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

left it in the bathroom.”
    “ Discreet , Neil. No plant killers or toxic avengers, please.”
    “Ever at your service, milady.”

    * * * *
    I spent most of Monday on the phone. Francesca was more than willing to help when I told her I wanted to expand my cleaning service. I intentionally neglected to mention the subsequent information hunt, since I wanted to be circumspect with my investigation. She told me to come over and ‘do my thing’ on Tuesday night, since she had guests coming in for the holiday. “It’ll be the perfect opportunity for me to talk you up,” she said with enthusiasm.
    “Is your brother-in-law going to be there?”
    “No. The poor dear is so traumatized by what happened to Alessandra, he wanted to be alone. I’m going to go over with some leftovers and grieve with him on Friday. Maybe you could check in on him, Maggie? He’s going to have to fend for himself, especially since the cook quit.”
    For selfish reasons, I was glad I wouldn’t have to face the woman who’d seen me clumsily attempting to comfort Mr. Kline.
    Neil had been burning up the PC keys and emerged from the den, triumphant with a half dozen contact names and numbers he’d unearthed through the network. He assured me that all were available and living in our area. On that score, he was right, but none were interested in cleaning other people’s houses. When I hung up the phone at three-thirty, I was no closer to securing a partner than before.
    “Maybe I should ask Marty to come with me for tomorrow evening’s job,” I suggested when I told Neil about the results.
    “We’re looking for Remington Steele here, not the guy in the red-shirt on Star Trek . What was his name? Oh yeah, Ensign Dead-meat.”
    The phone rang, and I answered on the second ring while managing to roll my eyes at Neil.
    I’ve got mad skills.
    “Mrs. Phillips? This is Josh’s teacher, Ms. Martin.”
    “Hello, Mrs. Martin.” My tone was neutral, but as the silence reigned, I realized exactly what had happened.
    “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Ms. Martin! I forgot about our meeting! Are you still at the school because I can leave right now and I’ll be there in ten minutes, less if I make all the lights. Oh, I am so sorry, really, for wasting your time like this and….”
    I couldn’t stop the verbal diarrhea from bubbling out. Neil made calm down motions with his hands, and I stopped my rant in order to show off my driving finger. He knows I hate to be told, even wordlessly, to calm down.
    “I have to leave now, Mrs. Phillips. I’ll be traveling out of town for the holiday, so we can reschedule our missed meeting for after the vacation. For now, your son’s F for the missed assignment stands.”
    I really didn’t appreciate her huffy tone and I felt awful that poor Josh had to suffer the humiliation of an F because his mother was a spaz. “But—”
    She cut me off. “You can call the administration office and reschedule at your convenience.”
    The receiver clicked in my ear, followed by the dial tone.
    “I guess you have to return that Mother of the Year award, huh?” Marty snarked from the doorway. Neil started toward him, but I got there first and slugged him. The oof sound he made when my fist connected with his gut satisfied my bloodlust, and Neil and I left Marty doubled over in the doorway.

Chapter Eight
    A fitful night and too many thoughts to process had left me strung out by Tuesday morning. My mind was like a washing machine, agitating through potential cleaning partners and had spun out nothing. Life 1, Laundry Hag 0. Neil had offered repeatedly to come and clean with me, and while I knew he would do an excellent job at both the cleaning and the protecting (he was ex-military after all), I didn’t want to leave Marty in charge of the boys at night. My brother may be a great uncle, but he’s my last resort for a baby sitter, right behind Pee Wee Herman and Joseph Stalin.
    Kenny and Josh had a half day at school due to parent-teacher conferences. I had a two-thirty appointment with Kenny’s teacher, but since Ms. Martin had vamoosed to parts unknown, our book report conversation was set up for a week from Thursday. The sinking sensation in my stomach had turned to anger at both my own thoughtlessness and Ernest Hemingway. It’s true—alcoholics hurt more than themselves, even after death.
    I’d taken a toothbrush to the baseboards by the time Marty staggered into the kitchen at eleven-thirty. He poured a mug