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

hope.
    Greer shuffled down the dreary hall and ushered us into an equally dismal office. The wood paneling looked ancient and actually pulled away from the wall to reveal the sheetrock beneath in some spots. The fireplace wasn’t lit, and the room was cold. Since I wasn’t the eye candy, I kept my jacket on and waited for Sylvia to lure him in even further.
    Sylvia took a seat across from Greer’s particle board desk. “Mr. Greer, I got your name from a mutual friend—”
    “Who?” Len demanded. Cagey little bugger, suspicious from the word go.
    Sylvia smiled a little vacantly. “Douglass Kline. You see, he was very happy with your work, and since I need extreme discretion….”
    As Sylvia rambled on about her fictitious cheating husband and the need for concrete proof in order to ensure a favorable divorce settlement, I watched the smarmy little troll. He alternated his attention between Sylvia’s face and her legs, which she crossed and uncrossed in a semaphore-like pattern.
    He hadn’t blinked when she’d mentioned Kline’s name, so it was possible he was unaware of Gym Rat’s demise. Either that or he didn’t care.
    “Doug was so grateful to you, for all that you found out for him. He told me all about it.” Sylvia quirked her lips enticingly, and Greer started to sweat.
    He cleared his throat and reached to loosen a nonexistent tie. “Well, the Kline case has brought me a great deal of publicity,” the little toad bragged.
    I knew my guess had been correct—he was the media leak.
    “Such a horrible tragedy. Other than that one indiscretion, the Kline’s had such a loving marriage,” said Sylvia.
    Greer snorted. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same people? Doug’s touched in the head, and Alessandra would screw any man with a pulse.”
    Sylvia’s hand fluttered to her mouth. “You don’t say!”
    He stood and retrieved a file from a metal cabinet. “Lookie here. This affair she had going on with that Miller guy, it was only two weeks old when Kline hired me. Before that, she’d been banging his friend Jason Macgregor.”
    It was a very good thing that Len Greer had forgotten about me because my mouth hit the floor. No. Fricking. Way.
    “Of course, I never told old Douggie about that. He’s delusional, you know. He thinks his wife was some sort of angel incarnate, instead of your typical rich bitch with an itch. By the time I was put on the case, Macgregor had moved onto greener pastures and is now happily shacked up with Francesca Carmichael.”
    And the hits just kept on coming.
    “Do you always backtrack your client’s affairs?” Sylvia asked.
    “Well, that was a special case because of the murder and all. I did an extensive background check on her, traced her indiscretions all the way back to her college days, when she’d been seriously involved with another Ivy League student. They were going to marry, but he was poor, and she passed the sucker over for Doug. Her sister picked up the slack then too.”
    Sylvia sat wide-eyed, and I knew her well enough to get that her shock wasn’t all an act. “Who do you think killed her?”
    “Well, don’t quote me on this, but my money’s on Francesca. I mean, a beautiful girl like that always picking up her sister’s leftovers? There’s definitely something strange there. Of course, Macgregor might be bitter too.”
    Sylvia managed to keep it together long enough to ask Len Greer about his rates and tell him she’d be in touch. We scurried like mice out to the waiting vehicle, and I yanked out my cell phone with barely a thought to the massive coverage charges I was going to have to pay this month.
    “Yes, Detective Patterson, please. This is Maggie Phillips. Let him know I found out a few things about the Kline case.”

Chapter Fourteen
    S ince I’d ferreted out a bit of useful information, I was on top of the world. I didn’t want to think that I’d so misjudged Francesca; she’d seemed like such a compassionate and genuinely likeable person, while her sister had suffered from an acute case of bipolar disorder. But it was always the unassuming and likeable people with skeletons in their closets. As Sylvia’s husband Eric said, “No one suspects the butterfly.”
    I had yet to hear back from Detective Patterson, although I’d left a detailed message on his cell phone. Detective Capri called, wanting to go over my statement. While telling her all that I knew for the umpteenth time was less excruciating over