“Neil, it was Thanksgiving. No one means what they say on Thanksgiving.” My voice shook, which startled me almost as much as what my gorgeous husband, who I loved more than anything on the planet, was suggesting. We weren’t that couple.
Were we?
He must have picked up on the fear in my eyes. “No, Maggie, it isn’t like that. I think we need to get some stuff off of our chests so we can have a stronger relationship.”
I knew those words, and they were not Neil originals. “Did Sylvia suggest this?”
Neil blew air between his teeth. “It’s still a good idea, don’t you think?”
My laughter turned into a moan as my skull throbbed. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had split apart like an over ripe melon. “Can we talk about this later?”
“As you wish, Uncle Scrooge.”
* * * *
Marty arrived home after I’d finished taking a Neil-assisted shower and donned my muumuu.
“Hey Maggs, you up to a little company?” My brother helped me to the sofa, which was still short a slipcover.
“Not really, Ma—” But my objection was cut off when a pale-faced woman with dishwater blond hair and keen brown eyes entered behind him.
Neil’s patience snapped. “Damn it, Marty, your sister is hurt. This is not a good time to introduce her to one of your tarts!”
“Neil!” I interjected, but my usually laid-back husband was on a roll.
“Can you possibly be more of an immature asshole, Marty? All you ever think about is yourself! How could you leave her there alone? I thought for once you would step up and help instead of hinder, but then you ditch your sister at the first opportunity. That was bad enough, but you parading in here with your latest conquest in tow, after all of the shit you’ve pulled, that’s the last fucking straw!”
“Neil!” I shouted loud enough to make my own ears ring.
My brother’s face was impassive, not a flicker of emotion available. I blinked, and Marty was in motion, striding down the hall to Kenny and Josh’s room where he slammed the door so hard our double paned aluminum windows rattled.
“What Maggie?” Neil’s red face focused on me.
“I’d like you to meet Josh’s teacher, Mrs. Martin.”
I watched the rage leave my husband’s stance as an “oh shit” look of understanding appeared in his green eyes. The school teacher’s typically pasty face mottled red, and her small white hands clenched tightly. Marty stomped down the hall, towing his oversized green duffle bag. He stopped long enough to kiss me on the cheek, drop a one-armed hug and a vague promise to call soon. I wanted to hold him to me forever, but he pulled away, and with a final glare at Neil, he left.
We listened to the Chevy engine sputter to life and peel out of our development. The clock ticked on, and I still couldn’t think of anything to say.
Neil finally broke the silence. “He drank the last beer.”
* * * *
“So you see, Mrs. Martin, Hemingway was a sadistic alcoholic, and the use of his work as gospel, especially for students who are unable to comprehend the more abstract concepts in his writing, will only sour a young child to the great works of literature which are available.”
I worried my lower lip as Mrs. Martin considered my speech. I thought the sadistic alcoholic part might be over the top, but since my husband had called the woman a tart to her face, I figured slighting Hemingway wasn’t quite so bad. Besides, I had a concussion and I’d run the emotional gamut in the past twenty-four hours. I deserved a little slack.
Mrs. Martin slapped her hands on her thighs. “While I don’t agree with your assessment of Hemingway, I can see how strongly you feel about this, Mrs. Phillips. Tell Joshua that he may select another book tomorrow and as long as he has the report in by Friday morning, I’ll record the higher grade.”
“Thank you very much for your time, Ms. Martin, and once again, I’m so sorry that you were dragged into our family drama.” I cringed at a sense of déjà vu. I remembered similar words written to me by Alessandra Kline. The woman may have been the next thing to impossible to work for, but I’d like to believe her heart had been in the right place.
“I’ll let you rest now,” Ms. Martin said and retrieved her purse. Then, under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear, “You’ll need all of your strength to deal with that man.”
She left, and I called out to tell ‘that man’ it was now safe to show his face.
“Did you call for the pizza? I’m half-starved.”
Surprise flickered across Neil’s face. “What, no lecture?”
“No lecture. I know you were upset and I think the fifteen apologies you threw at Ms. Martin were plenty.”
“What about Marty?”
“Marty will be back. He doesn’t have enough pride to be seriously wounded, so he’ll vent for a bit, come back when he’s broke, and everything will return to normal.”
“You seem remarkably calm,” Neil observed.
“A brush with a psychopath and a blow to the head will do that for a girl.”
Neil leaned down to give me a kiss. The doorbell rang. “I don’t want to answer that.” He glared at the door.
“Do it, but don’t let whoever it is in.”
Neil unlocked the deadbolt and blocked the entry to the house. I heard him conversing with a female voice. I was dismayed when he came back followed by Detective Capri.
“I promise to make this quick, Mrs. Phillips, but I wanted to let you know your brother was correct. Mr. Finkelstein had installed a digital video system after firing ‘that crummy security specialist’. Your whole encounter was caught on film.”
I was groggy and more than ready for all the loose ends to be taken care of. “That’s nice.”
“We’ll still need you to come down to the station, but not until you’re feeling up to it. There’s something else I want to discuss with you as well.”
I quirked an eyebrow at her distorted image. This interview couldn’t be over fast enough to satisfy the pounding in my skull.
Capri cleared her throat before continuing. “There’s a seldom discussed yet vitally important role in most urban police departments, known as Confidential Informants, or CI. A CI remains anonymous, his or her name will never show up on documentation and will be recognized only by the detective he or she reports to. It’s imperative for a detective to have cultivated sources.”
I grasped the importance of information in police work, but the term cultivated sources was new to me. My confusion must have been written across my face because Capri decided to elaborate.
“A cultivated source is different from a regular source, such as an eye witness, victim, or suspect. A cultivated source has access to the criminal world and makes the best informant. The term usually applies to someone like a limo driver, prostitute, or perhaps a cleaning lady; someone who does business around the unlawful element, with no emotional investment.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I had a sneaking suspicion, but I inquired anyway.
“Well, Hudson itself has a small police force, but we sometimes assist the Boston P.D., when, let’s say, a suspect lives in our area.”
She looked directly into my eyes, or at least I think she did. “You see, I’m working on this embezzlement case, and the suspect’s wife is looking for a cleaning service—”
I groaned and put a pillow over my head.
“I think she needs to rest now, Detective.” Neil’s voice was dismissive.
“I’ll speak with you soon. Have a good night, Mrs. Phillips.”
I said goodnight, but knew it wasn’t goodbye.
~The End~
Keep reading for a taste of
The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag:
Book Two Swept Under the Rug
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’s 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 off the primetime medical dramas.
He rose to his full height, practically brushing 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 the 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 possess much pride, but the Hudson P.D. did a number on it with every visit.
“Here,” I snapped open the photocopy 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 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 that out loud?
“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 her 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 five-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 a while. “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-to-vinyl 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 tip
ped 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.
The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag - #1 Skeletons in the Closet Page 19
