Skeletons in the Closet (Laundry Hag Series, Book 1) by Jennifer L. Hart

Author:Jennifer L. Hart [Hart, Jennifer L.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2011-07-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Someone shone a light in my eyes. I groaned and rolled away, but the light followed me. I put my hands over my face and peeked through my fingers, guessing I had out slept the boys and they were out to get me. What I saw confused then horrified me.

Sunlight.

The sun glared at me through my west-facing windows, and I could almost hear the voice of Apollo in my head. If you’re gonna be lazy enough to sleep the day away, don’t blame me when you’re too stupid to shut your blinds.

“Neil!” How could he have let this happen? He knew how important today was for Thanksgiving preparations! He’d probably thought he was doing me a kindness, letting me sleep off my fatigue. Neil doesn’t buy my ‘I’ll rest when I’m dead’ speech.

I was too afraid to glance at the clock so I flew to the closet and yanked on the first pair of clean jeans I found. I pulled on one of Neil’s T-shirts, figuring if I ruined it in my frantic haste he’d brought it on himself. I scrunched my hair into a messy pony tail while dashing to the kitchen, but tripped on a wrinkle in the carpet and ended up spread eagled on the floor.

Damn it all to the black depths of Hades! I’d never been able to master two things at once.

I pushed myself up from the carpet and continued my mad dash for the kitchen. There was a note on the counter from Marty, informing me he’d taken the boys to the park and that my mother-in-law had called. I faced the inevitable and looked at the clock on the microwave. 3:46 p.m., the day before Thanksgiving, and I still hadn’t done my shopping.

No time to lose. I grabbed my purse and my keys, jotted a quick note on the back of Marty’s, and was out the door. A brisk wind slapped me in the face and tossed my unruly hair in my eyes, but I didn’t slow. I climbed behind the wheel of the White Cloud of Death and shoved the key into the ignition. I turned and waited for the engine to catch.

Nothing.

Okay, Self, don’t panic. I turned it again, and still nothing. A third try came up nada. No revving of an ancient engine to indicate the beast was even trying. “She’s dead, Jim,” I muttered in my best Bones McCoy imitation. Murphy and his confounded law had struck again.

I bashed the dashboard with all my anger at the vehicle’s impotence. My mother used to say we should thank God for small favors and be happy something worse didn’t happen, but I was too behind, and my coma from the night before hadn’t replenished my reserves. A little creative cussing was in order as I gave up on the van and didn’t attempt to pop the hood, because what I knew about cars would fit in Greg the Gym Rat’s jock strap and was just as useless.

Mrs. Kline didn’t think it was useless.

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