Skeletons in the Closet by Jennifer L. Hart Read Free Book Online Page A

that Maggie Phillips was a quitter.
    I backed the van up to the garage and loaded my cleaning supplies. Despite the sour start to the day, I was in a good mood. Paul Simon came on the radio, and I called him Al all the way home. I let myself into the house and dumped some prepackaged salad into a bowl with shredded cheese and way more than a serving of Thousand Island dressing.
    The phone rang.
    “Where are you?” Neil asked me.
    “Uh, sweetie, you called the house,” I pointed out
    “Yes. So where’s your cell?”
    Oops. “I guess I left it in the Kline’s bathroom.”
    “Josh’s teacher called here saying she was unable to reach you and she really needed to set up an appointment with us.”
    Oh, crud muffins. This stupid job was already interfering with my career.
    “I’m all over it,” I told him then called the school and set up an appointment with Mrs. Martin for Monday afternoon. Next, I called Marty’s current girlfriend and left a message on her machine inviting them both to Thanksgiving dinner. I called the Kline’s, but only got the machine. I ate my salad and chugged a root beer before taking a much needed shower. I dialed Mrs. Kline again, but still no answer. With some groceries to pick up, I set out in the van.
    I can safely say that I have grocery shopping down to a science. There was a time in my misspent youth where I was actually intimidated by supermarkets. Overwhelmed by the gads of products which all seemed to serve the same purpose, and the sale stickers were always mixed up, so my bill was much higher than what I’d estimated. Since I married Neil, I’ve developed a system which may be a bit anal retentive, but is effective nonetheless.
    Coupon cutting happens every Sunday. I take stock of the fridge and pantry and make note on anything we’re low on or out of. I plan general dinners for the week, i.e. chicken on Sunday, beef on Monday, that sort of thing. Then, I hit the store, starting with produce and working my way through the list. I usually leave a few dollars aside for impulse buys, and overall, I have our family grocery budget set to five hundred dollars a month. If there’s any money left over, I treat myself to a trashy paperback. Like I said, it’s a science.
    I brought the bags out to the van and loaded them in the cargo nets. That left more cleaning supplies free to roam and me smacking my forehead for not unloading them in the first place. On my way home, a white corvette turned up the Kline’s driveway. I followed it in hopes of retrieving my phone.
    “Maggie!” Francesca Carmichael called to me. “I thought you were coming this morning.”
    “I was here, but I forgot my cell. Do you know if anyone’s home?”
    Frannie shrugged one silk clad shoulder. “I’m not sure, but I was coming by to see if Sandra wanted to go into Boston with me. There’s a new spa that I’m dying to try.”
    My experience with the spa treatment was limited to an NC-17 fantasy starring mocha flavored oil rubs and Neil as the cabana boy who compliments my beauty.
    “That sounds, um, nice?” was my weak reply.
    “Heaven on Earth!” Francesca corrected me and extracted a key ring from her Prada handbag. “I desperately need an herb wrap and I can’t remember the last time I had a pedicure.”
    Well I had her there because I could easily remember my last pedicure. It occurred in my last life.
    Francesca opened the door. “Where did you leave it?”
    “The master bathroom, I think.”
    We ascended the stairs together, Frannie illustrating the finer points of professional massage.
    “It’s so much better when you pay a professional to do it. That way you don’t have to worry about compensation. My ex-husband would only give me a massage if he was going to get sex afterwards. It was positively codependent.”
    I had no idea how to respond to this so I did the guy thing. I grunted.
    Francesca opened the door to the master bedroom and stopped short. I slammed into her back. I was