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

by Jennifer L. Hart

  “Well, I met this guy….”

  I wondered if my brother had decided he was gay and that was why he’d left the beautiful zoologist. I was very encouraged by the thought because at least it would mean Marty had settled on a course.

  For once.

  “…so he invited me to invest in the project.” Marty looked at me hopefully, but I’d zoned out.

  “The project?”

  “Yeah, you know, I’d be part owner in a lake community.”

  “And where is the community?”

  “Uh….” Marty bit his lip, the same way he’d always done when my parents had busted him for not washing behind his ears.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Real estate is always a good investment.” Mr. Wizard had gone on the defensive.

  “Not if it’s in the middle of Lake Erie.” A sharp pain took up residence behind my left eye.

  “I’m sure it’s not like that.” He didn’t look sure. In fact, he looked palpably worried.

  “How much have you invested?”

  Marty studied his mismatched socks. He didn’t look like he was about to turn thirty, but maybe that was my big sister tunnel vision kicking in.

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Marty!”

  “It was only half of what I needed, a deposit of sorts.”

  “And where did you expect to get the rest?” The question was redundant, since the pain had spread to encompass both my eyes and a ringing in my ears.

  Marty wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Well, you made some money when you sold your house in Virginia Beach, and I thought you’d be willing to throw a little my way as an investment. You’d get it all back and—”

  “Made. Past tense, Marty. Everything we made on the sale of the Virginia Beach house went into this one. You know how I am about money; I’m not taking out a second mortgage to support some whim!”

  Marty’s temper flared. “Hey, you weren’t always like this! I remember a time when—”

  “Don’t. Go. There.” Neil had arrived home from the gym. He still wore his sunglasses, and I saw my ashen reflection in the mirrored lenses. In true hero form, Neil has an impeccable sense of timing.

  Marty backed down, as he always does when confronted by Neil. “Maggie, I needed a little help, that’s all.”

  “Did you ask Dee for money? Is that why the two of you broke up?” I asked quietly. Unlike my brother, I had learned a while ago not to poke the hornets’ nest.

  Marty offered a wordless nod. I implored Neil with my gaze, and he sighed. “Maggie has a great deal of work to do, Marty. Maybe you and I should head to the den and have a talk.”

  I smiled at my husband and squeezed Marty’s arm as the two of them left the room. Neil would boot up the computer while gleaning the whole story from the business tycoon, and I was sure he’d have a plan of action before lunch.

  I finished with the baseboards and began polishing the antique dining room table.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, is this Maggie Phillips?” a young girl’s voice chirped at me.

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, um, this is Janice Montgomery. You had called my dad, Jack, about a cleaning job yesterday, and I was wondering if it was still available.”

  The voice was painfully young, and I covered my eyes with my hand. Perfect.

  “Yes, but how old are you, sweetie?”

  “Eighteen.”

  I cleared my throat, and then Janice amended her statement

  “Well, I’ll be eighteen in January. I’m real good at cleaning, Mrs. Phillips, and I really need this job.”

  I knew Jack Montgomery, or Jack Hammer as the SEALs referred to him in reverent tones, by reputation only. He’d been the senior chief for Neil’s SEAL team when Neil had graduated from BUD/s training and received his Budweiser pin. Neil had only been on a few missions with Jack before he had retired to his family’s home in Massachusetts, but the stories lived on. While I’d promised Neil I would take a partner along with me, I had mixed feelings about involving someone innocent into the whole rigmarole. A tough-as-nails former SEAL, or a no-neck goon was one thing, but the teenage daughter of one of them?

  I wiped my forehead. When had I started sweating?

  “Janice, there’ll be lots of hard labor involved; you know, beating the Persian rugs, wrestling the carpet cleaner....” Potentially dodging bullets…. “Are you sure you can handle this sort of thing?”

  “Oh, I’m in excellent shape and I really need the money. Please, Mrs. Phillips, take me out on a job and you’ll see.”

  My eyes closed, and I pinched my thumb and index finger over the bridge of my nose. I knew I was going to regret this, but…. “Are you free tonight?”

  * * * *

  Francesca Carmichael lived in a Greco-Roman temple. It was only twelve miles from my house but, like visiting my in-laws in Cambridge, it may as well have been Jupiter. The well-manicured lawn stretched as far as the eye could see, broken only by a too-natural-to-be-natural placement of oak and maples. The house itself was three massive stories, with a balcony wrapping out of sight on every floor. It had to be at least seven thousand square feet, larger than all three of the houses I’d ever lived in combined. I thought the Kline’s house on Cloverleaf Drive was spectacular, but this white-columned monstrosity was definitely more than a place for Frannie to hang her hat.

  It had occurred to me on the drive that I didn’t know too much about Francesca. She seemed to have an abundance of free time and an endless supply of capital. She was beautiful, but not shallow, and as down to earth as the rest of us work for a living stiffs. I hadn’t seen a wedding ring, and she’d never mentioned a husband, but who knows? Maybe he’d moved in three years ago and gotten lost inside, never to be seen again.

  “Wow, some digs, huh?” My teenaged companion snapped her gum, her silver gaze trained on the mansion. “I guess this lady’s like, rolling in the dough.”

  I had a flash of Scrooge McDuck swimming through his money bin.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” I asked Janice with a pointed glance at her distended belly. Funny how she’d neglected to mention she was six months pregnant over the phone.

  It was only forty-five degrees outside according to the flashing Framingham bank clock/thermometer we’d passed, but I’d shed my denim jacket and perspired through my long-sleeved Henley with the small hole in the shoulder seam. I hadn’t stopped sweating since Jack Hammer had dropped her off at our house, a black scowl on his craggy face that had Marty running for cover under Kenny’s bed. The plan had been that Jack and Neil would do some catching up while Janice and I went cleaning, but I had a hard time picturing the taciturn man gabbing away with Neil.

  I could easily picture the stalwart demolitions expert taking out the White Cloud of Death with a rocket launcher.

  Janice smiled and cracked her gum again. “Absolutely. I need to show Daddy that I can hold my own in the world, so he backs off about me giving up my baby for adoption.”

  I so wasn’t going to touch that topic with a ten foot pole.

  “Let’s go,” I said instead. I’d already decided that I’d do the majority of the work, allowing Janice to rest as much as possible.

  I’d learned my lesson at the Kline’s, so I parked at the back of the house, near what appeared to be a mud room. Janice followed me to the door, and I knocked. I’d carted my cleaning paraphernalia, but figured I’d leave it in the van until I scoped out Frannie’s set up.

  A dour looking woman in her early fifties answered the door and waved us in without preamble.

  “I’m Maggie Phillips, and this is my partner, Janice. Francesca hired us to—”

  “I’m Mrs. Smitts, the housekeeper. You will be assisting me to prepare for Ms. Carmichael’s guests.” A clipped brogue let us know she meant business.

  Oh boy.

  “There are twenty-two suites which need to be prepared as well as the polishing of the silver, and the f
ormal dining room needs dusting. I will personally oversee the common areas and the menu. Follow me; there isn’t a minute to spare.”

  We did as commanded, following Mrs. Smitts’s orthopedic clip-clopping through the downstairs. The formal dining area was impressive, illuminated by a grand chandelier and accented with ivory tapers and silver pots of dried flowers. The dining table could easily seat everyone I had ever met, although the intricate chairs looked none too sturdy. A matching mahogany sideboard held a notable assortment of antique china, and Mrs. Smitts opened the top two drawers to show off the genuine silver.

  “I know exactly what is in each of these drawers, so don’t think for one instant that pilfering will go unnoticed.” She squinted at the two of us before setting a bottle of silver polish and a rag on the old fashioned tea wagon and departing.

  “Boy, what crawled up her butt and died?” Janice blew a bubble and reached for the rag, which I promptly extracted from her hand.

  “Let me do this. Why don’t you go get the Swiffer duster from the van so you can dust the shelving?” I didn’t want a baby deformity due to silver polish fumes on my conscience.

  The teenager popped her bubble and waddled off to do my bidding. I eyed the chairs with a sigh but decided to stand. Nothing can ruin my self-esteem like having a chair buckle under my charms.

  I stood and polished while Janice snapped and popped. I sent her on a second trip to the van when her gum got tangled in the Swiffer. I went with her and retrieved my stepstool so I could dust the chandelier.

  We had almost finished when Mrs. Smitts came to escort us up to the guest quarters. There was one bathroom for every two suites, all of which were larger than my main bathroom. It took us three and a half hours to set up the rooms, mostly because I wouldn’t let Janice anywhere near the cleansers, so after we made the beds, she’d sit and yammer at me while I scrubbed.

  “So then, Teri Kinney was all like ‘he’s gonna leave you,’ and I’m like, ‘no way, he loves me and we’re gonna have this baby together.’ And wouldn’t you know as soon as I told him, he took off. The worst part is that bitch Teri was right.” Snap, crack, pop.

  “Sweetie, I really don’t think that’s the worst part. Do you know anything about babies?”

  “No, but my mom will help. She’s had eight kids. Jeremy used to say that you could always tell when my dad got back from a long away ‘cause there was a baby born nine months later.”

  “It sounds like Jeremy has mastered the obvious.”

  This stumped Janice for a while, and I was left in peace. I mopped and wiped and cleaned windows and mirrors to the best of my ability, all to the accompaniment of snap, crack, pop. I was never buying Rice Krispies again.

  We finished well after midnight and received a grudging nod from Mrs. Smitts.

  “You girls did a fine job. Leave your bill for Ms. Carmichael, and I’ll be sure she gets it.”

  “I’ll mail the bill.” There’s a very small window during the day when I can actually understand math, usually somewhere between 3:59 and 4:01 p.m., and I had to figure out my expenses and Janice’s cut.

  The teenager fell asleep on the drive home. I fiddled with the radio stations, looking for something that wasn’t guaranteed to put me to sleep. Where is Enter Sandman when you need it? I guess I could put a CD player in the White Cloud of Death, but I figure if you’re going to drive a piece of shit, there’s no sense putting on airs.

  A particularly tricky turn found both hands on the wheel, and I braked to a stop as the announcer on WROR out of Framingham grabbed my full attention.

  “The annual Thanksgiving Day charity dinner hosted by local resident Francesca Carmichael is gaining even more attention than usual this year. Mrs. Carmichael has hosted the fund-raising holiday dinner for the past decade, ever since the death of her husband, Lewis Carmichael the second, and it has become a local tradition for the privileged among us. The proceeds from the dinner benefit local charities, such as Habitat for Humanity and the United Way. Mrs. Carmichael has announced that this year’s contributions will be given in the name of her sister, Alessandra Kline, who was found brutally slain last Friday. When asked if her brother-in-law and murder suspect, Douglass Kline, would be in attendance, the widow Carmichael rushed to his defense.

  ‘Mr. Kline is a wonderful person who loved my sister unconditionally and I would be honored to count him among my guests.’

  “This year’s guest list includes two current politicians as well as some aspiring….”

  I switched the radio off. Well, that answered my question about Frannie’s marital status. My hands were shriveled, and I reeked of bleach and sweat. All I wanted to do was get home and take a long soak in the tub. There were too many nuances to this case, and I was in no condition to ruminate.

  Neil and Jack greeted us in the driveway, and after seeing my ‘helper’ off, I stumbled into the bathroom. Neil followed me and watched with mild interest as I ran scalding hot water on top of the lilac bath crystals.

  “How’d it go?”

  I grunted and began to strip. A button from my shirt tangled in my hair, and I yelped in pain. Why is it when you’re tired, even the slightest discomfort is excruciating?

  “Easy there, Tiger,” Neil soothed as he worked my hair free from the shirt. He helped me out of the rest of my clothes and into the tub before I could damage myself further.

  “Are you going to be all right?” Neil’s gaze flickered with concern.

  “No more pregnant teenagers. I did twice as much work as if I’d been alone, trying to keep her out of trouble. And she talks too much.”

  “Must get it from her mother. Jack Hammer is a good guy to have at your back, but I doubt if he said half a dozen words while he was here. That’s including hello and goodbye.”

  “I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” I confessed as I rested my head against the back of the tub.

  “Don’t think about it anymore tonight,” Neil advised and handed me a towel. “There’ll be plenty of time in the morning.”

  I snorted. “There’ll be no time in the morning. Or until well after I have this Thanksgiving dinner over with.”

  “Well, all the cleaning is done, so what else is there?”

  “The dinner, Neil.” Honestly, he could be thick at times. “I haven’t bought anything, and with your mother’s menu….”

  “Ssshhh, no more tonight, Uncle Scrooge. We’ll tackle tomorrow, tomorrow.”

  I dragged an oversized T-shirt over my head and flopped on the bed seconds before oblivion claimed me.

  Chapter Nine

  Someone shone a light in my eyes. I groaned and rolled away, but the light followed me. I put my hands over my face and peeked through my fingers, guessing I had out slept the boys and they were out to get me. What I saw confused then horrified me.

  Sunlight.

  The sun glared at me through my west-facing windows, and I could almost hear the voice of Apollo in my head. If you’re gonna be lazy enough to sleep the day away, don’t blame me when you’re too stupid to shut your blinds.

  “Neil!” How could he have let this happen? He knew how important today was for Thanksgiving preparations! He’d probably thought he was doing me a kindness, letting me sleep off my fatigue. Neil doesn’t buy my ‘I’ll rest when I’m dead’ speech.

  I was too afraid to glance at the clock so I flew to the closet and yanked on the first pair of clean jeans I found. I pulled on one of Neil’s T-shirts, figuring if I ruined it in my frantic haste he’d brought it on himself. I scrunched my hair into a messy pony tail while dashing to the kitchen, but tripped on a wrinkle in the carpet and ended up spread eagled on the floor.

  Damn it all to the black depths of Hades! I’d never been able to master two things at once.

  I pushed myself up from the carpet and continued my mad dash for the kitchen. There was a note on the counter from Marty, informing me he’d taken the boys to the park and that my mother-in-law had called. I faced the inventible and looked at
the clock on the microwave. 3:46 p.m., the day before Thanksgiving, and I still hadn’t done my shopping.

  No time to lose. I grabbed my purse and my keys, jotted a quick note on the back of Marty’s, and was out the door. A brisk wind slapped me in the face and tossed my unruly hair in my eyes, but I didn’t slow. I climbed behind the wheel of the White Cloud of Death and shoved the key into the ignition. I turned and waited for the engine to catch.

  Nothing.

  Okay, Self, don’t panic. I turned it again, and still nothing. A third try came up nada. No revving of an ancient engine to indicate the beast was even trying. “She’s dead, Jim,” I muttered in my best Bones McCoy imitation. Murphy and his confounded law had struck again.

  I bashed the dashboard with all my anger at the vehicle’s impotence. My mother used to say we should thank God for small favors and be happy something worse didn’t happen, but I was too behind, and my coma from the night before hadn’t replenished my reserves. A little creative cussing was in order as I gave up on the van and didn’t attempt to pop the hood, because what I knew about cars would fit in Greg the Gym Rat’s jock strap and was just as useless.

  Mrs. Kline didn’t think it was useless. That rotten inner voice was always up for an argument.

  “Shut-up, Self,” I muttered as I looked around for another option. I could walk to the store, but my grocery list was the size of a Chinese restaurant’s menu, and I didn’t think I’d be able to carry everything back. None of my neighbors seemed to be home, and I doubted I would’ve asked for a ride even if they were. I wasn’t ready to cement my reputation as the neighborhood nut case yet.

  Kenny and Josh had abandoned their bikes by the porch, and I eyed them for a moment before dismissing them, due to the carrying problem. I could call Neil and ask him to come and pick me up, but I knew he had an uphill battle with his weenie manager and he may not be able to get the time off. I could call my mother-in-law and cancel the whole shebang.

  I shuddered. No, that wasn’t an option. Okay, what would the pilgrims and Native Americans have done?