Read Online The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Skeletons in the Closet by Jennifer L. Hart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer L. Hart
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agreed. The thought of more of those probing questions made me shudder.
“Uh oh,” Neil said from the doorway. “You’re wearing the muumuu, that’s never a good sign.”
“It’s not a muumuu,” I protested, but my heart wasn’t in it.
“Everything will be all right, Uncle Scrooge.” Neil draped an arm around my waist and kissed the top of my head. “Do you want me to come with you to the precinct?”
I did, but I didn’t want him to miss work for something so ridiculous. Neil was saving his scant few vacation days for the holidays, which he’d missed way too many of during his tenure with the SEAL teams.
“I’ll be fine. I’m going to ask Sylvie to watch the boys. I don’t want them to know about all this.”
Neil released me and unfolded the newspaper. “Um, Maggie, I don’t think we’re going to be able to keep it from them.”
I looked at the front page headline. SOCIALITE MURDERED: JEALOUS HUSBAND IS PRIME SUSPECT . Under the headline there were two pictures, one of Alessandra Kline with a benevolent smile, an expression which didn’t reach her eyes, and a gold turban wrapped around her head. The other photo was of a man being led into the police station, his face turned away from the camera. I could only assume that was Mr. Kline.
I grabbed the paper from Neil and read.
Alessandra Kline, wife of business mogul Douglass Prescott Kline, was found inside her car which was parked in a parking garage in downtown Boston yesterday afternoon. Mrs. Kline was pronounced DOA by the paramedics; cause of death presumed to be several gunshot wounds fired at close range. It did not take investigators long to confront Douglass Kline, who admitted in a brief statement via his legal council that his wife had been having an affair.
“My client knew of his wife’s infidelity, but was at no time of a mind to end her life. My client has an alibi who will state that he was at his home in Hudson at the time of Mrs. Kline’s death.”
No information has been released about Mrs. Kline’s lover or Mr. Kline’s alibi.
Mrs. Kline was forty-seven years old.
The paper went on to list Doug’s business successes and Alessandra’s charity work. I swayed slightly, and Neil reached a hand out to steady me.
“They’re making it seem so sordid, using alibi in the same sentence as lover.”
Neil shook his head, his voice laced with disgust. “Sensationalism sells. I guess this close to a major metropolis a dead society wife isn’t enough, so they have to cast innuendo into the mix.”
“Yeah, but Neil, that innuendo is about me!” I said, my voice getting louder. Neil made shushing noises, which only fueled my aggravation. I hate it when someone tells me to shush or calm down—it always has the opposite effect. “I bet the cook had something to do with this!” I virtually shouted.
“Ms. Scarlet, in the conservatory, with the revolver.” Neil, being Neil, knows how to deal with my high drama. “Maggie, I know this is a pain in the ass, but really, what can we do? You’ll go down to the police station, explain to them what happened again and again until they tell you that you can leave, and we’ll take it from there.”
Why is it that I so often feel like the craziest person in the room? I guess I usually am, but it’s definitely a frustrating feeling.
Neil poured himself a to-go mug of coffee, kissed my forehead, and headed out the front door. I stood on tiptoes and craned my neck to see if a bevy of reporters had camped out on our front lawn, but all I saw was Sam Cavanaugh walking his Great Dane, Sampson, in the early morning light.
I fixed a mug of coffee and added my French vanilla coffee creamer, one of my five allotted guilty pleasures. I have, for almost six months now, been on the Make-It diet. This is a diet of my own creation, and once I perfect it, I’ll be the next Atkins or South Beach guy. Then I can finally stop shopping at Wal-Mart. I’ll send someone else to buy the cheap
“Uh oh,” Neil said from the doorway. “You’re wearing the muumuu, that’s never a good sign.”
“It’s not a muumuu,” I protested, but my heart wasn’t in it.
“Everything will be all right, Uncle Scrooge.” Neil draped an arm around my waist and kissed the top of my head. “Do you want me to come with you to the precinct?”
I did, but I didn’t want him to miss work for something so ridiculous. Neil was saving his scant few vacation days for the holidays, which he’d missed way too many of during his tenure with the SEAL teams.
“I’ll be fine. I’m going to ask Sylvie to watch the boys. I don’t want them to know about all this.”
Neil released me and unfolded the newspaper. “Um, Maggie, I don’t think we’re going to be able to keep it from them.”
I looked at the front page headline. SOCIALITE MURDERED: JEALOUS HUSBAND IS PRIME SUSPECT . Under the headline there were two pictures, one of Alessandra Kline with a benevolent smile, an expression which didn’t reach her eyes, and a gold turban wrapped around her head. The other photo was of a man being led into the police station, his face turned away from the camera. I could only assume that was Mr. Kline.
I grabbed the paper from Neil and read.
Alessandra Kline, wife of business mogul Douglass Prescott Kline, was found inside her car which was parked in a parking garage in downtown Boston yesterday afternoon. Mrs. Kline was pronounced DOA by the paramedics; cause of death presumed to be several gunshot wounds fired at close range. It did not take investigators long to confront Douglass Kline, who admitted in a brief statement via his legal council that his wife had been having an affair.
“My client knew of his wife’s infidelity, but was at no time of a mind to end her life. My client has an alibi who will state that he was at his home in Hudson at the time of Mrs. Kline’s death.”
No information has been released about Mrs. Kline’s lover or Mr. Kline’s alibi.
Mrs. Kline was forty-seven years old.
The paper went on to list Doug’s business successes and Alessandra’s charity work. I swayed slightly, and Neil reached a hand out to steady me.
“They’re making it seem so sordid, using alibi in the same sentence as lover.”
Neil shook his head, his voice laced with disgust. “Sensationalism sells. I guess this close to a major metropolis a dead society wife isn’t enough, so they have to cast innuendo into the mix.”
“Yeah, but Neil, that innuendo is about me!” I said, my voice getting louder. Neil made shushing noises, which only fueled my aggravation. I hate it when someone tells me to shush or calm down—it always has the opposite effect. “I bet the cook had something to do with this!” I virtually shouted.
“Ms. Scarlet, in the conservatory, with the revolver.” Neil, being Neil, knows how to deal with my high drama. “Maggie, I know this is a pain in the ass, but really, what can we do? You’ll go down to the police station, explain to them what happened again and again until they tell you that you can leave, and we’ll take it from there.”
Why is it that I so often feel like the craziest person in the room? I guess I usually am, but it’s definitely a frustrating feeling.
Neil poured himself a to-go mug of coffee, kissed my forehead, and headed out the front door. I stood on tiptoes and craned my neck to see if a bevy of reporters had camped out on our front lawn, but all I saw was Sam Cavanaugh walking his Great Dane, Sampson, in the early morning light.
I fixed a mug of coffee and added my French vanilla coffee creamer, one of my five allotted guilty pleasures. I have, for almost six months now, been on the Make-It diet. This is a diet of my own creation, and once I perfect it, I’ll be the next Atkins or South Beach guy. Then I can finally stop shopping at Wal-Mart. I’ll send someone else to buy the cheap
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