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

process.
    “Mr. Kline was taken into police custody at fifteen-thirty hours. He claims you are his alibi.”
    “What? I don’t understand. What about Marty?”
    “Marty?” The men exchanged another one of those looks.
    “Maggie, I don’t think they’re here about your brother.” Neil spelled it out for me. I sagged against him in relief. Marty wasn’t hurt or in jail. It was only then that the rest of the officer’s statement registered.
    “Mr. Kline’s alibi? What does he need an alibi for?”
    The stocky officer cleared his throat. “The murder of his wife.”

Chapter Five
    S aturday morning arrived, frigid and glumly overcast. I donned a shapeless cobalt dress which Neil detests but gives me a feeling of comfort. I didn’t bother with makeup and after I twirled my hair into a fat bun, I walked down to the bottom of the driveway to collect the newspaper. I left the paper on the kitchen counter and started the coffee. Kenny and Josh wouldn’t be up for several hours yet, boys in training for the adolescent sleep patterns. I looked out at the gray morning and tried not to think about the night before.
    It didn’t work.
    The police officers had stayed for over an hour, questioning my whereabouts and my relationship with Mr. Kline. I’d protested that I didn’t have a relationship with Douglass Kline, informed them that I’d only spoken with him twice. The older officer asked me to come by the station after lunch today so I could speak with the chief investigator. I reluctantly 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.