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

you have to help me; he’s the only family I have left.”
    My heart went out to Francesca Carmichael. I understood what it was like to be virtually alone in the world. I honestly didn’t know if Mr. Kline was capable of murder. He disturbed me on many levels, but my impression of him was not a vengeful man determined to settle the score, but more of a wistfully resigned doormat. I knew that feeling too.
    My biggest problem was the timetable. When exactly had Alessandra been shot? Mr. Kline had asked me to stop by his house around two. Was it possible that my visit was carefully orchestrated to provide him with an alibi? Maybe he’d hired someone to shoot Alessandra, and I was actually helping him get away with murder.
    “Francesca, I’m going to go to the police this afternoon. I’ll do what I can, but I have to tell the truth.” A thought unfurled in my head. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know who we saw with your sister that afternoon, would you?”
    Frannie cleared her throat. “I’m afraid not. I really didn’t get a very good look at his face, if you catch my drift.”
    I smiled, in spite of the horrific situation. “We’re in the same boat then.”
    I said goodbye to Francesca and went to take my shower.

    * * * *
    We arrived at the gym by 11:45, the boys all set for an afternoon at the gym since Sylvia and Eric’s place is in no way kiddie compatible. It never ceases to amaze me the awesome things people can put on display when they don’t have children. Iron and glass end tables, an imported oriental rug, and a painting which definitely wasn’t purchased off of eBay, like the one in my living room. When you have children, you have to live like you have children, hence durable furniture and a Scotch-guarded carpet.
    The boys raced out onto the basketball court, and I stood next to the enormous window which overlooked Sylvia’s Pilates class. Several large women stood in spandex sporting what I like to call the lumpy-bumpy tennis ball butt. Seriously, if you have that much cellulite, wear sweats.
    Seeing so many out-of-shape people made me realize exactly how fit Mrs. Kline’s lover had been. Considering the last decade of my experience with naked men was made up of Neil, Mrs. K’s mystery lover, and the occasional actor’s well-toned backside, I’d forgotten the warrior God build was the exception rather than the rule. So, I couldn’t pick the guy out of a line up, but there was always the tattoo, and he might have a gym membership somewhere.
    I peered in the room with all of the treadmills and orbital machines and examined the male population. Too old, too flabby, too bald, too skinny. Ah, wait!
    There, on the last treadmill on the right, the man was about the right age and build for the mystery lover. His light brown hair shimmered under the track lighting. He had a ribbed crew neck shirt, cut off at the sleeves, and he was in motion so there was no way I could spot the tattoo from my position by the window.
    A thought unfurled. There was a slim-to-none chance that tattoo man was at this gym at this point in time, conveniently waiting to flash his tattoo at me.
    I grimaced. Can we say ‘snowball’s chance in hell’?
    “You look like you’re suffering from sea sickness.”
    I turned. An incredibly handsome guy with a smirk on his face gave me the once over. His longer than average dirty blond hair looked wet, but on closer inspection it was smeared with some gelatinous goop, like he’d spent a great deal of time preparing his gym rat persona. His dark brown eyes seemed small and beady on his finely chiseled face. He was, in fact, chiseled all over, as his emerald green tank top and black spandex shorts quickly advertised. Tall, at least six feet in height, his stance screamed: “Notice me and revel in how irresistible I am.”
    I rubbed my left hand over my eyes, making a point to show off my wedding ring. “I’m waiting for a friend of mine,” I told him.
    If he noticed my ring, he made no indication of it. He stepped closer, invading my personal space with the smell of stale sweat and....
    Cologne?
    Who wears cologne to the gym?
    This guy apparently.
    “I’ve seen you around here before, mostly hanging out. What, you’re not a feel the burn kinda girl?”
    Before I could muster an appropriate retort, the door to the workout room opened and Sylvia’s class poured out. Sylvia, the last out, waved to me and Mr. Macho.
    “That’s my friend,” I mumbled and stepped