The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag - #1 Skeletons in the Closet Page 7

  I gave Greg a brief nod and turned back to Sylvia. “I’ll be on the basketball court with the boys.” I had to get away from the goopy gym rat.

  But this guy couldn’t take a hint. He dogged my steps all the way to the bleachers that ran along the side of the gymnasium. I sat down, and he perched his knee on the next bench. I stared straight ahead, afraid I’d catch a glimpse of Mr. Happy.

  “Your kids look exactly like you.”

  I snorted. I should probably mention here that I’m flirting impaired. I never had the opportunity as a teenager to exercise my feminine wiles and I didn’t develop a knack for it as an adult. This is one shortcoming I can live with, because I found Neil, and he enjoys my candor. I don’t flirt, but I do recognize when someone is coming on to me.

  “Look,” I said to Greg the Greasy Gym Rat, “I’m married and I’m so not interested, it’s embarrassing. For you. I don’t mean to be rude, but you should probably move on to greener pastures.”

  Greg lowered his leg and held his palms out in front of him. “Peace. I saw you checking out other guys and assumed you were looking for a fling, but I guess we’re really not compatible. Hey, it’s like the lottery, you know? If you don’t play you can’t win.”

  I shot him my most withering smile and was ready to let out a sigh of relief when I saw it.

  The freaking tattoo.

  Oh, my dear sweet Lord in Heaven! I had discovered the identity of Mrs. Kline’s lover! I now knew how Lois Lane felt when she saw beyond Clark Kent’s glasses and bumbling. I fidgeted with my wedding ring, my mind leaping ahead to the significance of this find. I have to tell someone! I jumped up and almost knocked Sylvia down in my haste.

  “I have to go! I’ll be by to pick them up later!”

  I was already around the corner as I heard Sylvia shout, “You’re welcome.”

  * * * *

  I’d never been inside a police station before. I’d pictured a dirty, grime-riddled building filled with the seamier side of humanity. In truth, the Boston precinct, which held jurisdiction over the Kline murder, was a clean but cluttered office building where uniformed patrolmen and smartly dressed detectives went about the business of upholding the law in a very civilized manner. No doped-up degenerates screaming profanity, no grisly interrogation rooms where suspects were browbeaten into confessing the truth. I was a little disappointed.

  I identified myself to the woman at the front desk. She directed me to the third office beyond the water cooler. No name plate graced the door, and file folders, maps, and a PC that had seen better days back in the eighties filled the room.

  My excitement refused to take a seat, and I tapped my foot and watched the wall clock tick. For twenty minutes, I shifted my weight and sighed. Had something happened? Maybe I’d been forgotten. I poked my head out into the hallway and came face to chest with Detective Bradley Patterson.

  To say he was a big man was a serious understatement. He was at least six-four and built like a linebacker to boot. An attractive man in his late forties. I took in his smooth mocha skin and eyes so dark that it was impossible to distinguish between pupil and iris. I swallowed and stepped back, allowing the large African American man into the office. He held two cups of coffee, offered one to me, and shut the door before seating himself behind the sturdy desk.

  “I apologize for my tardiness. I was unavoidably detained.”

  I waved his words off and opened my mouth to tell all, but he spoke over me.

  “I want to know everything about your interaction with Mr. and Mrs. Kline. I’m particularly interested in your relationship with Douglass Kline. How long have you been involved with him?”

  I blinked. “I’m not involved with him. His wife hired me to clean their house, which I only did once.”

  Detective Patterson glanced down at a clipboard that rested on a mountain of files. “That was last Thursday, correct?”

  I nodded, ready to move this discussion along, but he beat me to it again.

  “So why were you there on Friday afternoon, at the time of the murder?”

  I explained about my cell phone, finding Mrs. Kline with her lover, and Mr. Kline’s phone call.

  “So he asked you to come by at two? Didn’t you find that a little odd?”

  I shifted in the suddenly uncomfortable chair. “Not really, I know he’s a busy man and he wanted to make sure he was home when I came by.”

  Detective Patterson eyed me for a minute and asked, “Did he pay you?”

  “No, I had arranged to collect my money from Mrs. Kline. She’d already sent me a check for my expenses beforehand.” Something in his tone registered in my brain. “Wait, what did you mean by pay me?”

  “May I be candid?” When I didn’t respond, he continued, “Mr. Kline is a very wealthy man, and in my experience, wealth and privilege can buy many things. Loyalty being one of them.”

  I tamped down my anger. “He didn’t buy me off to provide him with an alibi, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “Are you sexually involved with him?”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. It was obvious this detective held everyone’s motivations suspect, but the idea that I would betray Neil for creepy Mr. Kline….

  I pulled my wallet out of my purse and flipped to a picture of Neil and the boys that I’d taken on the beach right before we moved. “Do you see this man? That’s my husband. He’s my best friend and my hero too. Now, I understand you’re just trying to do your job, but I take serious umbrage to your implications.”

  The detective looked at the picture for a minute before focusing on me. The gleam of suspicion in his eyes hadn’t diminished. “What’s your impression of Douglass Kline?”

  “He creeps me out, but I feel sorry for him.”

  “Sorry enough to cover for him?”

  “Now wait a damn minute! I’m here to help you with this investigation. I wish I’d never met the Kline’s because ever since that stupid soirée, my life has spiraled out of control. I didn’t want to clean their damn house, but my friends talked me into it. I really didn’t want to see Greg the Gym Rat sticking it to bitchy Mrs. Kline, but it happened, and I can’t erase it now. I feel sorry for Mr. Kline because no one deserves to have someone they love betray him like that. I was with him on Friday afternoon; I went to pick up my cell phone, and we talked. The end. Now, I don’t want to be involved in this craziness, but I am. I want to assist the investigation, but I can’t help you if you don’t put a little faith in what I’m telling you!”

  At some point during my tirade, I’d risen from the chair and balled my hands at my sides. Detective Patterson made a steeple out of his sausage sized fingers and stared at me, wearing an expression I couldn’t begin to read. The man had one hell of a poker face.

  “Well, I believe that’s enough for now. Thank you for coming here today, Ms. Phillips….”

  “It’s MRS. Phillips,” I emphasized.

  “Sorry. Mrs. Phillips. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Skippy,” I said. I stashed my wallet and flounced out of the office. I was the focus of several stares as I headed back to the parking lot and I supposed I’d forgotten to use my indoor voice. I really didn’t care.

  Unless you’ve been in a situation where someone is determined to prove that you’re a liar, you’ll have a hard time understanding how I felt. I had entered the precinct with the idea that I was going to meet one of the good guys. I hold a tremendous amount of respect for anyone who fights for the side of law and order. The fact that he seemed to want to pin some kind of disreputable tag on me really fried my bacon.

  I called Neil from the parking lot and left a message on his voicemail, detailing my rage and complete disillusionment with the justice system in this country. I always figure ‘go big or stay home’.

  I picked up the boys with a murmured thanks to Sylvia and a promise to call her later with details. We motored home, where I sent them out in the backyard and scrubbed the floors with a vengeance. Grime and dust became the focus
of my frustration, and as I worked Q-tips between the keys of the computer, the rage abated a smidgen.

  Empathy is my strong suit. I tend to put myself in someone else’s shoes and tread that mile. Detective Patterson was probably stymied by the case and reluctant to let go of the only viable murder suspect. By providing Mr. Kline an alibi, I’d punched a major hole in Bradley Patterson’s theory and sent him back to square one. His attitude still bothered me, but so did a great deal of other things.

  I started the stew and called the boys to come and finish their weekend homework. They did a good amount of grumbling but complied. Neil called me to say he wouldn’t make it home for dinner but he’d be there as soon as possible.

  “There’s a screw up in production, and I’d rather fix it tonight than have to come in tomorrow.”

  I fed the boys, and Neil sauntered in shortly after nine. It’s hard to tell when Neil is tired, since he never shows outward signs of fatigue, but I could guess all was not quite right in Who-ville.

  “You want to talk about it?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Later. Tomorrow. All I want to do now is eat and chill out.”

  We chilled out until well after eleven. Neil fell asleep on the couch watching Fox News, and I sent him off to bed. I couldn’t sleep. I wandered into the kitchen and looked in the fridge, then closed it when I realized the answers weren’t in there.

  Sylvia is a night owl, so I knew she’d be up. After a brief greeting, I let her in on current events.

  “My God! And you saw Greg from the gym with Mrs. Kline? Are you sure it was him?”

  “The tattoo was exactly the same, and in the same place.”

  “Maybe he was blackmailing her? Maybe he threatened to tell Mr. Kline about them if she didn’t pay him. She might have refused, and he got so mad he killed her.”

  “Sylvia, you were his number one fan this morning.”

  “No I wasn’t. He’s always at the gym at odd hours, like he doesn’t have a real job. I bet he’s a gigolo, always hunting for a new paramour.”

  Well that would certainly explain why he came onto me. It wasn’t that he’d missed my wedding ring; he’d noticed and targeted me because I looked like a bored housewife.

  “We should check him out,” Sylvia said.

  “What do you mean, check him out?”

  “You know, go over to his house and see what his deal is.”

  A chill gripped me. “What if he’s the killer and he finds us?”

  “I’ll bring my cell phone; we can call 911 as soon as we see something, and the cops can take it from there.”

  I was half enthralled and half terrified. “Sylvie….”

  “Wear dark clothes and running shoes. I’ll be by to pick you up in ten minutes.”

  The receiver clicked in my ear.

  Chapter Six

  I didn’t want to disturb Neil by going in the bedroom for some stalking (investigating!) clothes, so I pulled a pair of dark blue jeans and a black sweater out of the laundry basket. It wasn’t until the pants were almost buttoned that I realized they weren’t mine. It took several deep breaths to keep me from crying. After all, it isn’t every day a woman finds out her husband wears a smaller size pants than she does.

  The pants were too long and felt funny in the crotch, but it was the best I could do. Black combat boots—brand spanking new since I never needed anything like them in Virginia—completed my ensemble and gave me a place for the extra denim.

  I hunted through the coat closet for something both warm and inconspicuous and came up with Josh’s dark blue ski jacket. Once again, the zipper wasn’t having any of me, and I looked in the bathroom mirror to see how bad the effect was.

  Big. Fat. Dork.

  I pulled on a ski cap and debated writing a note in case Neil got up, but really, what could I say? Hey sweetie, I’m off with Sylvie, checking out a potential murder suspect. Could you defrost a steak when you get up?

  Yeah, that would go over like a fart in church.

  I left the house.

  Sylvia pulled up in her husband’s black pickup truck, and I ran down the driveway and climbed in the cab. Sylvia had donned skintight leather pants, black biker boots complete with chains, and a black corset-style top which left her arms bare. A black leather jacket lay on the seat next to her. She looked like the floor show at a biker bar.

  And I looked like the fat kid making off with the Salvation Army’s newest inventory.

  Nope, no one was going to notice us.

  “Do you know where Greg lives?” I asked.

  Sylvia put the truck in gear. “I checked the phone book, and he wasn’t listed, so I looked him up in the gym’s database. He listed an address that’s halfway between Hudson and the Boston city limits.”

  Gloria Gaynor came on the radio, and we both sang along.

  “I will survive. As long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive. I’ve got all my life to live; I’ve got all my love to give. I’ll survive. I will survive.”

  You and me, Gloria.

  * * * *

  Greg the Gym Rat lived in a neighborhood that had at one time been middle class but had fallen on hard times. A season’s worth of leaves littered most of the lawns, and the houses had a battered look to them, as if the natural course of erosion was too much to keep up with. This wasn’t hillbilly country, not this close to Boston where the housing prices rivaled Westchester County, but it seemed as if the populace had a hard time keeping up with economic demands. A family starting out or one living off social security didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.

  The address Sylvia had pilfered stood three houses from the end of the wooded cul-de-sac. We cruised by at stalking speed, slow enough to count four windows on the first floor and five on the second. Lights shone in what we guessed was the kitchen and one upstairs room.

  Sylvia banged a U-turn at the end of the street, and we passed by again. The house to the right had a porch light on, and the one to the left was completely dark.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  “Hey, this is your show; I’m only the getaway driver.”

  I was about to remind her that this whole escapade was her idea, when a car backed out of the driveway directly across from Gym Rat’s.

  “We need to find a place to hide the truck,” I said. “Try parking a few streets over and we’ll cut through the backyards.”

  Sylvia did as directed, and we hoofed it toward our destination. The back of the house lay in darkness, and I was thankful when no security light flipped on. We attempted to peer into the windows, but the lack of light was an obstacle for us too.

  “I wish we had some night vision goggles,” Sylvia said.

  I gave myself a mental slap on the forehead. Neil had some, tucked away in one of the boxes which held any number of necessary SEAL gear. Of course, even if I had them, I had no idea how to use them.

  “Let’s go around to where the light was on in the downstairs,” Sylvia suggested.

  I heard the smile in her voice. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “You bet.” Before I could say anything else, Sylvia crept around the front porch and out of my line of sight.

  I sighed and followed her.

  We were right; the light was coming from a kitchen window. The room looked homey.

  Green-and-white-checked curtains hung at the window, and a rooster toaster cozy hid the appliance beneath. It didn’t strike me as something the gym rat would pick out. I saw him as more of a naked lady on the mud flap kind of guy.

  “Are you sure you have the right address?” I asked.

  “2346 Union Ave.” Sylvia looked up at the cast iron numbers nailed to the porch beam. “Yup, this is the place.”

  I looked in the window again. The floor was neatly swept, and a bowl of fresh fruit sat on the counter. A “Bless This Mess” crocheted sign hung on the wall above the small wooden table. Nary a pizza box or beer bottle in sight.

  I had a really bad feel
ing about this. Greg the Gym Rat was either a compulsive neat freak or he didn’t live alone.

  “Did you see his vehicle?” Sylvia asked.

  “I have no idea what he drives.”

  “Me neither.”

  “A 1985 Pontiac, in metallic blue,” a third voice answered us.

  I spun around slowly, sure my heart was about to give out. A woman in her early sixties held a shotgun on the two of us. Her silver hair hung loose around her shoulders, and a Terry cloth bathrobe draped her slim form. She held that gun like she meant business.

  “You two are about as sneaky as an elephant at a tea party,” she informed us. “Don’t try anything funny now. I’ve called the police, and they’ll be here soon to haul your miserable carcasses off to jail.”

  I swallowed hard. I could think of a billion better ways to spend Saturday night and I glanced over at Sylvia, wondering why I’d let her talk me into this. Of course, I had gotten myself involved in the first place; Sylvia acted as the devil sitting on my shoulder.

  Devil or not, I didn’t want to see Sylvia incarcerated because her business would suffer. I was also aware of how important reputation was in Massachusetts. Mine was beyond repair, but I wasn’t about to drag her down with me.

  “Ma?” a male voice queried into the night.

  The screen door banged open, and Annie Oakley turned towards the gym rat. I did the most ludicrous thing I could think of. Made a grab for the gun.

  I’d taken Annie by surprise and knocked her back a few feet as I fought for the gun. We struggled, and I managed to get the barrel pointed to twelve o’clock. She got off a round that went up in the air, and I screamed “GO!” at Sylvia, who stood like a beautiful, dim-witted doe in headlights. She hesitated a moment more and booked back into the night.

  “Get her!” Annie screamed as I held onto the gun for dear life. Luckily, the gym rat hadn’t grown a brain since earlier and he came to help Annie instead.

  “I’ve got this one, you fool, go get the other one!”

  My peripheral vision picked up the blue-and-red flashers, and I almost let go of the gun, but my fear of Annie’s vigilante justice kept me in the struggle. Now that Sylvia was safe, my mind turned to self-preservation.