Skeletons in the Closet by Jennifer L. Hart Page A

worst of my chills.
    I stumbled toward the kitchen, hoping I’d feel a little more human after my daily caffeine fix. Kenny and Josh each occupied a barstool, chowing down on Captain Crunch. I squashed a wave of guilt at not being up in time to prepare the standard Sunday fare.
    “Jeeze, Mom, who worked you over?” Josh inquired as I lost count of how many scoops I’d put in the coffee filter.
    “The police and a sixty-year-old vigilante,” I said without thought. It took a few seconds for their shocked looks to register, and I winced. When was I going to learn to keep my mouth shut until after I had coffee?
    The doorbell chimed. I groaned and hoped Sylvia wasn’t on the outside, tapping her foot and plotting our next antic. Sometime during my listless morning I’d come to the conclusion that Neil was right, I had to keep my nose out of the whole scenario.
    But it wasn’t Sylvia.

Chapter Seven
     
    “ G ood morning, Mrs. Phillips.” Detective Bradley Patterson offered a warm smile. His respectable suit was considerately less rumpled than it had been at the precinct. He looked as if he’d come from church.
    I, on the other hand, sported the look favored by beggars everywhere. The sandman must have whacked me with his carry-on, because the more I scrubbed at my eyes, the grainer they felt. My wet hair had dried while I napped, and I’d suffered a severe case of bed-head. My caffeine deprived mind attempted to establish some sort of greeting, but all that came across was a wordless grunt.
    The good detective simply smiled and asked if he could come in. I allowed it and gestured towards the kitchen because that was where the coffee was located.
    Kenny had disappeared, but Josh played the role of man of the house by scowling over his cereal at Patterson with the consternation that only an eleven-year-old can pull off. “Is this the creep who roughed you up?”
    “If it was, don’t you think I’d be pounding him into the ground right about now?” Neil emerged from the bedroom wearing some unbuttoned jeans and a scowl. “I’m still waiting for an introduction though, friend.”
    I was too busy making love to my drug of choice, so Detective Patterson stretched out his hand. The introductions commenced while I inhaled the fortifying scent of my kitchen. Everyone has his or her calm and tranquil place, somewhere that empowers said person and gives a sense of harmony and confidence. My place has always been my kitchen, no matter which house we currently dwelled in. Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath allowed me to center myself and draw strength for the conversation to come. This was the closest thing I had to what Sylvia called inner peace.
    “Ma’am, are you all right?”
    I opened one eye on Patterson, who frowned at me with puckered eyebrows.
    “She’s fine,” Neil interjected as he pulled on a shirt. “It’s her thing—she’s sniffing the kitchen.”
    Detective Patterson looked even more confused. He wrinkled his nose and took a few quick breaths. “It smells okay to me, but it might be your fridge. You could try a box of baking soda.”
    Neil chuckled, and I nodded at Patterson’s obliging face. “I’ll do that. Now how can I assist you, Detective?”
    He assumed a much more formal pose, arms clasped behind him and shoulders squared, and I wondered idly if he’d been in the military. I looked over to Neil, who sent me a barely perceptible single nod, and had my answer.
    “I owe you an apology, Mrs. Phillips. My behavior was totally out of line the other day, and I wanted to assure you—”
    I held up a hand to stop him and glanced over at the two eager faces that were ready to bear witness at a moment’s notice. I really didn’t want them to know I’d been involved in a murder case, first with the alibi thing and then my antics with Sylvia and Annie Oakley. My mind turned at a slow, short-school-bus-type-special pace, but it was quick enough to recognize I didn’t want them to hear