Skeletons in the Closet (11 page)

“Now, that’s total crap. First off, I would never marry Martha Stewart, mostly because I wouldn’t want to wake up like John Wayne Bobbitt if I forgot to put the seat down. And even though I can’t understand most of the things you do, I get that you want to make a good impression on them, although God alone knows why.”

I felt better. “I feel better, thanks, gorgeous.”

“All part of the service, love.”

Neil hung up, and I set to work. I ordered pizza for dinner and stopped long enough to have a slice with Josh and Kenny.

“Can we help, Mom?” Josh asked around a mouthful of pizza.

“Actually, you can. After you guys finish dinner I need you to pick a few loaves of bread into dressing.”

“What kind of pie are you making?” Kenny wanted to know.

“Pumpkin and Apple Crumb.”

“No chocolate cream?” My youngest son looked so crestfallen that I briefly considered trying to make his favorite dessert too.

“Sorry, sweets, I don’t have enough room in the fridge for another pie, but I’ll do my best to make one over the weekend, especially for you. Sound good?”

Kenny nodded and shot me a pizza lookie, which I returned. We finished dinner, and I had Josh take out the trash while Kenny started with the bread, and I tackled the pie crust and tried not to think about how harsh I’d been to my brother. He deserved every word, but the fact didn’t ease my guilt. The phone rang, and Josh finished washing his hands so he could answer it.

“Hi, Grandma, how are you?”

I shuddered and wiped my hands on my apron. I’d conveniently forgotten that Laura had been trying to reach me, and it was now reckoning time. Josh handed me the phone.

“Good evening, Laura.”

“Maggie, where have you been? Never mind, did you accept the delivery?”

“Delivery of what?”

The doorbell rang. Kenny jumped off the stool and scrambled for the front door. I followed as dread unfurled in my stomach. The sweat-covered missing link on the other side handed me a clipboard, and I cradled the phone on my shoulder as I signed.

“What is
it,
Laura?”

“Your father-in-law and I thought we would send your Christmas present early. No need to thank us, dear.”

“Thank you?” I said absently as I watched Cro-Magnon man and his equally imposing partner unload the couch. The blindingly
white
couch, which had stain magnet written all over it in special ink that only I could see, along with its accompanying oversized chair and ottoman.

“Oh, Laura, you shouldn’t have,” I said with conviction.

“Where do you want it?” the delivery man grunted at me, and I threw my hands in the air. He shrugged and proceeded to the living room.

“Now, the men have instructions to take away the old sofa and loveseat, so you don’t have to worry about that. Did you get my e-mail about the schedule changes?”

“Changes?” I asked and watched my furniture disappear onto the truck. I wanted to cry.

“Yes, dear, you really should stay on top of your correspondences; otherwise you’ll become a slave to them. Now, I know the timing may be somewhat inconvenient, but I’ve arranged for Leopold to come by at seven to assist you.”

“Seven in the morning?”

“Of course, dear. If we want to have hors d'oeuvres at noon, dinner at one, and dessert finished by two-thirty, he’ll need time to set up.”

“Of course.” I stared at my new couch, wishing I could grow a spine and tell Laura off. Neil was right, I should take a stand, but the scathing words stuck in my throat.

“Well, I have to go. I have a few last minute errands to attend to so I’ll see you at eleven-thirty tomorrow.”

Laura disconnected, and I was left with two puzzled children and a cotton ball white living room set.

The phone rang the instant I replaced it in the cradle, and I implored the All Mighty for a little reprieve. Maybe it was Neil or Marty. Against my better judgment, I picked the phone up.

“Mrs. Phillips, this is Jason Macgregor. We met at the Kline’s soirée.”

I vaguely recalled the gangly man with unremarkable features and light brown hair.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, but I just received a call from Francesca, and she is very concerned about her brother-in-law. He hasn’t picked up the phone all day, and she’s in the middle of preparations for her dinner party tomorrow. I told her I’d check in on him, but I was called down to the courthouse and I doubt I’ll make it anytime soon. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind stopping by to see Mr. Kline to make sure.”

I didn’t say anything but I was thinking
why me
? Why was I the chosen caretaker for every lunatic in New England?

Jason Macgregor cleared his throat. “I know this is inconvenient, but as Mr. Kline’s attorney, I feel it’s necessary to keep an eye on him.”

Something in his tone stroked my curiosity. “I thought Mr. Kline was cleared of all charges.”

“On the contrary, he hasn’t been charged with anything. His alibi, as you well know, is rock solid, but that doesn’t stop the police from looking into the possibility that Mr. Kline hired someone to kill his wife.”

This was something I hadn’t considered. “Are you telling me Mr. Kline arranged for someone to shoot Alessandra?”

“Not at all.”

“Then why do we need to keep tabs on him?”

“Mrs. Phillips, I’ve been given the impression by both Doug and Francesca, who I am very close with, that you’re a compassionate woman. The man has lost his wife, and his friends and family are worried about him. Will you please set our minds at ease?”

I sighed. Neil was right, I’m a total pushover.

“All right, Mr. Macgregor. I’ll check on him as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.” The attorney rattled off his number, which I jotted down. I was such a sucker.

My pies came out of the oven just as Neil walked in the door. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and a warm smile which I was badly in need of.

“Smells great in here. How’s it shaking, sexy?”

“I have to go check on Mr. Kline.”

The smile faded. “The hell you do!”

“I promised I’d—”

Neil held up his hand. “I’ll go, but only to end this argument before it starts. And when I get home, we’re going to have a discussion about assertiveness with a hint of Nancy Regan’s just say no.”

I hugged him, and he passed Marty on his way out. My brother was unusually quiet, but he sat at the counter, watching while I sautéed onions for the dressing.

Neil returned a few minutes later, still scowling. “He wasn’t there.”

I sagged against the counter. “Are you sure?”

Neil removed the leftover pizza and took two plates from the cabinet before putting the first batch in the microwave. “I knew you’d ask that, so I scaled the side of the house. There were no signs of life; no lights, or TV, or music. No one was sleeping in the master bedroom, and there was no car in the garage.”

Neil pulled the first plate out of the microwave and placed it in front of Marty, who grunted his thanks.

I was more direct. “Thank you, Neil. I know I shouldn’t have said I’d check up on him but….”

Neil kissed me hard, and Marty groaned. “Get a room, guys.” He picked up his plate, and I broke away from Neil long enough to shout at his backside.

“Don’t even think about eating on the new couch!”

“New couch?” Neil’s brows drew together.

“Our Christmas gift from your parents.”

Neil accepted this with his customary good nature. “You’re a pushover, Uncle Scrooge. I really hate that people take advantage of your good nature. But that caring is part of you, and I love it. I see you, Maggie.”

“I see you too.”

“What’s with the Good Humor man rejects?” Marty called from the living room.

I sighed for what seemed to be the millionth time that day.

B
y the time I hit the sheets at 2:53 a.m., the dressing was prepared, the pies had cooled enough to be placed in the fridge, and I felt like I’d been hit by a Mack truck. Too little sleep found me in a rotten mood, and I slapped the buzzer on my alarm clock with undue force. The alarmed stopped, but the display went haywire. Well, now I had something practical to ask Santa for.

I took a three minute car wash shower—just enough to cleanse the undercarriage— and tried not to think about my latest disturbing dream. A turkey had settled in on the new couch and lectured me on proper respect. I knew the turkey was supposed to be male even though the voice had sounded suspiciously like Alessandra Kline.

I was ironing my pretty new outfit when Neil awoke.

“Maggie, what time is it?”

I bit back a scathing retort, since Neil was one of the few people unworthy of my venom. “Coffee will be ready in a few.”

Neil scratched his stubble. “You’re not going to lose it today, are you?”

I whirled on him. “Why would you say that? Power of suggestion, Neil. Now all I’m going to think about all day is that my husband thinks I’m on the verge of a breakdown!”

Neil kissed me on the forehead on his way into the bathroom. “Want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

Grrrrrr.

There was no sign of Marty or the boys in the kitchen. I started the coffee and checked my to-do list.

First the bird.

I felt an unholy satisfaction taking the seventeen pounder out of its salt water bath and plopping it in the pan with a colossal thunk. Preparing raw poultry is the bane of my existence. On my first Thanksgiving I handled the turkey while sporting rubber gloves, but there was no time to dither.

After I deposited the de-gutted and seasoned bird in the oven, I washed my hands with a vengeance. Neil was right; I was wound tight enough to snap.

A fortifying sip of coffee helped me find some perspective. I love all holidays, but Thanksgiving is one of my favorites. Everyone was healthy, and my brother was safe and under our roof. We had enough money to pay our bills and provide for Kenny and Josh. And my in-laws would be gone by four at the latest.

Yes, I had a great deal to be thankful for.

The doorbell chimed. That would be Leopold.

The smartest thing my in-laws ever did was hire a flaming gay man with an outrageous sense of humor to liven up their household. Leopold is an absolute gem, who can cook like nobody’s business. He doesn’t take crap either, which has me marveling that he’s been in Laura Phillips’s employ for almost a decade.

“Hey Leo.” I greeted the gangly, middle-aged man with a kiss on the cheek. In true Leopold fashion, he was decked out in Gucci gray, broken only by an electric blue belt and matching shoelaces in his gleaming white tennis sneakers.

“Maggie, my sweet, leave this life of complacency and run away with me. We’ll be the new Will and Grace, but with more seasoning.”

“Hitting on my wife again, Leo?” Neil was dressed for yard work in old jeans and a grungy sweatshirt with the adage “Just let a SEAL show you how it’s done” with a few stick figures in X rated positions for extra class.

“There’ll be hell to pay if your mother sees you in that.”

Neil shook Leo’s hand. “Maggie’s working herself up to a full nuclear meltdown. I thought I’d set Mom up on the same level, you know, to even things out.”

Leo chuckled. “Little boys who play with fire….”

“Says the biggest flamer of them all. Do me a favor, Leo, hit on my brother-in-law.”

I shot Neil a dirty look which Leo mirrored.

Neil shrugged. “I thought it would tamper with his plans to sponge off us for the rest of eternity.”

Leo smirked, and I shoved Neil out the still open door.

Leo gestured toward the kitchen. “So let’s see what you’ve done so far, love, and we’ll go from there.”

“One second, Bucko. Did you know anything about the couch?”

His expression remained deliberately neutral, and I had my answer. “Damn it, Leo! You’re my inside man! You need to call me when they’re plotting so I have time to mount a defense!”

“Somebody’s PMS-ing this morning. And to my own defense, I knew they were getting you some furniture. I thought you’d like it. You said last month how much you wanted to redecorate.”

I pulled him into the living room in order to properly illustrate my outrage. “There is a difference between wanting to, as in an abstract ‘I’ll think more about redecorating at some vague point in the future’, and there is now a white couch in my living room!”

“White?” Leo lost all color in his face, matching the shade of the couch. “Damn, what was she thinking?”

“Probably that white looks good in magazines and in living room displays where it’s never touched.”

“Oh, Maggie, I’m sorry. Tell you what, I have a friend who is a whiz with a sewing machine. I’ll have him make up some nice slipcovers for you as soon as possible.”

Leopold’s contrition mollified my inner demon. “Sounds like a plan. He doesn’t work holidays does he?”

“I’m afraid not. Let’s rework the appetizers so we can serve only white wine and champagne to start. Did you get my crab puff recipe?”

Leo and I talked shop for a few minutes, and I had poured my second cup of liquid death when Marty emerged from the bedroom in all his morning glory.

“Marty! Put some pants on, for crying out loud!”

“I don’t have any clean pants. I don’t have any clean clothes at all.” Unabashed by his nudity, Marty started for the fridge and slowed when he caught sight of Leopold. “How’s it hanging, man?”

“A little to the left.” Leopold’s lips quirked as he took in an eye full.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Marty, there are kids in the house, and we have company!”

I made a bee-line for the laundry room door where I extracted a pair of Neil’s sweats and tossed them at my brother’s head. He pulled the pants on without comment and returned his attention to the refrigerator.

“You’re thirty years old, I’m sure you’ve used a washing machine before!”

Marty poured himself a glass of orange juice and downed half before answering. “Yeah, I have, at laundromats, but you have all those rules and regulations, and I don’t want to evoke the wrath of the Laundry Hag.”

I narrowed my eyes. I was really starting to hate that name. “Fine, I’ll do your wash, you big baby.”

Marty grinned at me and took his juice back down the hall.

“I’ve been played,” I said to no one in particular.

“Like a violin in the Boston orchestra.” Leo shook his head in disgust. “You’re not doing him any favors by catering to him. As long as you treat him like a child, he’ll continue to act like one.”

My guilt over Marty’s life-long debacles was well documented, catalogued, and labeled as being wasted energy, but I couldn’t seem to break the pattern.

I retrieved my brother’s clothes from the floor and put on a load of whites, muttering all the while.

* * * *

“Hey, Uncle Scrooge, have you seen the wheelbarrow?” Neil appeared in the kitchen doorway. “We’re supposed to be getting some rain this weekend, and I wanted to dump the leaves in the creek out back.”

This was going to be tricky, especially with Marty and Leo bearing witness. “Someone stole it.”

Neil stuck his finger in his ear, like he was cleaning it out. “Come again?”

“Someone took the wheelbarrow. I went to put some stuff in it and it wasn’t where I left it, so the logical conclusion is that someone stole it.”

Leo stuffed celery and bit his bottom lip to hold back his laughter, and Marty took a swig from the beer bottle he’d been nursing.

“The logical conclusion…,” Neil repeated. “Logical. That just doesn’t seem to apply to the theft of an antique wheelbarrow. That’s Monty Python logic if ever I heard it.”

“Do you think we should report it?” I asked, all big-eyed innocence.

“What the hell, the cops working on a holiday deserve a good laugh.” Neil went to make the call, and I smacked Leo on the shoulder.

“It isn’t funny!”

“Au contraire, this is not just funny, it’s hilarious!” Leo actually giggle-snorted, which got Marty going, and my indignation dissolved into genuine amusement. It
was
comical, even more so since I was the only one who knew I’d maneuvered the stinking thing to the grocery store where it was pilfered. I guess the next time the car broke down and I decided to push a wheelbarrow to the supermarket, I should bring a bicycle chain and padlock.

I regained a bit of composure, and since my eyes were full of tears anyhow, I began slicing onions.

My sleepy young-uns emerged and gave the cackling adults disgusted looks. “What’s so funny?” Josh said, hands on hips. He looked so serious, and the combination of the morning cowlick and the reproving tone started us off again.

Kenny shrugged and went for the cereal. “Adults are so weird.”

“Hey, boys, eat up and then get dressed. I need your help in the backyard.” Neil smirked in my general direction, shook his head, and made his way out of the house. 

Josh and Kenny groaned in unison, but did as their father bade.

“Marty, why don’t you give Neil a hand?” I asked.

He shrugged and followed after Neil.

“Way to crack the whip, Laundry Hag.” Leo wiped down the counter and basted my bird. “Wait a minute, if you’re the Laundry Hag….”

“Don’t go there.” I bit off each word, but knew what was coming.

“Does that mean I’m your Fag? Isn’t the Fag supposed to have the Hag, not the other way around?”

I rolled my eyes until I could almost see my brain. “No, you’re Laura’s Fag; you’re just on loaner to the Hag for the duration. God, I really hate stereotypes.”

“You do?” Leo asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Point taken. Now, this Hag has to make herself presentable. Can you take it from here?”

“I’ll do my best.”

With Leo working his magic and the boys all outside, I trundled down the hall. I did my makeup a touch on the conservative side and methodically checked for grays before twisting my hair into an untidy bun and donning my chosen outfit. The black pants were a bit loose, thank heavens, and the shirt was a billowy cut and fell nicely, revealing a tasteful amount of cleavage.

I believe in playing up my assets.

I clipped my diamond solitaire around my throat. And noticed the spot. A dime-sized white spot on my shirt directly over my left nipple, which made a noticeable break in both the cobalt and navy horizontal stripes.

Son of a motherless goat!

I immediately knew what had happened. There must have been a trace amount of bleach on my hands when I took the top out of the washer to line dry. Damn my anal retentive need to wash before wear!

Don’t panic, maybe it isn’t so bad
.

I trotted down the hall and presented myself to Leopold.

“What did you do to your shirt?”

“Is it that bad?” I chewed on my lower lip.

“On the grand scheme of things, no, but it does draw attention. Maybe you should wear something else.”

“I don’t have anything else! My one nice dress is at the dry cleaners, and I can’t show up to Thanksgiving dinner in a T-shirt!”

“Then we’ll have to work with what we’ve got.” He grabbed my hand and led me into the den. “Where are your permanent markers?”

“At the store, waiting to be purchased.”

“You really are a drama queen, you know that.” He sighed and pulled me to the boys’ room. Stepping gracefully over Kenny’s sleeping bag, Leo extracted some Crayola markers from the desk.

“We have black and a medium blue. That will have to suffice. Now this is washable, so it’s only a quick fix.” He knelt on the floor in front of me and uncapped the black marker.

I shifted my weight. “Um, maybe I should take the shirt off first.”