The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Swept Under the Rug

was up with my poor, unemployed and soon-to-be-divorced friend. But I shelved the urge, knowing I had something else to do first.
    “About before, Penny—”
    “Nothin’ doin’,” Penny turned and peeked into the oven checking on her casserole. “Do your boys like tuna? I made a tuna-noodle dish.”
    “They’ll eat anything.” I answered, and then tagged on, “Unless it’s Vegan fare.”
    Penny closed the oven door and scowled at me. “What about you?”
    Truthfully, I loathed fish in any form and the smell of baking tuna had my gag reflex acting up. I’d eat it though, along with a slice of humble pie.
    “I appreciate your cooking for us; you don’t need to put yourself out like this.”
    Penny didn’t say anything, just stared at the linoleum. “Not a problem. I like to cook, especially for people who like to eat.”
    Her statement explained a great deal about her relationship with Marty. The Sampson siblings loved to eat, as our mother had been a blue-ribbon winner in any baking contest she’d ever entered. Food equaled love through our formative years. “Have you ever worked in food service?” I asked her.
    “No,” Penny answered, and turned around so suddenly I knew she was lying.
    “Ok-ay,” I dragged the word out, grasping for something else to say to her. The situation was beyond uncomfortable and I wanted to kick my brother for tossing it in my lap. Stupid, selfish, thoughtless Marty and stupid, selfish, doormat, Maggie. The Sampson progeny had more than a love of food in common. “Well, I’m going over to Sylvia’s for a bit. Send one of the boys over if you need anything.”
    “Sure,” Penny answered and took a sip of her soda, still avoiding eye contact.
    After relaying my plans to Marty and the boys, I squished myself into the requisite winter gear, boots, coat, mittens and hat, for the thirty yard walk to Sylvia’s front door. I didn’t want to catch a chill in the sub-Artic night.
    I pressed the doorbell and shivered while I waited. Crap, I should have called her first so she knew it was me and not that toad Eric. My cell phone was in my jacket pocket, but I’d have to remove at least one glove to dial. There was no way I could key in the right sequence on my puny keypad with thick wool mittens on my paws.
    Frustrated at my own lack of foresight I kicked the door and, to my surprise, it swung open. That is not good, I thought even as I called out for Sylvia. Though twilight had settled in the blue-black winter’s sky, Sylvia’s house was totally dark, no light visible from where I lurked..
    “Sylvie?” I called out again and heard a muffled sob from the direction of the master bedroom. Okay, that needed some attention. First, though, I made sure the door was shut and locked before following the sound. Good God, the house felt like a frigging meat locker. I shuddered at the thought and did my best to ignore the herd of butterflies-on-crack bouncing around in my stomach.
    Taking a moment to allow my eyes to adjust, I scanned the living room and office. T.V, DVR, Computer and Sylvie’s laptop were all accounted for, so I gleaned she hadn’t been burgled. My electricity was on and thrumming, so it wasn’t a power outage. I tried a light switch, to see if the darkness was voluntary. Still no light.
    The pitiful sound repeated and I made my way toward the bedroom. For a moment, my imagination took hold. What if there was an intruder, one more interested in Sylvia than her electronics? Shit, what if he had her at gunpoint? Should I call the police?
    Before I’d made a decision, Sylvia started to laugh and I exhaled in relief. True, her giggles had a slightly hysterical note to them, but at least she wasn’t gagged and tied to her bed.
    “Sylvia?” Peeking around her open door, I blinked at the sight. There was some light in Sylvia’s house after all, candlelight. Rows of candles, divided into groups of three, were tiered by size until they looked like flaming bleachers on her dressed. The room was a mess, Clothes, books, Cds, DVDs tossed about haphazardly and left wherever they’d fallen. Sylvia sat crossed-legged on the floor in the middle of the heap, a big bottle of Absolute Vodka cradled between her folded legs. Her left hand was wrapped around what looked like a cluster of twigs.
    “Um, Sylvie,” I knocked softly on the door, hoping I wouldn’t startle her. Her hair was unkempt and in the flickering candlelight, I thought she might be wearing flannel