The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag:
Swept under the Rug
by Jennifer L. Hart
Wild Child Publishing.com
Culver City, California
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The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag: Swept under the Rug Copyright © 2009 By Jennifer L. Hart
Cover illustration by Wild Child Publishing © 2009
For information on the cover art, please contact [email protected].
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, 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.
Editor: Angel
ISBN: 978-1-936222-35-3
If you are interested in purchasing more works of this nature, please visit by www.wildchildpublishing.com.
Wild Child Publishing.com
P.O. Box 4897
Culver City, CA 90231-4897
Printed in The United States of America
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Prologue
“I need to speak with Detective Capri, ASAP!” No doubt I looked like a lunatic rushing in off the streets, my hair a wind-blown rat’s nest and reeking of Murphy oil soap. Somewhere in my mad dash from the Valentino estate to my Mini Cooper, I’d lost my ponytail holder and trashed the knee on my favorite pair of cleaning jeans. No matter though, I still clutched the evidence to my chest, gripping the photocopied paper with all my adrenalin charged strength.
The blond mountain of a uniformed officer behind the battered check-in desk didn’t quite roll his eyes, but I could tell he’d stifled the impulse. “She’s in a meeting Ms. Phillips—”
“Mrs. Phillips.” I corrected out of habit. God alone knew why the officers at the Hudson Police Department couldn’t seem to get it through their heads that I was married, probably because no man in his right mind would lay claim to the over-zealous Laundry Hag.
Too bad for Neil, he’d been stuck with me long before I’d become the bane of Hudson’s finest.
“Mrs. Phillips,” The burley blond guy tried to stare me down, but I wasn’t about to back off. I had two pre-teens at home and if this stegosaurus descendent wanted a battle of wills, I’d kick his Big & Tall butt.
“Look, Bub. I’m working with Detective Capri and she needs this information, stat!” Cripes, I needed to lay of the primetime medical dramas.
He rose to his full height, which practically brushed the hanging lamp behind the desk. Thunderclouds gathered along his eyebrows and I wondered whether the Bub or the stat torqued him up.
“It’s all right, Stan, I’m here.” Detective Capri hustled down corridor from the bowels of the precinct. Either she had stellar timing or someone had tipped her off that her favorite visitor was making another scene. Capri dressed like a man, walked like a man and from what little I’d seen of her in action, she fought like a man. I had no idea what her first name was, but I called her Butch since no man could be more so.
Capri wore pantsuits a la the Hillary for Prez collection; always with the juxtaposition military issue combat boots. Today’s suit came in a navy blue with a crisp white button-up and her only accessory was a scowl. “If you’ll follow me, ma’am.” She didn’t make it a question, just whirled on her size nine shit-kicker and trundled off.
I cast a smug glance to the blond menace before scurrying after her.
Capri led me to her office, a small cubbyhole littered with polyurethane coffee cups and reams of random papers in varying colors. My inner neat freak itched to tidy the stacks and dispose of the garbage, but from previous conversations, I’d gleaned some insight into the detective. Capri liked her mess and wouldn’t allow me to monkey with her system.
“What do you have for me?” Small talk was not one of Capri’s strengths, but I appreciated that she didn’t roll her eyes or lace her tone with sarcasm. I may not posses much pride, but the Hudson P.D. did a number on it with every visit.
“Here,” I snapped the photocopy open and handed the paper over with a flourish. “I was cleaning at the Valentinos’—”
“Do you mean Markus Valentino, the electronics mogul?” Capri cut me off with a sharp glance.
“Yes, he owns a place on the outskirts of town with trophy wife number three, a former Miss Texas. She hired me on right after Christmas, and today I happened to be dusting the den when a fax came in.”
Capri studied the photocopy, her mouth set in a grim line. “’The Phoenix is rising; you’re gonna get burned’,” she read aloud. “Where’s the original?”
“I put it back in the fax machine for Valentino to find.” Capri shook her head and I scowled and wondered what was on her mind.
“I meant what number did the fax come from? If you had the number we could trace it back to the source.”
Oh. Well, shoot. I shrugged helplessly and felt like a twit for not paying attention to such an important detail.
Capri shuffled some papers and actually found a clear spot on her desk. She set my evidence down and spun the paper to face me. “These letters appear to be cut and pasted out of magazines. See how the type is different? Of course, without seeing the original, I have no way of knowing if this is in color, if the letters came from different papers or not. Some word programs can create this particular effect. You sure it was a fax, not a photocopy? Most people have the two-in-one machines these days
I nodded; encouraged because she hadn’t brushed my find aside. “No one else was in that wing of the house and the machine made a weird ring-buzz noise combo before the paper came out. What do you think it means?”
“Honestly? It’s probably a prop in some role-playing sex game. The fax had to come from someone privy to the fax number, hence someone who is acquainted with Mister or Mrs. Valentino. The Phoenix may very well be a pet name for Valentino’s Johnson.”
Shit on a stick. “Yeah, that’s what Neil thought too.” Oops. Did I say the words aloud?
“Maggie,” Capri growled and I winced. Oh Magoo, you’ve done it again! The detective only called me Maggie when she was preparing a lecture. Silence hung in the air and like the pause between an infant’s cries, the longer the breath, the louder the complaint.
“You are supposed to be one of my confidential informants. Do you need me to define ‘confidential’ to you again?”
Unthinkingly, I squirmed in my seat. “I just thought—”
“No, you didn’t think. Your husband does not need to be brought into the loop, especially since he has no connection with the law. Isn’t it bad enough everyone at the station has a pretty clear idea of why you show up here thrice weekly? Most C.I’s bring in bogus tips to collect a fee. But you’re not after the money; you’re looking to bring down the bad guys. That’s my job. Here’s how the position works. You bring me a tip, I investigate the tip. The more information you give me, the more time I invest in following up on your leads. So far, we’ve got diddly-squat. Take a stab at how many man-hours I’ve put into following up on your tips?”
I threw my shoulders back, straightening my spine. “Hey, I’m new to this cloak and dagger scene and can I help it if I don’t know what I’m looking for?”
“Trust your instincts.” Her matter-of-fact statement stabbed me in the gut, but I hid my reaction quickly. No need to flaunt my vulnerability to Capri, since I wasn’t sure I could trust he
r yet.
Since the last detective I’d put my faith in had tried to shoot me, I was a smidge gun shy.
“Go home, Mrs. Phillips and don’t contact me again until you have information on an actual crime.”
I’d been dismissed. Again. Battling my temper, I stuck my nose in the air and sashayed out of Capri’s office, feigning confidence I didn’t feel. I’m a big believer in the fake it ‘til you make it school of thought. Unfortunately, I bumped into the water cooler, and sent the ten-gallon jug crashing to the floor, where it glugged its contents onto the linoleum.
Let me tell you, it’s hard to maintain a dignified air when you constantly need to seek out a mop in order to clean up after yourself and everyone around you. At least I enjoy my work.
* * *
Chapter One
“Maggie, I think it’s clean enough.” Sylvia stood with her hands on her hips, a scowl marring her classic features. In that pose, wearing a purple leotard and turquoise tights, she could have petitioned for membership to the Justice League. Work-out Woman, battling the bulge one frumpy housewife at a time.
“You’re supposed to be toning with the abdominal machine, not rubbing it down for the night.”
“Can I help it if it’s dusty?” I swiped at the pulley system with my paper towel, obviously the first to do so in quite awhile. “You want me to be comfortable doing the reps, then let me get to know the machine first.”
Sylvia snorted. “This isn’t a date, even though there will be a bit of skin-tovinyl contact.”
“Exactly! And how many other patrons have indulged in the same? Hairy, sweaty pimply-assed patrons.” I squinted at the crunch machine. “You’re the whore of the fitness world.”
Sylvia let out a bark of laughter. “You’re terrible—stalling because you don’t want to do the exercises.”
Well, give the woman a cigar! I wondered what tipped her off, my sloth-like movements or whining like a seven-year-old girl in Toys-R-Us’s Barbie section. Usually, my bevy of complaints was enough to convince Sylvia to hang at the juice bar and gab, but for some unknown reason, she’d decided to stick to her guns.
“I can’t believe you bring your own bottle of cleanser. The gym provides plenty of anti-fungal, anti-bacterial spray solutions for people to use.”
I snorted and scrubbed the levers under the seat. “Yeah, I’ve been watching and I have yet to see anyone replace the liquid in those spray bottles. Besides, have you taken a look at the unsavory sorts who frequent this dive?”
“Like your husband?” Sylvia smirked. “Maggie, you need to get a grip. You’re becoming a paranoid recluse and it’s not doing a thing for your figure.”
I ignored her brutal observation, mostly because she was right. This obsessive creature I’d become wasn’t fit or fun, but I couldn’t keep from indulging my fears—I’d seen too many horrors and looked evil in the eye.
Sylvia nabbed my cleanser and pointed to the seat. “Sit and crunch, now.”
Fine, but I didn’t have to like it. I sat and lowered the shoulder harness, then gripped the handles. Struggling, I tried to contract my abdominal muscles and make the motion to rock my upper body toward my lap, but couldn’t do it. “What weight is this thing set for?”
Sylvia glanced over me and the corner of her mouth kicked up. “You’re only pulling ten pounds in addition to your own body weight. Still want to argue about your state of physical fitness?”
Or lack thereof. Damn, she was right, I was a mess. Fervently, I tried again and managed to lift the weight about three quarters of an inch, before gravity bested me. I released the handles, huffing at the indignity and the exertion.
“Great job, now do fourteen more reps, take a breather and then two more sets.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“If you want to tone, you need lower weight, higher reps. Of course if you want to build muscle I could always add some more weight.
“Sylvie, at this rate, we’ll be here all night! I want to get home in time for House.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m getting a headache. How about you do your scrub-n-scour routine, while I run out to my car and see if I have any ibuprofen? I’ll meet you in the ball room in five, but you’re going to do the exercises.”
I’d never heard Sylvia this agitated before and it unnerved me. Usually she radiated inner calm, a self-possessed rock to my sea of turbulent emotion. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
Sylvia shook her head. She took what she referred to a cleansing breath. Since she wasn’t huffing Lysol, I was clueless to the cleansing part. “Maybe another day, I’m a little tired.”
And I wasn’t helping, acting like a petulant five-year-old. The purplish smudges under her eyes matched her leotard, but I doubted she’d set out to make that fashion statement. Maybe this work-out was more for her benefit than mine. Guilt flayed me and I made a silent vow to keep the pithy commentary to a minimum.
“I’m here if you need to vent,” I offered and spritzed the seat of the crunch machine.
“I know, and thanks. Ball room in five.” She turned and made her way around various weight machines towards the lobby.
Crud muffins. I really didn’t want to do calisthenics. A stroll on the treadmill or even the Stairmaster I could deal with, but calisthenics were akin to self-imposed torture. Worse even than the weight machines, since other patrons wanted a shot at those and there was a time limit. Using one’s own body for resistance could go on until the end of time. Given my state of physical fitness and Sylvia’s do or die mood it might.
Disheartened, I gave the crunch machine a final swipe and trundled in the direction of the ball room. The ball room was really a storage studio located in the far corner of the fitness area. Staff and members alike stored a cache of various free weights, balance balls and yoga mats while some of the personal trainers took their clients there for one-on-one instruction, but it usually remained empty. Light shone from beneath the door, and I deduced that the staff hadn’t locked it up for the night. So much for my feeble hope.
Quit your griping. You need this exercise, My inner critic scolded and I knew it was right. A hopeless klutz, I had no equal and I’d been avoiding any kind of obvious exercise for longer than I could remember. But I’d crossed the hill to the far side of thirty and was losing muscle tone dealing with a slower metabolism. People already wondered how I’d snagged a prize stud like Neil—who at almost thirty-seven, looked more like a male underwear model than when I’d married him a decade ago. I didn’t need to add my flabby abs and saggy buns to the grisly picture.
Resolve firmly duct-taped to the sticking place, I opened the door to the ball room and almost tripped over my own feet.
Why did this keep happening to me?
The room was occupied, all right. The man had his mesh gym shorts tangled around his ankles and all of the bits normally covered were blocked by a big-haired brunette on her knees in front of him. They were making a surprising amount of noise—a soundtrack I would take with me to the grave—and hadn’t noticed my arrival.
I would have backed away quietly, but froze when I finally caught a glimpse of the man’s features. (Hey, next time you see a bottom-less man see if his face is the first place you look.)
Even though I didn’t make a move, the lunatic in my head was running in circles, flapping her arms like a crazed Henny Penny and chanting “The sky is falling, the sky is falling!”
“Hey, I brought the radio from my studio I thought….” I’ll never know what Sylvia thought in that final moment before the sky clobbered her, because she’d caught sight of her husband being serviced in the ball room.
Eric and his partner picked up the pace, their rhythm striving for the ultimate crescendo and I wanted to nudge Sylvia into action. If it were me in her shoes, I’d make damn sure he never got to finish, before I started the ritualistic disembowelment. But this was her crisis to deal with as she saw fit.
Apparently, she needed more time, because she tugge
d me out the door and closed it soundlessly behind her.
“Sylvie…,” I started, but any words I offered her would be cold comfort at best.
“Why isn’t he in his office?” Sylvia’s asked in an even tone. Her perfect blond eyebrows met at the bridge of her straight nose. “He has an office on the second floor since he made assistant manager. Why the ball room?”
“Does it matter?” I asked quietly, enraged both for my friend and with her. Why the hell wasn’t she confronting the faithless S.O.B? I had her back, if she needed moral support, or a wingman for the takedown. I may not be fit, but I could definitely tackle Eric from behind and keep him pinned while she gelded him. Or rip the tramp’s hair out of her feather-headed scalp.
Sylvia shook her head and stared at the ground. No doubt she was processing, making plans, deciding on the best way to handle the philandering scum-sucking cretin.
I might have been a tiny bit miffed over the situation, but sometimes going with one’s gut was the best course of action. No amount of consideration would prevent Eric from getting his rocks off, but an accurately thrown ten pound barbell….
Then, it was too late. Eric opened the door and I caught a glimpse of the dark haired woman stuffing her mega boobs back into her jog bra and casting him a disbelieving look for his obvious inconsideration.
Eric brushed past me without acknowledging my presence, but stopped dead when his gaze took in a pale-faced Sylvia. She’d wrapped her arms around herself and wouldn’t meet his stare. Her posture radiated hurt in staggering waves, combating with the righteous anger I threw off on her behalf.
“Sylvie, I….” He trailed off, searching for a cover story and she looked at him hopefully. As if whatever came out of his mouth would erase the last five minutes.
“We were just—”
“Having a little oral sex.” The woman finished for him. Hell hath no fury indeed. This broad had taken in the scene, realized Eric had walked into a cauldron of hot water, and tossed a load of kindling on the fire. “Sorry Hon, he told me he wasn’t seeing anybody.”
The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag - #2 Swept under the Rug Page 1
