The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag - #1 Skeletons in the Closet Page 11

  Shopped early.

  I spied the wheelbarrow propped against the side of the house. “Yes!” I cried as my inner voice shrieked No! You can’t push the wheelbarrow all the way into town. What if someone sees you? You’ll look completely unhinged.

  I was starting to think I was completely unhinged as I plopped my purse in the barrow and started off. According to Map Quest, the nearest supermarket was 2.7 miles from my address, but pushing a wheelbarrow that far was no easy task. I saw more than one motorist along the road, eyes like beach balls, nose pressed to the glass. The wheelbarrow was a fight every step of the way—one wheel didn’t for good navigation make—and I had to struggle to keep it on the road. I made sure to stay with traffic, since I didn’t want to get a ticket. No more time in the slammer for Maggie Phillips.

  I huffed along; sure I experienced some of that adrenaline-charged superhuman strength that Neil referred to on occasion. I remembered a story he’d told me about a grandmother lifting the back end of a Cadillac to rescue a trapped child. I wonder what she would have done if her first Thanksgiving with the in-laws was at stake.

  My hands were chafed and raw from the mid-grade wooden handles by the time I reached the market. I parked the barrow around the back of the store and sauntered inside the way a normal person would. I barely suppressed a wince as my hands gripped the shopping cart. A shopping cart would be much easier to push home, I mused, but I had no idea what the penalty for shopping cart theft was, so I released a sigh and dug in my purse.

  It took me a moment to comprehend what had happened. My shopping list was tucked neatly into my cook book, at home, right where it could be the least functional. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep myself from imploding on the spot. I was the recipient of more curious glances, but if these people only knew my mother-in-law….

  Standing sentinel in the supermarket wouldn’t get Thanksgiving dinner under way, so I began in produce. A dozen Macintosh apples for homemade apple sauce, fresh thyme and rosemary for the turkey, white and sweet potatoes, onions, turnip, and I was off to the canned aisle. Everything was much more picked over here, and I cringed at grocery store prices for canned pumpkin this close to the holiday. Cranberry, evaporated milk, flour, sugar, brown sugar, I probably had some of this stuff at home, but better safe than sorry.

  My normal efficiency was gone without my list, and I was transported back to my early days of shopping willy-nilly. I was putting off the turkey, since that was a dilemma all of its own.

  A normal person buys her turkey a few days ahead so it has plenty of time to defrost. Maggie Phillips didn’t have that luxury, so I chatted up the meat manager, and he told me how to brine a turkey. I was to set the bird in a salt water bath as soon as I got home. That way it would cook faster and have more time to defrost. He recommended I cook the stuffing separately, and I didn’t argue.

  I stood in line, watching the glazed expression of the other veal as we waited for the financial slaughter. I have a knack for picking the wrong line and, as usual, I waited behind a woman who bore a startling resemblance to that girl from Flash Dance and was trying to pay by check.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” The pockmarked cashier didn’t look the tiniest bit sorry, more like bored. “You need to have your driver’s license with you in order to write a check.”

  “But it’s out in the car; can’t you make an exception, just this once?” The pretty brunette in the sky blue spandex and cut-up sweatshirt fluttered her mascaraed lashes at the checkout guy, and I snorted. Like that was going to work. The kid had already ‘ma’am-ed’ her, for Pete’s sake.

  “It’s a store policy, ma’am.” The clerk scratched at an especially deep crater, and I winced in sympathy. If he had nails he was gonna need a blood transfusion.

  The woman worked her wiles a few moments longer, but Crater Face held his ground. Finally, the complaints from the people behind me sent Jennifer Beals out to get her driver’s license.

  Crater Face took his sweet time checking me out and had to call a price check on my parsley. At that point, I was ready to tell him to stuff the parsley where the sun didn’t shine, but the price check came in, and I pushed my cart around the back of the store where I’d left my transportation.

  It wasn’t there.

  I left the cart and searched along the brick wall and around the other corner too.

  Someone had swiped my freaking wheelbarrow!

  I pulled out my cell phone and called the house. Kenny picked up on the second ring. “Mom, where are you? Grandma’s been calling and she sounds real angry.”

  “Kenny, is your Uncle Marty there? Or Dad by any chance?”

  “Dad’s not, but Uncle Marty’s around someplace. Hang on.”

  There was some scuffling and a bit of silence before Marty came on the line.

  “’Lo?”

  “Hey, Sprout, I need you to come pick me up.”

  “You back in the slammer?”

  “No,” I ground out between clenched teeth. I swore I’d never tell him anything again. “My van was dead, and I don’t want to steal a shopping cart, so could you come get me?”

  Marty agreed to pick me up, and I ran through a list of things I had to do once I got home. The pies had to be made as well as the dressing and dip. Laura had sent me a recipe for a cheese filled puff pastry and stuffed mushrooms which I would try as appetizers along with the standard cheese and crackers and veggie platter because I knew the kids and my brother wouldn’t touch the other fare.

  I saw the cloud of exhaust and heard the rumble of an ancient Chevy before I saw Marty careen into the lot. I waved him down, and he pulled in next to me. He rolled down the window, and Marilyn Manson blared as he informed us we’re all stars in the dope show.

  “Damn, Maggs, how many people did you say were coming?”

  “I didn’t want to have to go out again.”

  “You get beer?” Marty didn’t leave the car as I loaded my bags into his trunk.

  “No, it’s Thanksgiving.” I slammed the trunk and rounded to get in.

  “Exactly. Turkey, football games and beer; the mighty trinity of an American holiday.”

  “Neil’s parents are bringing a few of their clients, and I’m striving for a classy dinner.”

  “Fancy-shmansy.” Marty snorted some phlegm and then spat at the window. The now closed window. It left a slimy trail as gravity worked it into the door frame. “What fun is classy anyways?”

  “You are so vile. If Mom and Dad could only see you now—”

  “I know, I’m a worthless scum-bum, but at least I’m not trying to be something I’m not.”

  I didn’t like his tone. “What are you talking about?”

  “You get all uptight around your in-laws and you’re so obsessed with impressing them that you become a total prig.”

  I sucked in a breath. “I am not a prig!”

  “Yes, you are. You’re usually lots of fun, but whenever Neil’s parents are around you walk like you’ve got a two-by-four lodged in your sphincter.”

  “Better a two-by-four than my head,” I retorted.

  “Laundry Hag.”

  “Dork-Nut.”

  “Toilet Scrubber.”

  “Shiftless layabout.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Marty was smug as he turned the car into our driveway. “Your insults are all ‘Better Homes and Gardens’ now. So politically correct that they aren’t even good insults! You’re turning into Martha Stewart.”

  “Take that back!”

  “Yeah, I think that fits since you’re both jailbirds.”

  “Bite me, Butt-Munch.” I reached across my brother and popped the trunk myself. I opened the door and looked over at him. “You have no idea how hard it is being responsible for other people. You get to just drift through life without a care, knowing Neil and I will always be there to bail your fat out of the fire. But you know, I have to set a good example for my boys, and that includes you—it has for ov
er a decade. I may not be as much fun as I was before, but I’m a better person. Can you say the same thing?”

  I shut the door before he could whip out another smart ass retort and began to unload.

  * * * *

  Marty had driven off in a huff as soon as I carted my bags inside. Kenny and Josh were playing their latest PlayStation game and murmured a greeting at me. I deposited my bags and called Neil while I put the groceries away.

  “Do you think I’m a prig?”

  It took a moment for his laughter to subside. “No, Maggie, I don’t think you’re a prig. Why do you ask?”

  “Marty.” I scrubbed out the sink and let it fill for ol’ Tom’s brine bath. “He said I’m different when your parents come around, that I turn into Martha Stewart.”

  “Now, that’s total crap. First off, I would never marry Martha Stewart, mostly because I wouldn’t want to wake up like John Wayne Bobbitt if I forgot to put the seat down. And even though I can’t understand most of the things you do, I get that you want to make a good impression on them, although God alone knows why.”

  I felt better. “I feel better, thanks, gorgeous.”

  “All part of the service, love.”

  Neil hung up, and I set to work. I ordered pizza for dinner and stopped long enough to have a slice with Josh and Kenny.

  “Can we help, Mom?” Josh asked around a mouthful of pizza.

  “Actually, you can. After you guys finish dinner I need you to pick a few loaves of bread into dressing.”

  “What kind of pie are you making?” Kenny wanted to know.

  “Pumpkin and Apple Crumb.”

  “No chocolate cream?” My youngest son looked so crestfallen that I briefly considered trying to make his favorite dessert too.

  “Sorry, sweets, I don’t have enough room in the fridge for another pie, but I’ll do my best to make one over the weekend, especially for you. Sound good?”

  Kenny nodded and shot me a pizza lookie, which I returned. We finished dinner, and I had Josh take out the trash while Kenny started with the bread, and I tackled the pie crust and tried not to think about how harsh I’d been to my brother. He deserved every word, but the fact didn’t ease my guilt. The phone rang, and Josh finished washing his hands so he could answer it.

  “Hi, Grandma, how are you?”

  I shuddered and wiped my hands on my apron. I’d conveniently forgotten that Laura had been trying to reach me, and it was now reckoning time. Josh handed me the phone.

  “Good evening, Laura.”

  “Maggie, where have you been? Never mind, did you accept the delivery?”

  “Delivery of what?”

  The doorbell rang. Kenny jumped off the stool and scrambled for the front door. I followed as dread unfurled in my stomach. The sweat-covered missing link on the other side handed me a clipboard, and I cradled the phone on my shoulder as I signed.

  “What is it, Laura?”

  “Your father-in-law and I thought we would send your Christmas present early. No need to thank us, dear.”

  “Thank you?” I said absently as I watched Cro-Magnon man and his equally imposing partner unload the couch. The blindingly white couch, which had stain magnet written all over it in special ink that only I could see, along with its accompanying oversized chair and ottoman.

  “Oh, Laura, you shouldn’t have,” I said with conviction.

  “Where do you want it?” the delivery man grunted at me, and I threw my hands in the air. He shrugged and proceeded to the living room.

  “Now, the men have instructions to take away the old sofa and loveseat, so you don’t have to worry about that. Did you get my e-mail about the schedule changes?”

  “Changes?” I asked and watched my furniture disappear onto the truck. I wanted to cry.

  “Yes, dear, you really should stay on top of your correspondences; otherwise you’ll become a slave to them. Now, I know the timing may be somewhat inconvenient, but I’ve arranged for Leopold to come by at seven to assist you.”

  “Seven in the morning?”

  “Of course, dear. If we want to have hors d'oeuvres at noon, dinner at one, and dessert finished by two-thirty, he’ll need time to set up.”

  “Of course.” I stared at my new couch, wishing I could grow a spine and tell Laura off. Neil was right, I should take a stand, but the scathing words stuck in my throat.

  “Well, I have to go. I have a few last minute errands to attend to so I’ll see you at eleven-thirty tomorrow.”

  Laura disconnected, and I was left with two puzzled children and a cotton ball white living room set.

  The phone rang the instant I replaced it in the cradle, and I implored the All Mighty for a little reprieve. Maybe it was Neil or Marty. Against my better judgment, I picked the phone up.

  “Mrs. Phillips, this is Jason Macgregor. We met at the Kline’s soirée.”

  I vaguely recalled the gangly man with unremarkable features and light brown hair.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I just received a call from Francesca, and she is very concerned about her brother-in-law. He hasn’t picked up the phone all day, and she’s in the middle of preparations for her dinner party tomorrow. I told her I’d check in on him, but I was called down to the courthouse and I doubt I’ll make it anytime soon. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind stopping by to see Mr. Kline to make sure.”

  I didn’t say anything but I was thinking why me? Why was I the chosen caretaker for every lunatic in New England?

  Jason Macgregor cleared his throat. “I know this is inconvenient, but as Mr. Kline’s attorney, I feel it’s necessary to keep an eye on him.”

  Something in his tone stroked my curiosity. “I thought Mr. Kline was cleared of all charges.”

  “On the contrary, he hasn’t been charged with anything. His alibi, as you well know, is rock solid, but that doesn’t stop the police from looking into the possibility that Mr. Kline hired someone to kill his wife.”

  This was something I hadn’t considered. “Are you telling me Mr. Kline arranged for someone to shoot Alessandra?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then why do we need to keep tabs on him?”

  “Mrs. Phillips, I’ve been given the impression by both Doug and Francesca, who I am very close with, that you’re a compassionate woman. The man has lost his wife, and his friends and family are worried about him. Will you please set our minds at ease?”

  I sighed. Neil was right, I’m a total pushover.

  “All right, Mr. Macgregor. I’ll check on him as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you.” The attorney rattled off his number, which I jotted down. I was such a sucker.

  My pies came out of the oven just as Neil walked in the door. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and a warm smile which I was badly in need of.

  “Smells great in here. How’s it shaking, sexy?”

  “I have to go check on Mr. Kline.”

  The smile faded. “The hell you do!”

  “I promised I’d—”

  Neil held up his hand. “I’ll go, but only to end this argument before it starts. And when I get home, we’re going to have a discussion about assertiveness with a hint of Nancy Regan’s just say no.”

  I hugged him, and he passed Marty on his way out. My brother was unusually quiet, but he sat at the counter, watching while I sautéed onions for the dressing.

  Neil returned a few minutes later, still scowling. “He wasn’t there.”

  I sagged against the counter. “Are you sure?”

  Neil removed the leftover pizza and took two plates from the cabinet before putting the first batch in the microwave. “I knew you’d ask that, so I scaled the side of the house. There were no signs of life; no lights, or TV, or music. No one was sleeping in the master bedroom, and there was no car in the garage.”

  Neil pulled the first plate out of the microwave and placed it in front of Marty, who grunted his thanks.

  I was more direct. “Thank you, Neil. I know I shouldn’t
have said I’d check up on him but….”

  Neil kissed me hard, and Marty groaned. “Get a room, guys.” He picked up his plate, and I broke away from Neil long enough to shout at his backside.

  “Don’t even think about eating on the new couch!”

  “New couch?” Neil’s brows drew together.

  “Our Christmas gift from your parents.”

  Neil accepted this with his customary good nature. “You’re a pushover, Uncle Scrooge. I really hate that people take advantage of your good nature. But that caring is part of you, and I love it. I see you, Maggie.”

  “I see you too.”

  “What’s with the Good Humor man rejects?” Marty called from the living room.

  I sighed for what seemed to be the millionth time that day.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time I hit the sheets at 2:53 a.m., the dressing was prepared, the pies had cooled enough to be placed in the fridge, and I felt like I’d been hit by a Mack truck. Too little sleep found me in a rotten mood, and I slapped the buzzer on my alarm clock with undue force. The alarmed stopped, but the display went haywire. Well, now I had something practical to ask Santa for.

  I took a three minute car wash shower—just enough to cleanse the undercarriage— and tried not to think about my latest disturbing dream. A turkey had settled in on the new couch and lectured me on proper respect. I knew the turkey was supposed to be male even though the voice had sounded suspiciously like Alessandra Kline.

  I was ironing my pretty new outfit when Neil awoke.

  “Maggie, what time is it?”

  I bit back a scathing retort, since Neil was one of the few people unworthy of my venom. “Coffee will be ready in a few.”

  Neil scratched his stubble. “You’re not going to lose it today, are you?”

  I whirled on him. “Why would you say that? Power of suggestion, Neil. Now all I’m going to think about all day is that my husband thinks I’m on the verge of a breakdown!”

  Neil kissed me on the forehead on his way into the bathroom. “Want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  Grrrrrr.

  There was no sign of Marty or the boys in the kitchen. I started the coffee and checked my to-do list.