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

next door and jiggled the knob. “It’s locked. I bet all the good stuff is in here.”
    “Just what is the good stuff, Sylvie?”
    “You know, whips, chains, dismembered body parts. Haven’t you ever read a mystery novel?”
    I had, but I didn’t think we’d find any of that in the Kline residence. More accurately, I hoped we wouldn’t, because I had no idea what I would do in case of such a discovery. There are certain things you really don’t want to know about the people in your neighborhood, Mr. Rogers aside.
    “What are they like, Sylvie?” I asked, hoping for something to refute the American Psycho images flip booking in my head.
    “Old money, definitely old money.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    Sylvia tapped her finger against her cheek. “Just a vibe I get. The wife seems pleasant enough, even if her nose is perpetually up in the air. But the husband, well, I only had a glimpse of him. They have that ‘I’m above all this’ aura, you know?”
    I really didn’t. Sylvia was an expert when it came to things like aura and cosmic vibrations, but I remained too firmly planted in reality, worrying about making credit card payments and such.
    Sylvia gave the door handle one last jiggle and grunted in frustration. “I guess we aren’t destined to discover what’s behind door number four.”
    “You might ask me to unlock it,” a deep male tenor broke in.
    We both jumped.
    “Oh, Mr. Kline!” Sylvia smiled and composed herself, while I wondered if I could force my heart to start up again.
    Our host was average height with thick salt-and-pepper hair and a push-broom gray mustache. Amusement lit his extremely pale blue eyes set in a deeply tanned face that would put George Hamilton to shame. “We had heard mention of a tour and we were looking for you and your wife—”
    Mr. Kline raised a hand and smirked at Sylvia. “No need for explanations, my dear. Curiosity is very natural. Speaking of which….” He gave a pointed glance my way.
    “Oh, forgive me, Mr. Kline,” Sylvia said, waving a hand in my general direction. “This is my friend and neighbor, Maggie Phillips. Maggie, this is Mr. Douglass Kline.”
    Mr. Kline extended a hand to me, and I shook it. “Please, I insist you call me Doug. Maggie Phillips, you say? Any relation to Ralph and Laura Phillips?”
    “They’re my in-laws,” I told him.
    “Ah, well, you have my sympathies, my dear.” He smiled at what must have been a bemused expression on my face. “I had the misfortune of crossing your father-in-law in court a few years back, and well, let’s just say his reputation is well deserved.”
    Ralph Phillips was reputed to be a barracuda in piranha’s clothing. He’d put several large companies out of business in the years I’d been married to Neil and he loved to regale us with stories of what a large chunk he took out of each adversary. I figured Mr. Kline had been fortunate he hadn’t met up with my mother-in-law instead. At least this way he still had both his testes.
    “I guess we should make an effort to find the rest of the tour,” Sylvia said.
    Mr. Kline—Doug as he insisted we call him—smiled and extracted a ring of keys from his pocket. “You ladies wouldn’t want to run off before you satisfy your curiosity.” The twist of his lips appeared more dark and frightening than amused, and I gulped as I remembered the old adage about curiosity killing the cat.
    “Really, it’s fine,” I said, but he held open the door, and my feet propelled me forward, Sylvia a beat behind me. Apparently, the cats were too dumb to live.
    Sylvia stepped through the doorway first, her blonde hair shimmering in the artificial light from a few bright wall sconces. A large oak desk stood sentinel in front of an enormous bay window. Moonlight poured in and cast eerie shadows over the stone flooring. That’s where normality ended.
    The room would have been perfectly set in a feudal castle, complete with a giant stone fireplace and a bearskin rug draped on the stone hearth. Sylvia gulped. She’d noted the head was still attached. Sylvia is a vegan as well as an animal rights activist, and I understood it took a great deal of self-restraint to hold back the tirade on cruelty to animals. My attention remained fixed on cruelty of another sort.
    “Is that an Iron Maiden?” I wasn’t referring to a member of the notorious British metal band.
    Doug stepped toward the object in question and opened one of the wardrobe-like doors,