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

around him. I’d barely reached Sylvia’s side when I noticed my greasy shadow.
    Sylvia readjusted her ponytail and smiled at me. “Hey, Maggie, I’m going to take a quick shower, and then I’ll take the boys off your hands.” She looked at my steroid-induced follower. “I see you’ve met Greg. He’s one of our most faithful clients.”
    Greg tipped an imaginary hat at me. “Greg Miller, at your service.”
    I gave Greg a brief nod and turned back to Sylvia. “I’ll be on the basketball court with the boys.” I had to get away from the goopy gym rat.
    But this guy couldn’t take a hint. He dogged my steps all the way to the bleachers that ran along the side of the gymnasium. I sat down, and he perched his knee on the next bench. I stared straight ahead, afraid I’d catch a glimpse of Mr. Happy.
    “Your kids look exactly like you.”
    I snorted. I should probably mention here that I’m flirting impaired. I never had the opportunity as a teenager to exercise my feminine wiles and I didn’t develop a knack for it as an adult. This is one shortcoming I can live with, because I found Neil, and he enjoys my candor. I don’t flirt, but I do recognize when someone is coming on to me.
    “Look,” I said to Greg the Greasy Gym Rat, “I’m married and I’m so not interested, it’s embarrassing. For you. I don’t mean to be rude, but you should probably move on to greener pastures.”
    Greg lowered his leg and held his palms out in front of him. “Peace. I saw you checking out other guys and assumed you were looking for a fling, but I guess we’re really not compatible. Hey, it’s like the lottery, you know? If you don’t play you can’t win.”
    I shot him my most withering smile and was ready to let out a sigh of relief when I saw it.
    The freaking tattoo.
    Oh, my dear sweet Lord in Heaven! I had discovered the identity of Mrs. Kline’s lover! I now knew how Lois Lane felt when she saw beyond Clark Kent’s glasses and bumbling. I fidgeted with my wedding ring, my mind leaping ahead to the significance of this find. I have to tell someone! I jumped up and almost knocked Sylvia down in my haste.
    “I have to go! I’ll be by to pick them up later!”
    I was already around the corner as I heard Sylvia shout, “You’re welcome.”

    * * * *
    I’d never been inside a police station before. I’d pictured a dirty, grime-riddled building filled with the seamier side of humanity. In truth, the Boston precinct, which held jurisdiction over the Kline murder, was a clean but cluttered office building where uniformed patrolmen and smartly dressed detectives went about the business of upholding the law in a very civilized manner. No doped-up degenerates screaming profanity, no grisly interrogation rooms where suspects were browbeaten into confessing the truth. I was a little disappointed.
    I identified myself to the woman at the front desk. She directed me to the third office beyond the water cooler. No name plate graced the door, and file folders, maps, and a PC that had seen better days back in the eighties filled the room.
    My excitement refused to take a seat, and I tapped my foot and watched the wall clock tick. For twenty minutes, I shifted my weight and sighed. Had something happened? Maybe I’d been forgotten. I poked my head out into the hallway and came face to chest with Detective Bradley Patterson.
    To say he was a big man was a serious understatement. He was at least six-four and built like a linebacker to boot. An attractive man in his late forties. I took in his smooth mocha skin and eyes so dark that it was impossible to distinguish between pupil and iris. I swallowed and stepped back, allowing the large African American man into the office. He held two cups of coffee, offered one to me, and shut the door before seating himself behind the sturdy desk.
    “I apologize for my tardiness. I was unavoidably detained.”
    I waved his words off and opened my mouth to tell all, but he spoke over me.
    “I want to know everything about your interaction with Mr. and Mrs. Kline. I’m particularly interested in your relationship with Douglass Kline. How long have you been involved with him?”
    I blinked. “I’m not involved with him. His wife hired me to clean their house, which I only did once.”
    Detective Patterson glanced down at a clipboard that rested on a mountain of files. “That was last Thursday, correct?”
    I nodded, ready to move this discussion along, but he beat me to it