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

guests.” A clipped brogue let us know she meant business.
    Oh boy.
    “There are twenty-two suites which need to be prepared as well as the polishing of the silver, and the formal dining room needs dusting. I will personally oversee the common areas and the menu. Follow me; there isn’t a minute to spare.”
    We did as commanded, following Mrs. Smitts’s orthopedic clip-clopping through the downstairs. The formal dining area was impressive, illuminated by a grand chandelier and accented with ivory tapers and silver pots of dried flowers. The dining table could easily seat everyone I had ever met, although the intricate chairs looked none too sturdy. A matching mahogany sideboard held a notable assortment of antique china, and Mrs. Smitts opened the top two drawers to show off the genuine silver.
    “I know exactly what is in each of these drawers, so don’t think for one instant that pilfering will go unnoticed.” She squinted at the two of us before setting a bottle of silver polish and a rag on the old fashioned tea wagon and departing.
    “Boy, what crawled up her butt and died?” Janice blew a bubble and reached for the rag, which I promptly extracted from her hand.
    “Let me do this. Why don’t you go get the Swiffer duster from the van so you can dust the shelving?” I didn’t want a baby deformity due to silver polish fumes on my conscience.
    The teenager popped her bubble and waddled off to do my bidding. I eyed the chairs with a sigh but decided to stand. Nothing can ruin my self-esteem like having a chair buckle under my charms.
    I stood and polished while Janice snapped and popped. I sent her on a second trip to the van when her gum got tangled in the Swiffer. I went with her and retrieved my stepstool so I could dust the chandelier.
    We had almost finished when Mrs. Smitts came to escort us up to the guest quarters. There was one bathroom for every two suites, all of which were larger than my main bathroom. It took us three and a half hours to set up the rooms, mostly because I wouldn’t let Janice anywhere near the cleansers, so after we made the beds, she’d sit and yammer at me while I scrubbed.
    “So then, Teri Kinney was all like ‘he’s gonna leave you,’ and I’m like, ‘no way, he loves me and we’re gonna have this baby together.’ And wouldn’t you know as soon as I told him, he took off. The worst part is that bitch Teri was right.” Snap, crack, pop.
    “Sweetie, I really don’t think that’s the worst part. Do you know anything about babies?”
    “No, but my mom will help. She’s had eight kids. Jeremy used to say that you could always tell when my dad got back from a long away ‘cause there was a baby born nine months later.”
    “It sounds like Jeremy has mastered the obvious.”
    This stumped Janice for a while, and I was left in peace. I mopped and wiped and cleaned windows and mirrors to the best of my ability, all to the accompaniment of snap, crack, pop. I was never buying Rice Krispies again.
    We finished well after midnight and received a grudging nod from Mrs. Smitts.
    “You girls did a fine job. Leave your bill for Ms. Carmichael, and I’ll be sure she gets it.”
    “I’ll mail the bill.” There’s a very small window during the day when I can actually understand math, usually somewhere between 3:59 and 4:01 p.m., and I had to figure out my expenses and Janice’s cut.
    The teenager fell asleep on the drive home. I fiddled with the radio stations, looking for something that wasn’t guaranteed to put me to sleep. Where is Enter Sandman when you need it? I guess I could put a CD player in the White Cloud of Death, but I figure if you’re going to drive a piece of shit, there’s no sense putting on airs.
    A particularly tricky turn found both hands on the wheel, and I braked to a stop as the announcer on WROR out of Framingham grabbed my full attention.
    “The annual Thanksgiving Day charity dinner hosted by local resident Francesca Carmichael is gaining even more attention than usual this year. Mrs. Carmichael has hosted the fund-raising holiday dinner for the past decade, ever since the death of her husband, Lewis Carmichael the second, and it has become a local tradition for the privileged among us. The proceeds from the dinner benefit local charities, such as Habitat for Humanity and the United Way. Mrs. Carmichael has announced that this year’s contributions will be given in the name of her sister, Alessandra Kline, who was found brutally