The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Skeletons in the Closet

two minutes past nine. I opened my mouth to respond but I closed it. I’d be damned if I’d dragged all this stuff up here and then had to turn around and drag it home without using it. I still had a shred or two of pride, so I wasn’t about to apologize either.
    Mrs. Kline didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by my silence. She turned to the work island, and I had to tamp down my kitchen envy. I hadn’t seen this room on my last visit and I stared in awe at the marble countertops and stainless steel appliances. It was, in a word, mag-frigging-nificent.
    But it could definitely use a good cleaning.
    A ring of grime marred the sink, and an assortment of crumbs loitered under the maple cabinets. The floor appeared relatively decent, but I knew how to make it shine.
    “I see you’ve brought your own materials,” Mrs. Kline said, waving a hand at my stockpile. “For now, I’d like you to clean the kitchen, the bathrooms, and the laundry room. We’re in between cooks at the moment, so you’ll be alone. My husband’s office is strictly off limits, and our housekeeper takes care of the bedrooms and living areas. I have a few errands to run, so lock up behind yourself when you’ve finished and leave your bill on the counter.”
    My bill?
    “Um, Mrs. Kline, I know we haven’t discussed my fee but—”
    Alessandra cut me off. “Do a decent job, and I’ll pay whatever you feel is adequate. I have quite a few acquaintances who I will gladly recommend you to if I’m sufficiently impressed.” She spun on her heel and marched toward the front of the house.
    Well that was demeaning. Alessandra Kline definitely had a knack for putting people in their place. I guess I was supposed to feel grateful at the offer of more cleaning jobs that I didn’t want, but I’d left my enthusiasm in the White Cloud of Death.
    I set to work scrubbing and disinfecting the sink and countertops. I used rubber gloves to clean out the oven and wipe down the appliances until they shone. I could almost hear Mrs. Kline’s voice: I want to see my face in the oven. For once, I agreed with her. I’d like to see her face in the oven too, preferably with the temperature set on broil.
    I found a scummy mop in the pantry closet but the grimy thing would do more harm than good, so I broke out a rag and polished the hardwood floor. I hummed to myself while I worked, because despite the lunacy of it, I enjoy cleaning. The feeling of accomplishment, of seeing a room gleam in invitation and the knowledge that I had made it so, was always worth the elbow grease. Plus, cleaning only requires a quarter of my attention, so my mind will often wander in other directions.
    I imagined my husband naked on a beach, beckoning me with a Margarita and a smile. The citrus smell of disinfectant added to my tropical fantasy. Warm sun, hot man, oh yeah.
    Now this is where my mind belonged, in the gutter right outside La-la land.
    I moved onto the laundry room and scrubbed around the outline of the washer and dryer. Most people don’t realize how bad it can get under there until they move. I’ve helped many military families prepare to sell so I know all the tricks. I thought about Neil’s declaration that he liked the Laundry Hag title and decided I did too. He was right, it was definitely memorable.
    The Kline’s house had four bathrooms. One downstairs powder room—in pretty good shape in spite of the rose wallpaper and repugnant air freshener—two upstairs bathrooms that required some serious hands and knees scrubbing, and that awesome master bathroom, which needed the shower doors and mirrors cleaned in the worst way.
    I worked diligently as if cleaning my own bathroom in preparation for the in-laws’ arrival. I would have to do that over the weekend as well as call my wayward brother and invite him to Thanksgiving dinner. Marty was sometimes hard to reach, since he made a habit of moving wherever the wind blew him. He’d had a cell phone for a while, but it was lost in the tide of the Hudson River, in what I can only imagine was an act of drunken brilliance.
    I checked my phone for the tenth time, half hoping Kenny and Josh would call to let me know they’d made it to school without incident. I had to call the school as soon as I made it home and set up an appointment with Josh’s teacher to discuss the Hemingway debacle. I felt sure I could convince the woman to let him make up the assignment.
    With that thought in my head, I scanned the master