Misadventures of the Laundry Hag: Hung Out to Dry
Jennifer L. Hart
Contents
Misadventures of the Laundry Hag: Hung Out to Dry
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
What comes next?
Free Holiday story!
About the Author
Misadventures of the Laundry Hag: Hung Out to Dry
After a year in Hudson, Maggie Phillips—A.K.A the laundry hag—is sure she’s seen all the small Massachusetts town has to offer. Of course that’s until her newest client turns out to be psychic who’s inherited a massive estate from her recently deceased grandfather, much to the displeasure of the rest of the family. Maggie soon suspects that what everyone believed was death by natural causes might’ve been a well-planned murder. Never fear, Maggie, her sexy Navy SEAL and the rest of the cleaning crew are on the case. Are the relations responsible for terrorizing the timid soothsayer and how far will they go to reclaim one percenter status? One thing’s for sure, the laundry hag never saw this kerfuffle coming….
Chapter One
“Happy one year anniversary, Uncle Scrooge.”
I opened one eye to look up into the face of my handsome husband. “You,” I told Neil, “Are supposed to be naked.”
He grinned down at me. “Sorry, I’ll have to work on that.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t our anniversary in November? And I know we’ve been married more than a year.”
“Not us, the house. It was one year ago today that we bought this house.”
Son of a gun, he was right. How time did fly when you were having fun. Or escaping gruesome death.
I sat up, rubbing at the other eye until the lid lifted and glared at the digital alarm clock. “Do you really have to work today?”
He leaned down and gave me a swift kiss. “’ Fraid so. Boys are still in bed and Atlas is on patrol out back.”
As if on cue, a large echoing woof sounded from outside my bedroom window and an immense canine head appeared, staring in at us like a furry Peeping Tom.
“Is it just me or is he getting bigger?” I squinted back at the humongous goofy dog. Atlas was more demanding than both Kenny and Josh put together, almost as needy as my brother’s new baby, Mae.
“It’s the breed. He eats everything that isn’t nailed down and a few things that have been.” Cupping my chin, Neil turned me to face him again, his hazel-green eyes intent. “Have you thought about it?”
I flinched. The “it” he was referring to was our often put on hold discussion about having more children. Put on hold by me because I so didn’t want to make that call right now. “Do we have to decide today? I’m playing the, it’s our one year anniversary with the house card. And the I haven’t had coffee yet and am entirely incapable of making any important decisions card.”
Neil was too much of a gentleman to bring up my biological clock, which was probably ticking more like the Doomsday clock. The fact that I had a few fistfuls of years left where it might be possible to conceive a baby without medical intervention hung in the air between us. I knew the landmark of a year post-Navy life was what had brought it up. He deserved more than a quick brush off and I was trying to be better at communicating without obscene hand gestures.
“We’re in a good place now,” I said slowly. “You and me. The boys are getting more self-sufficient every day. I just want to revel in that for a little while.”
“Fair enough.” This time his kiss was deeper, lingering. It probably would have gone on longer if not for the mournful baying from outside the window.
Neil swore as he stepped back. “I’ll see you later.”
“Can’t wait,” I gave him a jaunty salute.
He paused at the door. “I see you, Maggie.”
I put a hand up to the tangle of curls going every which way. On an average morning my hair could double as a burrow for small woodland creatures and the July morning was already like a sauna. “And you’re still here, huh?”
“Always. I’ll call you later.” he winked and then departed, closing the bedroom door behind him.
I flopped back onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling fan. It was both difficult and easy to believe we’d been here for a full year already. It seemed like only yesterday we walked through the front door and I started to mentally catalog everything I’d wanted to change, the colors I’d paint the walls, the knickknacks I’d scour garage sales to buy. And how much of it had I actually done? Not much at all.
One reason I hesitated over the baby discussion. Making plans wasn’t something that went over well in the Phillips household. Life was already jammed in like ten hefty clowns in a Volkswagen. We had two healthy kids and a crazy dog. Money was a constant struggle, but otherwise, I had no complaints. Would it be tempting fate to take on more?
I held a hand up toward the windows, studying the webwork of scars there. Then there was my other problem. Through no real fault of my own, I’d been almost killed three times over the last year. I wasn’t a drug dealer, a law enforcement officer, a soldier or mobbed up. I paid my taxes and raised my boys and was, for the most part, a likable human being. My business, the laundry hag’s cleaning service, was as uncomplicated and mundane as jobs came and yet there seemed to be this invisible target tattooed to my forehead. Every loony within a fifty-mile radius took their best shot.
There was a scratching at the bedroom door, followed by vacuum-like suction, as though Atlas was trying to inhale me through the small crack beneath the door. If I didn’t let him in, the big baby would start to whine and then howl until mommy came out and filled his feeding trough. Or he’d try to dig and eat his way through the sheetrock to get to me.
Rolling my eyes, I threw back the covers. After pulling on a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top, I squared my shoulders and marched toward the snuffling.
The door was only open a centimeter when Atlas barged his large square head in, tongue lolling with ecstasy.
“Who’s a big pain in the ass?” I asked him in a sweet voice as I patted his enormous head. He wiggled about, tail wagging, body curling in a giant circle around my legs, doing his damndest to trip me. I stumbled into the dresser as he swung his broad backside my way with the force of a wrecking ball. This was our normal morning routine and I steadied myself as he hit the floor with a thunderous fwamp to present his undercarriage in hopes of a more diligent scratch.
I complied for a minute, glad to let his antics distract me from the day ahead for a little while. In typical preteen fashion, both Kenny and Josh had developed the habit of sleeping in as late as they could during summer vacation. The day stretched out ahead and I wasn’t a person who did well with downtime.
Rising, I squared my shoulders and marched off toward the kitchen, Atlas charging behind me. Coffee would help clear away the morning haze and I could make some kind of plan for the day. Dusting the baseboards? Shoot, I’d done that two days ago and there was such a thing as overkill, even for the laundry hag.
The scent of freshly brewed French roast wafted down the hall, beckoning me like a siren’s song. Okay,
maybe I should give the quiet mornings their due. No one needing lunch made, or a ride to the soccer complex up behind the park, just an endless stretch of hours, yawning like a gaping mouth trying to swallow me whole. My time was my own to do with as I wished. I wished I had a clue as to what I wished.
Once the dog was fed he would flop down on the white couch to pass out for a few hours. My mother-in-law had given me that couch last Thanksgiving. It was seriously out of place in a house full of testosterone, spills and general mayhem. The slipcover my pal Leo had made for it was torn in three places and stained beyond repair, mostly thanks to my brother, Marty, who slept on it half the time. I knew first hand why our mother always complained of never being able to have anything nice.
There was a bouquet of tiger lilies next to the coffee pot with a purple card envelope propped in front. Smiling, I reached for it and lifted the flap.
The Hallmark sentiment was cheesy and I only skimmed it before reading Neil’s handwritten message. In neat, block letters he’d printed, Wear something pretty, I’ll pick you up at eight.
“Huh,” I said to the dog. “Something pretty? Does that mean we’re actually going out for dinner?” That hadn’t happened in months, since before I’d been burned.
Atlas plunked his ass down on the tile floor and scratched his ear with his hind leg.
“You better not have fleas again,” I said and set the card aside to fill his bowl from the fifty-pound bag of Purina in the pantry. Maybe I could give him a bath. That should kill a few hours, between lassoing the dog, stuffing his reluctant carcass into the tub and then cleaning up the mess he made when he inevitably escaped.
I filled the bowl to the top, knowing from experience it would take him exactly 2.2 seconds to down it all. Hopefully, he wouldn’t vomit on the couch again.
My cell phone chimed with an incoming text just as I let him out. I frowned, wondering where I’d put the stupid thing last night. Hmm, I’d had a bowl of cookie dough ice cream while indulging in an Outlander marathon and Neil had woken me up just as BlackJack Randle was flaying Jamie alive. The living room then.
Sure enough, the phone was perched on an end table, the red light blinking spastically as though dying from starvation.
I shuffled back into the bedroom and plugged the phone in so it would hang in there long enough for me to read my text.
I frowned when I saw a message from Sylvia Wright, my next-door neighbor, and Marty’s landlady. An early bird like me, Sylvia usually just came over to chat, knowing that my smartphone tended to outsmart me more often than not.
Her text was brief, but to the point. An address I wasn’t familiar with, Hummingbird Lane. The address was in Hudson, Massachusetts so it had to be nearby.
I texted her back with a question mark, knowing the more characters I tried to send, the more likely the thing would literally blow up in my face.
The reply came back almost immediately. We have a job!
“Yippy skippy,” I told Atlas. “Looks like the bath will have to wait.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to work,” I told Sylvia as we drove around a beautiful lake toward the mysterious Hummingbird Lane. “You know we need the money. If for nothing else than to replace the truck. But my reputation in the community is tainted. Are you sure this woman isn’t just paying our fee to grill me on my supposed murder rap?”
It had happened before, on the two other jobs Sylvia and I had gone on last month. The clients had been more interested in my involvement with two homicide investigations than with my abilities as a cleaning lady or Sylvia’s more unique skillset.
Sylvia waved a hand dismissively. “Maggie, that’s ancient history. I promise, Sarah Dale is the real deal. She was so enthusiastic over the phone. What you need is to get back in the game, get your confidence back.”
What I needed was a stiff drink and some alone time with my oh so sexy husband. Lacking that, I’d take whatever job Sylvia had dredged up this time and keep my kvetching to myself.
It had started out as a lark, the two of us going into business together. I tackled all the down and dirty grime, armed to the teeth with Lysol and bleach. Sylvia focused on spiritual cleansing, purifying the energies of a space to make it more inviting. Sylvia was a new age girl through and through. She burnt sage and incense and arranged her small garage apartment according to the principles of Feng Shui while I washed floors and scrubbed toilets. For one reasonable price, we cleaned a house top to bottom, stem to stern on both the physical and metaphysical levels. A price we’d discounted with coupons printed up in the Sunday paper, hoping to attract more clients. It had been two weeks since our coupon ad ran and so far, Sarah Dale was the only person who’d contacted us.
“Is this all one person’s property?” I asked as I stared out over the rolling green hills.
Sylvia nodded. “It’s the Dale estate. Isn’t it amazing?”
Amazing that they’d hired us. Call me a cynic, but nothing good came from working for obscenely rich people, like my in-laws. From my own personal experiences, their drama was in proportion with the size of their bank accounts. Sylvia pulled her Prius up to a set of wrought iron gates. They must have been equipped with a sensor as they swung open to allow us past. What the hell was the sense of even having gates if they just swung open all the time? I was no security expert but that seemed like a hell of a waste of resources.
Much like our being hired in the first place.
People who lived in such surroundings usually had live-in help and didn’t tend to call out for a cleaning service, no matter how deep the discount.
I kept my jaded opinion to myself though, so I didn’t rain on Sylvia’s parade. Her other career as a life coach wasn’t doing well and she needed the money even more than I did.
“How was your date last night?” I asked instead, changing the subject to one guaranteed to make her grin.
Sylvia took a left as the paved road changed to gravel. She shot me a quick grin, white teeth gleaming like a toothpaste commercial. “Terrific. He took me out to the new Thai place for pho and then we went salsa dancing.”
“Pho and salsa, aren’t we cultured.” I nodded though I didn’t have a clue about what went into either pho or salsa dancing.
“What was great came after. Pun totally intended.” Sylvia’s smile spread like a wicked rash, which I really hoped she didn’t have.
It was a struggle to keep my expression neutral as I probed deeper. “Is this one a keeper?”
Sylvia had been out on a ton of dates since her divorce became official a few weeks ago. Several first dates, which were hot and heavy but went exactly nowhere other than through the revolving door to her bedroom.
She waved my question off as though it was the most ridiculous one imaginable. “God, no. He’s a Scorpio and I have enough drama in my life. One night was enough. Besides, I have a date with Paolo from yoga tonight. His English isn’t the best, but then again, I’m not planning on doing much talking, if you catch my drift.”
“Hmmm,” I made a noncommittal sound. Sylvia’s divorce had redefined the term messy. She and her ex had both hired vicious lawyers to shred each other to the full extent of the law. I understood her need to cut loose in the aftermath of that horror show, but was afraid she was taking it too far and would end up with some god awful STD for her trouble. Then again, she was a grown woman and hadn’t asked for my two cents. It wasn’t my place to judge her, but I couldn’t help worrying over a friend’s welfare.
Luckily we’d arrived at yet another set of gates, this one with a call box. Sylvia pushed the button and there was a brief crackle of static before a feminine voice inquired, “Hello?”
“Maggie Phillips and Sylvia Wright here for Sarah Dale,” Sylvia said smoothly.
I was glad she was taking the reins since I was fairly certain I didn’t want to be there and was untrustworthy enough to sabotage us with my big, fat mouth if given the opportunity. It was a natural talent, one far too few people appreciated.
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nbsp; There was no verbal answer but the gates parted ominously. We drove through, passing yet another lake, this one equipped with a fountain, spitting water up from the bottlenose beaks of three dolphins. More lush rolling hills and in the far distance, a set of elegant stables that looked neater than many houses I’d been to.
“This is incredible,” Sylvia murmured as we crested a hill to see the large sprawling mansion dead ahead. The three-story structure was white with black shutters and a red door, like a colonial on steroids.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say I had a bad feeling about this but I bit it back. So what if overt displays of wealth made me uneasy. Given my track record, never mind my in-laws, it was probably just reflex. Still, I reached into my pocket, reassuring myself that the pepper spray I’d purchased was still where I could easily reach it. I was done going onto other people’s turf unprepared.
Sylvia parked in a circular drive and turned off the engine. If it was up to her, we would have ridden up here on a bicycle built for two to minimize our carbon footprint, but I had yet to find a basket big enough to fit my industrial-strength vacuum.
“You okay?” she asked me, her face the picture of concern.
“Fine,” I pasted what I hoped was a reassuring smile on my mug. After all, I couldn’t hang out in my house for the rest of my natural life, no matter how much I wanted to do exactly that. It was about time we meet a normal well to do woman in a humongous mansion.
“Maggie,” She said and looked at me over the bridge of her nose.
I retrenched. “I will be fine.”
Hung Out to Dry: The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag, #4 Page 1
