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

“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 toilet tissue instead.
    The Make-It diet is very simple. The dieter is allowed only five preprocessed items on their menu, such as coffee creamer, five trace amounts of things you personally can’t function without. And for everything else, you have to make it, ingredient by ingredient, the way our grandmothers did. Whatever it is that you want to eat, you have to prepare. No readymade meals or bakery items. If I want a chocolate layer cake, I have to make it—no running out to the 7-11 for a late night hostess cupcake fix. No boxed cake mixes or readymade pie crusts either. No scratch, no dice. I think that’s what I’ll call the diet book.
    The idea behind the Make-It diet is that if you want to eat something badly enough to go through the trouble of preparing it and cleaning up after it, you deserve to have it. There are several kinks in the diet, like what to do when you live in a house with growing boys who always munch on chips and pizza rolls. And what about American staples such as pizza and Chinese food which are only a phone call away? Like I said, I haven’t perfected it yet.
    I called Sylvia and arranged to leave the boys with her at noon. Sylvia teaches an advanced Pilates class on Saturday mornings for people who don’t have enough time during the work week. I didn’t tell her what I had to do, and, bless her soul, she didn’t ask. It was a tossup as to when she discovered what was going on, but I hoped to have a little more information before I had to talk with her about it.
    I took my coffee and sat out on the front steps, letting the early morning mist shroud me from view.
    Who had killed Mrs. Kline? I couldn’t help but wonder if her lover had misdirected his passion for her. Or maybe he had a jealous wife or girlfriend himself, one who was so desperate to be rid of Mrs. Kline that the anonymous woman had killed her. I was sure the police were looking into all of these possibilities, but it didn’t keep me from musing. Of course, musing was all I could do, since I had no idea how to identify the man, other than his pierced heart tattoo. I doubted I could pick him out of a line up, even if all of the suspects were asked to strip. Since that wasn’t going to happen outside of my imagination, I was at a loss.
    Neil was right, I should go in, tell the investigators what little I knew, and put the whole mess behind me. Being nosy has never benefited me in the past. My mind made up, I went inside to shower, only to stop short when the phone rang.
    “Is this Maggie?” a tear-filled voice queried.
    “Speaking. Who is this?”
    “Francesca Carmichael.” A sniffle sounded, and I wondered what I could say to a woman whose sister had been murdered.
    “Francesca, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I finally managed.
    Another sob followed by a short pause. Then, “Maggie, you have to help Doug. I talked to his lawyer, and the police are convinced he’s the one who did this. I’m sorry to ask you, but I need you to go to the police and tell them you know Doug didn’t do this. I’ve tried already, but I’ve been written off as hysterical from grief.”
    I guess no one had told Frannie that I was Doug’s alibi. I debated telling her when she interjected into my thoughts.
    “Maggie, I know my brother-in-law. He’s a good man and he loved my sister more than his own life. He would never hurt her, I’m sure of it.” She inhaled deeply, practically sucking me through the phone. “Maggie,