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

spritzing the mirror, I walked across the hall. After discovering a chintzy sitting room with a fabulous stone fireplace and a sewing nook that sported a collection of dust bunnies the size of my head, I located a den.
    For once, rumor had been correct. Mr. Finkelstein possessed an extensive gun collection. I gave myself a slap on the head for bringing Marty instead of Neil to this cleaning job. My husband would have known a great deal more about the variety of guns mounted on three out of four walls. Glass encased the collection, and though I couldn’t be sure, I thought the guns might be sorted according to era. Several rifles mounted around what looked to be a Tommy gun, as well as a variety of six-shooters that resembled props for a western film.
    Okay, Maggie, think. You have a viable suspect and your next move is to….
    “Call Detective Patterson,” I said. My phone made a bulge in my hip pocket, and wonder of wonders, was still fully charged.
    Patterson answered on the first ring, and I briefly summarized my discovery.
    “Do you have picture phone capability?” he asked.
    “Who doesn’t?”
    “Please take a picture of all of the rifles and send them to me.” He hung up, and I did as he asked—didn’t even wince when I thought about what my cell phone bill would amount to this month. If I caught a killer and freed Mr. Kline, it’d be worth every dime of overtime charges.
    I’d finished Swiffering the hardwood floor in the sitting room when Patterson called me back.
    “I want you to leave the house now and go sit in your car. Wait for me; I’m en route now.”
    “You found something!” I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice. This could be over soon.
    “Just do as I say, Maggie. Get out of the house and sit in your car.”
    “Marty!” I shouted up the stairs. My brother wandered down with a turkey leg in his hand. “Come on.”
    I dragged him out to the car and filled him in on what I’d found.
    “So Patterson thinks this could be the guy?”
    “I don’t know. He said he had to call the Hudson precinct since Greg the Gym Rat died in their jurisdiction, but he’s on his way.”
    The words were barely out of my mouth when Patterson pulled up next to Marty’s Chevy.
    “Has anyone come home yet?”
    When I told him no, he informed me that I had to invite him into the house. “Otherwise, the Finkelstein’s lawyer will be able to throw out any case we make based on unlawful entry. Detective Capri is going through the process to get a warrant right now.”
    “Shouldn’t you wait?”
    “Yes, I probably should, but I want to see it with my own eyes.” The eyes in question were overly bright, and he practically danced in anticipation.
    “Marty, go home and pick up Neil. He’ll want to know what’s going on.”
    My brother burned rubber, probably to get away from the unusual feeling of being useful.
    I retrieved the key from under the door mat, and Patterson followed me into the house. The air around him practically crackled with barely contained vigor.
    “In here.” I held open the door to the study, a small alarm clanging in the back of my head. I attributed it to the fact that I hadn’t eaten in over eighteen hours, but still. Patterson walked to the far wall and reached for the glass case.
    “This is it, the M1903 Bushmaster carbine rifle. It was designed with a shorter barrel and stock for use in Panama, but never saw field action. After the close of the Second World War, most of these guns were dumped in the sea. Only 4,725 were ever made, and surviving pieces are extremely rare. I would feel confident in stating that this is the only gun of its kind in the state.”
    “Truly fascinating.” I strove for nonchalance but couldn’t ditch the feeling I shouldn’t be here, and my voice quavered. “Don’t you think we should go back outside until Detective Capri gets here with the warrant?”
    “You have been the biggest pain in my ass, do you know that?” Patterson spoke in such an even tone that I thought I’d misheard him. I reached for his shoulder only to have him whirl on me. I saw the gun in his hand and burst out laughing.
    “What the hell is this?” I gasped between giggles.
    “Your old man didn’t laugh when I held this gun on him last night. He had a heart attack and keeled right over into your van.”
    That dried my laughter up quickly. “What are you talking about?” Even as I spoke the words, I knew. He’d killed them. Mrs. Kline, Greg the Gym