Skeletons in the Closet (8 page)

I swallowed around the huge lump of guilt in my throat. I knew
exactly
how he felt, because it wasn’t so long ago that I’d spent the sleepless nights worrying about Neil’s well being. Those three a.m. thoughts of
is he warm enough; did he get enough to eat; oh, God, please don’t let anyone be shooting at him; don’t let him be hurt or killed
, and a plethora of other morbid musings could give one an ulcer.

I couldn’t speak; it took all of my effort not to cry because I wouldn’t wish that kind of anxiety on my worst enemy, let alone the man I loved more than my own stupid life.

“I was so scared, Maggie,” Neil said, and I was surprised to find a sheen of tears in his eyes as well. His anger had burned out, replaced by a mixture of concern and relief. “It was so unlike you, taking off without leaving a note,
and
in the middle of the night. Then Sylvia shows up, ranting about some old lady with a gun, and I lost it! And with all of the crazy shit going on lately…I don’t know, I guess my imagination went wild.”

I knew how much it cost him to say all this, since Neil has been trained to never show weakness or fear under duress. I lost the battle, and the tears streamed down my grimy face. Neil stopped for a red light and turned to look at me.

And burst out laughing.

“You really are a sight, you know that? I feel like I’m driving little orphan Annie.”

“Just be glad it isn’t Annie Oakley,” I muttered.

“What?”

“It’s a long story.”

Neil took the next left and pulled into the parking lot of the local Methodist Church. He turned off the engine before giving me his undivided attention.

“We’ve got nothing but time, so let’s hear it.”

Here’s the thing about being married to a SEAL. I imagine it’s like being married to Superman. There are no illusions; you know for a fact that he’s smarter than you, tougher than you, and he is always favored to win any battle of wills. I guess some women might be intimidated by this scenario. Not me. I know that I don’t have to hit every curve ball life throws my way because I’ve got Superman on standby. Sharing my woes was easier than I’d imagined, and I outlined all of the major events of the past twenty-four hours.

“So that about sums it up,” I said with a weak smile.

Neil looked at me without blinking for a moment, then closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of his seat.

“What do you think? Should I—”

“Hush. I’m thinking.”

As Neil ruminated, I listened to the traffic pick up, and a few cars turned into the church parking lot.

Neil started the car when he realized that a few of the church patrons stared at us. Or more aptly, stared at me.

“I want you out of it, Maggie. You’re a civilian, an
untrained
civilian. Tonight was a perfect example of why you need to let the police handle this.”

“But—”

“No. Goddamn. Buts!” Each word fired at me like a bullet. “There’s a killer on the loose, do you understand that? Someone who has committed murder and you’re treating this like a game!”

I didn’t want to fight with him, so I ground my teeth in silence. We arrived home without further comment. I took note of Sylvia’s truck parked at the curb between our houses and wondered if she’d called Eric to tell him what had transpired. I stooped to retrieve the rolled up newspaper on the front porch and groaned as cold air hit my stiff and exposed backside.

Neil passed me and stalked into the living room. “Hey, Ethel, I sprung Lucy, and she’s got some ‘splainin’ to do. You’re off rug rat duty.”

Sylvia sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What’s going on?” she asked in the mystified voice of the not quite awake.

“Neil, call Eric and let him know where she is.”

Sylvia turned her glazed expression towards the sound of my voice. “Oh, God, Maggie!” It was eerie watching her mull through the morning haze, trying to pinpoint exactly what had happened before she’d passed out. “Are you all right?”

I opened my mouth, but Neil answered for me. “She’s fine, Sylvia.” His tone implied a
no thanks to you.

I darted him a scathing glance which rolled off his Teflon-like exterior in a nanosecond. He crossed his arms over his chest and managed to gaze down his nose at both of us at the same time. Neil was in no mood to be trifled with.

Sylvia gave me a quick hug and beat a hasty retreat. I opened my mouth ready for a full scale verbal offensive, but he held a hand up.

“Save it, Uncle Scrooge. I’m not happy with either of you and I’m really pissed off that she left you there while some madwoman was discharging a firearm.”

“Neil, this isn’t the armed forces. I don’t expect my friends to take a bullet for me.”

“She left you behind!”

“I told her to go!”

Neil opened his mouth, thought for a second, and closed it. He rubbed his face. “No more now, Uncle Scrooge. Let’s see if we can catch some sleep before the boys get up.

“You go, I want to shower first.”

His lips twitched, and I saw a flicker of heat in his eyes, a disparity to his frozen posture. “That’s a prime idea. Need some help scrubbing those hard to reach places?”

“I’m good.” It was a flat out lie, but I was too drained to say anything else.

I trundled into the bathroom and admired my self-restraint when I didn’t scream at my ghoulish reflection. A night in the slammer really didn’t do much for a girl’s complexion.

One of the great benefits of having a pre-Reaganomics era house is the awesome water pressure. I love having the water pound my back like a meat mallet until I’m thoroughly tenderized. I stripped while the water warmed up, wishing I had some Brillo pads to scour the grime from my body.

I washed my hair with the fruity shampoo, thinking dandruff was the least of my worries. Neil pulled the curtain back. He’d piled his clothes up on the floor next to mine and had a sheepish look in his eyes.

“I need you,” he said.

It was exactly what I wanted to hear.

I reached out and pulled him into the shower with me. We didn’t even notice when the hot water ran out.

* * * *

I was back in Mr. Kline’s office. My clothes had been removed. I was strapped down, spread eagled on a cold metal table. Mr. Kline and Greg the Gym Rat were off to my left, and Mr. Kline held a metal ladle over a steaming brazier filled with a bubbling dark liquid. I thought I must be hallucinating, because I could clearly smell the odor of smoldering chocolate.

“Do you know what this is, dear Maggie?” Mr. Kline lovingly eyed the ladle as he dipped it into the brazier. He didn’t wait for me to reply but attached a perforated sieve type top onto the scepter. “It’s called a lead sprinkler. With a mere flick of my wrist I can coat you with its contents. Of course, this isn’t molten metal, I thought of something truly ingenious for you. Sugar, milk, cocoa butter, lactose, milk fat, vanilla, and emulsifiers. Or in layman’s terms, Death by Chocolate.”

My mouth was parched, but I managed to croak, “Why?”

“Because you’re in the way,” Greg said. I watched in horror as he dipped a wooden spoon into the liquid and then brought it to his mouth. “Tasty. Just like you’re going to be.”

Greg smacked his lips and gave me a heated once over as Doug Kline approached the table.

“Please…,” I begged as Douglass Kline thrust the scepter at me. I rolled to avoid the spray of blistering chocolate and….

Landed on my bedroom floor with a thunk.

I shook my head in a futile attempt to clear the fog and ran my hands along my naked torso to check for scald marks. Neil was still dead to the world, and I swept a look over the familiar surroundings, hopeful it had all been a dream. One look in the mirror and I knew it wasn’t. Swathing myself in a fleece bathrobe helped alleviate the worst of my chills.

I stumbled toward the kitchen, hoping I’d feel a little more human after my daily caffeine fix. Kenny and Josh each occupied a barstool, chowing down on Captain Crunch. I squashed a wave of guilt at not being up in time to prepare the standard Sunday fare.

“Jeeze, Mom, who worked you over?” Josh inquired as I lost count of how many scoops I’d put in the coffee filter.

“The police and a sixty-year-old vigilante,” I said without thought. It took a few seconds for their shocked looks to register, and I winced. When was I going to learn to keep my mouth shut until after I had coffee?

The doorbell chimed. I groaned and hoped Sylvia wasn’t on the outside, tapping her foot and plotting our next antic. Sometime during my listless morning I’d come to the conclusion that Neil was right, I had to keep my nose out of the whole scenario.

But it wasn’t Sylvia.

“
G
ood morning, Mrs. Phillips.” Detective Bradley Patterson offered a warm smile. His respectable suit was considerately less rumpled than it had been at the precinct. He looked as if he’d come from church.

I, on the other hand, sported the look favored by beggars everywhere. The sandman must have whacked me with his carry-on, because the more I scrubbed at my eyes, the grainer they felt. My wet hair had dried while I napped, and I’d suffered a severe case of bed-head. My caffeine deprived mind attempted to establish some sort of greeting, but all that came across was a wordless grunt.

The good detective simply smiled and asked if he could come in. I allowed it and gestured towards the kitchen because that was where the coffee was located.

Kenny had disappeared, but Josh played the role of man of the house by scowling over his cereal at Patterson with the consternation that only an eleven-year-old can pull off. “Is this the creep who roughed you up?”

“If it was, don’t you think I’d be pounding him into the ground right about now?” Neil emerged from the bedroom wearing some unbuttoned jeans and a scowl. “I’m still waiting for an introduction though, friend.”

I was too busy making love to my drug of choice, so Detective Patterson stretched out his hand. The introductions commenced while I inhaled the fortifying scent of my kitchen. Everyone has his or her calm and tranquil place, somewhere that empowers said person and gives a sense of harmony and confidence. My place has always been my kitchen, no matter which house we currently dwelled in. Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath allowed me to center myself and draw strength for the conversation to come. This was the closest thing I had to what Sylvia called inner peace.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

I opened one eye on Patterson, who frowned at me with puckered eyebrows.

“She’s fine,” Neil interjected as he pulled on a shirt. “It’s her thing—she’s sniffing the kitchen.”

Detective Patterson looked even more confused. He wrinkled his nose and took a few quick breaths. “It smells okay to me, but it might be your fridge. You could try a box of baking soda.”

Neil chuckled, and I nodded at Patterson’s obliging face. “I’ll do that. Now how can I assist you, Detective?”

He assumed a much more formal pose, arms clasped behind him and shoulders squared, and I wondered idly if he’d been in the military. I looked over to Neil, who sent me a barely perceptible single nod, and had my answer.

“I owe you an apology, Mrs. Phillips. My behavior was totally out of line the other day, and I wanted to assure you—”

I held up a hand to stop him and glanced over at the two eager faces that were ready to bear witness at a moment’s notice. I really didn’t want them to know I’d been involved in a murder case, first with the alibi thing and then my antics with Sylvia and Annie Oakley. My mind turned at a slow, short-school-bus-type-special pace, but it was quick enough to recognize I didn’t want them to hear everything the detective was about to say.

“Neil, maybe you ought to—”

“Boys, grab your jackets. We’re heading down to the park.”

Patterson shot him a grateful smile, and while Neil herded the protesting adolescents out the door, I poured the detective a cup of coffee.

“Thank you, ma’am. You have a very nice family there, and I really didn’t want to ruin what’s left of everyone’s weekend with more unpleasantness.” Although he didn’t say it outright, I was pretty certain by his tone that he knew what I’d been up to the night before. I watched him take a sip of his coffee and smiled at the look of surprise on his face.

“Good stuff, huh?”

“Excellent, ma’am. Smells just like the 7-11 in here.”

“Well
there’s
a compliment.” I let the sarcasm drip from my voice, but he either didn’t notice or decided to let it go.

“As I was saying, Mrs. Phillips, I’m very sorry about our conversation the other day. You see, this case makes no sense at all, and frankly, I’m stymied at every turn.”

I blinked at him, and he gave me a knowing smirk. “What, you think that a black man don’t know a word like stymied?”

“No, actually, I was surprised that a man who would complement a housewife by comparing her kitchen to a 7-11 would know a word like stymied.”

Bradley Patterson was the one to blink this time and then burst into laughter. “No offense intended, ma’am.”

“Here either, Detective. I know the Southern accent tends to fool people at times, but I’d like to think we could get beyond the stereotypes here and be candid.”

“Sounds like a plan to me, although I must point out you don’t have a very thick accent, it’s a bit different than a Bostonian intonation is all.”

Now
that’s
a compliment.

“I heard about your little adventure last night. A friend of mine works dispatch and recognized your name. I was a little surprised to say the least, since I thought you were going to keep your head down for a while.”

I made a vague gesture with my hand, trying to make light of the most mortifying situation of my life.

“I thought I’d come by and let you know you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“But the tattoo! I know Greg was Mrs. Kline’s lover, I saw the tattoo!”

“
Latest
lover, you mean. The Kline marriage was littered with similar indiscretions, which is why I zeroed in on Mr. Kline. It must have reached a point where the man needed to kill her just so that he could retain a shred of dignity.” Patterson shook his head. “But you held true to being Mr. Kline’s alibi, and Greg has an even better one. He was having a, ahem, full body wax at a local spa.”

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwww!

As Kenny would say, “Way, way, TMI.”

“So, both the current lover and the husband have alibis. This definitely appears to be a crime of passion, at least according to the medical examiner’s report. Twelve rounds at close range was no theft gone awry. No, someone wanted to make good and sure that Alessandra Kline left this earth forever.”

Warning bells clanged in my head. I took another sip from my tepid coffee and puzzled out exactly what wasn’t right.

“The husband has some strange fetishes, as I assume you’ve noticed. His little torture room and whatnot, but your alibi shoots that theory down the crapper, so I’m left with a violent crime of passion, with no possible suspects. Or, at least, too many to sort through.” He sent me a meaningful look that I couldn’t decipher, and the clanging grew louder.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

He looked pained. “I
shouldn’t
be revealing evidence to a civilian, but I need an in.”

“An in? To where?”

“Alessandra Kline’s social circle. The people she ran with, so to speak. When dealing with the elite, I have to tread very carefully and with a ridiculous lack of evidence I can’t afford to even let on that they’re under investigation, or they’ll lawyer up faster than you can say O.J.”

“I still don’t see how I….”

“With your cleaning service. You’ll be privy to what goes on in these people’s homes.”

“Are you asking me to spy for the police department?”

His response was automatic. “Absolutely not. If, however, you happen to come across information which would be of assistance in this or any investigation, we would be most appreciative. You’re only a witness to Mr. Kline’s whereabouts, not to the crime itself. This might make you a target, you and your family.”

“
What!
”

“Think about it, Maggie. Without you, Mr. Kline has no one to place him at his house at the time of the murder. You’re standing smack in between a killer and his scapegoat.”

“What about the cook? She saw me hitting on Mr.Kline!” I clapped a hand over my mouth a second too late. “That is, I ummm….”

Patterson studied me for a few heartbeats. “You were hitting on Douglass Kline?”

“Not intentionally. He seemed so downtrodden, and I wanted to comfort him. It wasn’t sexual.” Even if he thought it was.

Patterson cleared his throat. “Well, the cook has disappeared. We found an airline ticket to Venezuela in her room, dated two days ago, but no other personal information. We’re still trying to track her down. It’s too soon yet to assume foul play, but I think a little caution on your part would be prudent.”

I zoned out, staring straight over Bradley Patterson’s left shoulder. His words made a morbid sort of sense, and I tasted bile in my throat. I could be in danger, and Neil and the boys by proximity. My family was in jeopardy because I was tired of clipping coupons and shopping at frigging Wal-Mart. A tear slid down my cheek.

Bradley Patterson handed me a tissue, which was good because I never have a tissue when I need one. And I really needed one right then.

“I know this is a lot to handle, Maggie, and I’m not asking that you do anything you think would put you at further risk. This may be a way to tie up both of our problems, nice and neat, and capture a killer before he strikes again.”

I don’t think I responded as Detective Patterson slid his card across the counter to me and let himself out. I gnawed on my lip and spaced out.

Exactly what was I supposed to do now?

* * * *

   It seemed like hours ago that I’d decided to stay out of it, to let the police fill in the gaps. But that was before I’d discovered my family was in the line of fire.

Shit. I really wish I could go back to dealing with the gray hair and dandruff.

By the time I’d showered and dressed, Neil and the boys had returned from the basketball courts. Kenny and Josh peppered me with questions, all of which I had not so skillfully evaded. I gave them a vague explanation, since they’d seen the paper and knew about Mrs. Kline’s demise, but left out my own involvement.

“But what about the bruises?” Josh asked me. He was the more serious of the two and he hadn’t forgotten my flip remark about police brutality.

“It was an accident, sweetie. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why don’t you go finish your book for school?”

The boys grumbled a little more before heading off to their room.

Neil shook his head at me. “They’re getting older. They understand more than I think either of us realizes. Half-assed explanations aren’t going to cut it anymore.”

I knew he was right, but it’s near impossible to turn off that Mom instinct which demands that I shelter and protect my children from the harsher realities out there in the world.

“So, what happened?” The boys had definitely inherited their sense of persistence from Neil.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“Maggie….”

“Please, love, I want to forget about it for now.”

That was easier said than done. I spent the day cleaning the house, having the boys assist me whenever possible, and taking stock of the pantry items we had on hand. I was without an escape from my troubled musings, which put a damper on an already thankless day of chores.

We had almost finished dinner when the doorbell rang. I stiffened in front of the running tap water, a plate suspended in midair. Neil searched my face before going to see who had stopped by, the boys close at his heels.

“Uncle Marty!” I relaxed as the jubilant greeting reached my ears. I dropped the plate in the sink and dried my hands on my jeans right before I was lifted off the ground.

“Hey there, big sis! Boy, you look like shit.”

“Oh, save the woo for your harem, Marty. Where have you been?” I hugged my errant sibling and lectured him at the same time, an art form I’d perfected a decade ago.

As was typical, Marty ignored me. “You didn’t think I’d miss your Thanksgiving dinner, did you? No, even us up-and-coming business tycoons need to relax now and again.”

Neil looked as if a thundercloud had taken possession of his eyebrows. “So what’s the new job, skin diver for Roto-Rooter?”

Neil’s lack of enthusiasm for my brother’s aptitude knows no bounds.

“It’s a surprise. Nice digs you got here, brother-man.” Marty winked at Neil, whose grinding teeth echoed throughout the kitchen.