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

hand to Sam and the other two men. Introductions, brief and to the point. The tall, lanky man in his late thirties introduced himself as Jason Macgregor, attorney at law and a friend of Doug’s. The shorter, heavyset man with the bald spot appeared roughly the same age and vaguely familiar, but when he introduced himself as Kevin Bartley, I drew a blank. I guess he just had one of those faces.
    “I was wondering when you’d get here.”
    I turned around to see my friend and next door neighbor, Sylvia Wright, had joined the congregation on the front porch. A tall, strawberry blonde in her early forties, Sylvia looked ten years younger. Her hair was done up in an elegant twist, and her sea-green dress clung like a second skin. It made me wish I’d bypassed seconds on the lasagna at dinner. A perpetual flower child, Sylvia taught yoga at the local gym, but I liked her anyway.
    “Hey, Sylvie, what’s shaking?”
    “Not much. Did you just get here?”
    I waved my hand in a vague gesture. “You know, the kids.”
    “Have you met our hosts yet?”
    I shook my head, and Sylvia linked her arm through mine and led me into the house. I shot a look over my shoulder at Neil, who remained in a deep discussion with the porch squatters over the game they were missing. I suspected Neil wasn’t the only one with the DVR running.
    Kenny and Josh abandoned the Chatty Cathys on the porch and bee-lined for the refreshment table. I called out one last warning for them to behave before focusing on the crowd, picking up on several snippets of football related banter.
    “Someone should tell our hosts that they should have elected another night for their soirée. Haven’t they received the memo on Monday night football?” I whispered to Sylvia.
    “They’ll learn soon enough, especially with New England in a top position this season,” she whispered back. “The only reason for such a good turn out this time is because everyone was curious.”
    I took in the swarming foyer and agreed with Sylvia’s assessment. The place was packed, more than half of the faces new to me. We entered the drawing room on the right. Tasteful furniture, high end bric-a-brac, and a quality Oriental rug on the floor. I felt fairly certain I wouldn’t be running into Mrs. Kline during my garage sale scavenger hunts.
    Sylvia stopped to get her bearings and looked around. Since she had a good two inches on me, even with heels, I was hopelessly lost.
    A mountain of a blond man approached us. “What brings two fine women like you to a shindig like this?”
    Sylvia swatted him playfully on the arm. “Knock it off, Eric. Do you see our hosts?”
    Eric grinned down at his wife. The two of them together reminded me of a bride and groom on a Norwegian wedding cake. Tall, fair, and perfectly sculpted.
    “I haven’t seen them recently, but I thought they were giving a tour to a group of newcomers.”
    “Oh, perfect! We can snoop with the excuse that we’re trying to catch up with the tour.”
    I shook my head at Sylvia’s enthusiasm, but inside I was just as excited at the prospect. It wasn’t every day I had the chance to explore a mansion.

    * * * *
    Sylvia and I peeped into three of the upstairs rooms and found an unoccupied guest room, a room filled with boxes, and the master suite. Tastefully done in earth tones, the room’s color scheme matched the adjoining bathroom perfectly. My heels clicked on the heated marble floor, and I enviously eyeballed the warming towel racks. The jetted tub was larger than my kitchen.
    “Would you look at this?” Sylvia exclaimed as she scanned the bathroom. “There’s a chandelier in the bathroom, for crying out loud!”
    I gazed at the fixture in question and silently admitted it seemed a bit excessive. What else could be expected from people who hosted a Monday night soirée?
    We peered in the medicine cabinets (hey, if you’re going to snoop, you might as well go the whole hog), but found nothing of interest. Typical hodgepodge of makeup, cough syrup, Band-aids, and antibacterial ointment as well as antidepressants prescribed to Alessandra Kline. She probably shot them back with a vodka martini while lying on a chaise ogling the shirtless pool man. No wait, that’s my fantasy. We shut the bathroom door and exited the master suite. Still no sign of the tour group, thank goodness.
    “Well what do you think?” I asked Sylvia.
    “I’m glad I don’t have to clean this place,” Sylvia said. She walked to the