough time during the work week. I didn’t tell her what I had to do, and, bless her soul, she didn’t ask. It was a tossup as to when she discovered what was going on, but I hoped to have a little more information before I had to talk with her about it.

  I took my coffee and sat out on the front steps, letting the early morning mist shroud me from view.

  Who had killed Mrs. Kline? I couldn’t help but wonder if her lover had misdirected his passion for her. Or maybe he had a jealous wife or girlfriend himself, one who was so desperate to be rid of Mrs. Kline that the anonymous woman had killed her. I was sure the police were looking into all of these possibilities, but it didn’t keep me from musing. Of course, musing was all I could do, since I had no idea how to identify the man, other than his pierced heart tattoo. I doubted I could pick him out of a line up, even if all of the suspects were asked to strip. Since that wasn’t going to happen outside of my imagination, I was at a loss.

  Neil was right, I should go in, tell the investigators what little I knew, and put the whole mess behind me. Being nosy has never benefited me in the past. My mind made up, I went inside to shower, only to stop short when the phone rang.

  “Is this Maggie?” a tear-filled voice queried.

  “Speaking. Who is this?”

  “Francesca Carmichael.” A sniffle sounded, and I wondered what I could say to a woman whose sister had been murdered.

  “Francesca, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I finally managed.

  Another sob followed by a short pause. Then, “Maggie, you have to help Doug. I talked to his lawyer, and the police are convinced he’s the one who did this. I’m sorry to ask you, but I need you to go to the police and tell them you know Doug didn’t do this. I’ve tried already, but I’ve been written off as hysterical from grief.”

  I guess no one had told Frannie that I was Doug’s alibi. I debated telling her when she interjected into my thoughts.

  “Maggie, I know my brother-in-law. He’s a good man and he loved my sister more than his own life. He would never hurt her, I’m sure of it.” She inhaled deeply, practically sucking me through the phone. “Maggie, you have to help me; he’s the only family I have left.”

  My heart went out to Francesca Carmichael. I understood what it was like to be virtually alone in the world. I honestly didn’t know if Mr. Kline was capable of murder. He disturbed me on many levels, but my impression of him was not a vengeful man determined to settle the score, but more of a wistfully resigned doormat. I knew that feeling too.

  My biggest problem was the timetable. When exactly had Alessandra been shot? Mr. Kline had asked me to stop by his house around two. Was it possible that my visit was carefully orchestrated to provide him with an alibi? Maybe he’d hired someone to shoot Alessandra, and I was actually helping him get away with murder.

  “Francesca, I’m going to go to the police this afternoon. I’ll do what I can, but I have to tell the truth.” A thought unfurled in my head. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know who we saw with your sister that afternoon, would you?”

  Frannie cleared her throat. “I’m afraid not. I really didn’t get a very good look at his face, if you catch my drift.”

  I smiled, in spite of the horrific situation. “We’re in the same boat then.”

  I said goodbye to Francesca and went to take my shower.

  * * * *

  We arrived at the gym by 11:45, the boys all set for an afternoon at the gym since Sylvia and Eric’s place is in no way kiddie compatible. It never ceases to amaze me the awesome things people can put on display when they don’t have children. Iron and glass end tables, an imported oriental rug, and a painting which definitely wasn’t purchased off of eBay, like the one in my living room. When you have children, you have to live like you have children, hence durable furniture and a Scotch-guarded carpet.

  The boys raced out onto the basketball court, and I stood next to the enormous window which overlooked Sylvia’s Pilates class. Several large women stood in spandex sporting what I like to call the lumpy-bumpy tennis ball butt. Seriously, if you have that much cellulite, wear sweats.

  Seeing so many out-of-shape people made me realize exactly how fit Mrs. Kline’s lover had been. Considering the last decade of my experience with naked men was made up of Neil, Mrs. K’s mystery lover, and the occasional actor’s well-toned backside, I’d forgotten the warrior God build was the exception rather than the rule. So, I couldn’t pick the guy out of a line up, but there was always the tattoo, and he might have a gym membership somewhere.

  I peered in the room with all of the treadmills and orbital machines and examined the male population. Too old, too flabby, too bald, too skinny. Ah, wait!

  There, on the last treadmill on the right, the man was about the right age and build for the mystery lover. His light brown hair shimmered under the track lighting. He had a ribbed crew neck shirt, cut off at the sleeves, and he was in motion so there was no way I could spot t
he tattoo from my position by the window.

  A thought unfurled. There was a slim-to-none chance that tattoo man was at this gym at this point in time, conveniently waiting to flash his tattoo at me.

  I grimaced. Can we say ‘snowball’s chance in hell’?

  “You look like you’re suffering from sea sickness.”

  I turned. An incredibly handsome guy with a smirk on his face gave me the once over. His longer than average dirty blond hair looked wet, but on closer inspection it was smeared with some gelatinous goop, like he’d spent a great deal of time preparing his gym rat persona. His dark brown eyes seemed small and beady on his finely chiseled face. He was, in fact, chiseled all over, as his emerald green tank top and black spandex shorts quickly advertised. Tall, at least six feet in height, his stance screamed: “Notice me and revel in how irresistible I am.”

  I rubbed my left hand over my eyes, making a point to show off my wedding ring. “I’m waiting for a friend of mine,” I told him.

  If he noticed my ring, he made no indication of it. He stepped closer, invading my personal space with the smell of stale sweat and....

  Cologne?

  Who wears cologne to the gym?

  This guy apparently.

  “I’ve seen you around here before, mostly hanging out. What, you’re not a feel the burn kinda girl?”

  Before I could muster an appropriate retort, the door to the workout room opened and Sylvia’s class poured out. Sylvia, the last out, waved to me and Mr. Macho.

  “That’s my friend,” I mumbled and stepped around him. I’d barely reached Sylvia’s side when I noticed my greasy shadow.

  Sylvia readjusted her ponytail and smiled at me. “Hey, Maggie, I’m going to take a quick shower, and then I’ll take the boys off your hands.” She looked at my steroid-induced follower. “I see you’ve met Greg. He’s one of our most faithful clients.”

  Greg tipped an imaginary hat at me. “Greg Miller, at your service.”