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

Patterson’s theory and sent him back to square one. His attitude still bothered me, but so did a great deal of other things.
    I started the stew and called the boys to come and finish their weekend homework. They did a good amount of grumbling but complied. Neil called me to say he wouldn’t make it home for dinner but he’d be there as soon as possible.
    “There’s a screw up in production, and I’d rather fix it tonight than have to come in tomorrow.”
    I fed the boys, and Neil sauntered in shortly after nine. It’s hard to tell when Neil is tired, since he never shows outward signs of fatigue, but I could guess all was not quite right in Who-ville.
    “You want to talk about it?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “Later. Tomorrow. All I want to do now is eat and chill out.”
    We chilled out until well after eleven. Neil fell asleep on the couch watching Fox News, and I sent him off to bed. I couldn’t sleep. I wandered into the kitchen and looked in the fridge, then closed it when I realized the answers weren’t in there.
    Sylvia is a night owl, so I knew she’d be up. After a brief greeting, I let her in on current events.
    “My God! And you saw Greg from the gym with Mrs. Kline? Are you sure it was him?”
    “The tattoo was exactly the same, and in the same place.”
    “Maybe he was blackmailing her? Maybe he threatened to tell Mr. Kline about them if she didn’t pay him. She might have refused, and he got so mad he killed her.”
    “Sylvia, you were his number one fan this morning.”
    “No I wasn’t. He’s always at the gym at odd hours, like he doesn’t have a real job. I bet he’s a gigolo, always hunting for a new paramour.”
    Well that would certainly explain why he came onto me. It wasn’t that he’d missed my wedding ring; he’d noticed and targeted me because I looked like a bored housewife.
    “We should check him out,” Sylvia said.
    “What do you mean, check him out?”
    “You know, go over to his house and see what his deal is.”
    A chill gripped me. “What if he’s the killer and he finds us?”
    “I’ll bring my cell phone; we can call 911 as soon as we see something, and the cops can take it from there.”
    I was half enthralled and half terrified. “Sylvie….”
    “Wear dark clothes and running shoes. I’ll be by to pick you up in ten minutes.”
    The receiver clicked in my ear.

Chapter Six
    I didn’t want to disturb Neil by going in the bedroom for some stalking ( investigating! ) clothes, so I pulled a pair of dark blue jeans and a black sweater out of the laundry basket. It wasn’t until the pants were almost buttoned that I realized they weren’t mine. It took several deep breaths to keep me from crying. After all, it isn’t every day a woman finds out her husband wears a smaller size pants than she does.
The pants were too long and felt funny in the crotch, but it was the best I could do. Black combat boots—brand spanking new since I never needed anything like them in Virginia—completed my ensemble and gave me a place for the extra denim.
    I hunted through the coat closet for something both warm and inconspicuous and came up with Josh’s dark blue ski jacket. Once again, the zipper wasn’t having any of me, and I looked in the bathroom mirror to see how bad the effect was.
    Big. Fat. Dork.
    I pulled on a ski cap and debated writing a note in case Neil got up, but really, what could I say? Hey sweetie, I’m off with Sylvie, checking out a potential murder suspect. Could you defrost a steak when you get up?
    Yeah, that would go over like a fart in church.
    I left the house.
    Sylvia pulled up in her husband’s black pickup truck, and I ran down the driveway and climbed in the cab. Sylvia had donned skintight leather pants, black biker boots complete with chains, and a black corset-style top which left her arms bare. A black leather jacket lay on the seat next to her. She looked like the floor show at a biker bar.
    And I looked like the fat kid making off with the Salvation Army’s newest inventory.
    Nope, no one was going to notice us.
    “Do you know where Greg lives?” I asked.
    Sylvia put the truck in gear. “I checked the phone book, and he wasn’t listed, so I looked him up in the gym’s database. He listed an address that’s halfway between Hudson and the Boston city limits.”
    Gloria Gaynor came on the radio, and we both sang along.
    “ I will survive . As long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive. I’ve got all my