UPDATED
CHAPTER SEVEN
I caught Alice Fortune, a short, stout woman with caramel skin and close-cropped black hair, in the middle of a class. I peered through the small window in the door. She read, while the kids bent over their desks in classic test-taking posture. When I tapped on the glass, she strode toward the door, her colorful dashiki-style dress swaying over ample hips. “Keep your eyes on your papers,” she ordered before stepping into the hall.
“I’m in the middle of a class,” she said, glancing at my pass. “If you have a problem to discuss—”
“I’m very sorry to interrupt. I have one quick question for you.” I introduced myself and explained what I was doing there. “Is Tina Jackson in school today?”
As I explained my purpose for being there, her expression changed from irritation to deep concern. She paused and took a breath. “Tina hasn’t been in school all week. I’m worried about that child,” she said. “She’s too smart to be involved in this kind of nonsense.
“I’m worried about her, too. Her mother was recently murdered.”
Her hand flew to her chest. She gulped air, her eyes wide. “Lord, no.” She shook her head and murmured, “That’s horrible. Truly horrible. Mind you, I know the woman could rub a person the wrong way. But that’s just tragic. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t been in school. I’m surprised no one told me.”
“Thing is, her mother’s body was discovered only yesterday, but you say Tina’s been out all week? So she was skipping school before her mother died. And I take it you’ve met Shanae Jackson?”
“She came to one parent-teacher meeting. Never saw her at another. Tina said she had to work nights.”
“What did she do to rub you the wrong way?”
“I’m not saying she did. I’m just saying she could. She was the kind to get attention because she complained a lot, you know? Not to speak ill of the dead, but it’s true.” She glanced back into the room to make sure the class was following orders. “I know she got up a full head of steam when she met with Mr. Powell and Mr. Thompson, after Tina got into that fight.”
“Who’s Mr. Thompson?”
“Reggie Thompson is the vice principal. I don’t know if Ms. Jackson was madder at Tina or the school for making her come in. She acted all put out that they wanted her there. I mean, her daughter had been in a fight.” The teacher spoke with a derisive edge that told me exactly how little she thought of Shanae. “Now, I know she probably slept late if she worked nights. Still, you’d think she’d want to be involved in something like that. Then, earlier this week, I heard she came back to see Mr. Thompson about something else. I don’t know what that was about.” She shook her head. “All I know is, Tina’s another example of a good kid going bad. I see it all the time.”
“You seem particularly concerned about her.”
“She’s brilliant, that’s why.” She gave me a hard stare. “She was in my English class last year. The girl could be an honors student, if she just tried.” She emphasized each of the last four words with a force borne of frustration, sadness, and bitterness. “So many of these kids could be more than what they are. All I can do is try to make it interesting for them. They’re the ones who have to do the work. Some of them do, others . . . .” She sighed. “The whole system makes it impossible to really teach them, anyway. This stupid quiz, for instance.” She waved a hand toward the room full of kids. “All I do is teach them how to take tests. Do they learn anything from it? Sure—how to take tests. Some days, I feel like a damned glorified babysitter, you know?”
I shook my head, not knowing what to say. “How do you do it?”
“Hmm?”
“How do you do this?” I gestured toward the classroom. “Day in and day out.”
She smiled but without mirth. “Well, it’s not for the money and it’s not for respect. So I guess it must be love.”
“That’s something, anyway. To love your work.”
“Fools fall in love, Ms. McRae.”
*****
For the umpteenth time, I tried reaching Tina on her cell phone. I left yet another message. Before leaving the school, I stopped by the office to ask about Rochelle Watson. Trying to get someone to look up her schedule proved futile. Frustrated, I returned to my office. The insurance company had called with a lousy counter-offer on Dancer Daria’s slip-and-fall. The answers to my interrogatories in the messy divorce still hadn’t arrived.
I wrote a polite, but firm letter to Slippery Steve, Esquire. Then I called him, only to be shunted to voice mail, where I left a message that he needed to get those answers to me or he could expect a motion to compel discovery—and soon. “Have a nice weekend!” I snapped before slamming the receiver down. “And you better spend it getting those damned answers together,” I grumbled to myself.
My last business for the day was to call Walt with a report on what I’d learned since our meeting.
“So Marzetti may know something about this ITN account,” Walt said. “Cooper as well. You think Cooper might be behind it? Maybe with some help from someone on the inside, like that Ana Lopez gal?”
“She could have been the one to plant the money,” I said. “Ana works in the accounting department, so she’s there all the time. And Ana could have gotten hold of Marzetti’s access code and created the account.” I sighed. “This is all speculation, of course. But there’s no doubt that Brad is the only one currently authorized to create the account, and the money was in his file cabinet.”
“But this thing with Marzetti—”
“I know. If Marzetti found a suspicious account similar to the one Brad discovered, it seems likely we’re talking about the same account. Which would mean the account existed before Brad began working there.”
“And Cooper did nothing after Marzetti told him about it? More than a little suspicious,” Walt growled.
“Which would mean Cooper was involved too. Or . . . .”
“Or what?”
I shook my head. “I’m going to sound like a conspiracy theorist. What if Cooper raised the issue, but someone higher up chose to ignore it?”
“Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. Unless someone in upper management is part of the embezzlement scheme.”
“If that were true, they could have set Brad up to take the heat off themselves.”
“We’re doing a lot of speculating here,” I said. “We need to get some facts.”
“We also need to keep after them about that audit.” Walt’s tone was brusque. “Plus, from what you’re telling me, we need to get a computer forensics specialist in there to examine the system. We need to do it fast, before . . . .” He paused. “I don’t know what, but we need to do it fast. You’re making me paranoid.”
“Since nobody’s sued or prosecuted anyone yet, we can’t even get a court order to examine the system,” I said. “All we can do is pressure the company to do the right thing and try to find out what we can, however we can. Have you tried talking to Hirschbeck about this? Maybe he’ll be more receptive to you than me.”
“I gave Hirschbeck a buzz earlier today,” Walt said. “He tells me Jones is arranging the audit as fast as she can. As for the computer forensics, he’s balking. In any case, it all has to go through headquarters in Philly, but the audit’s supposed to be in the works.”
“Right. And the check is in the mail.”
“I hear you. Thing that worries me is, if this does go higher than Cooper, maybe whoever it is will pull strings to make sure Brad stays on the hook for it.” He paused. “If Hirschbeck’s doing his job, he should eventually learn the truth, but you know how corporate counsel are sometimes. He may be lazy or turning a blind eye to his client’s shenanigans. He might even be involved. You know this guy. Do you trust him?”
“Not entirely,” I said. “We do have a history. I dated him while we were in law school. It ended … badly.”
“He dumped you?”
“No!” I blurted the word louder than intended. “I dumped him, after finding out that he snuck into our evidence professor’s office and stole a copy of the final exam. While looking for notes from another class, I found it in his papers after we took the exam. When I confronted him about it, he acted like there was something wrong with me.” The memory made me nauseated. “No, I don’t trust him.”
“Well, that’s not a ringing endorsement, is it?” Walt said. “I take it your history hasn’t made dealing with him any easier?”
“I guess he’s pissed about how it ended. I knew I could never respect the man again. So I broke it off. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me. Which is a hell of a thing, considering I did nothing wrong. I never ratted him out. You’d think that would be worth something to him. Jerk.”
“Male pride,” Walt said. “You took the high road, and he resented your implication that he wasn’t good enough for you.”
“Well, he wasn’t.”
“I can be the contact, if you’d prefer.”
“No, Walt,” I assured him. “I’ve dealt with difficult people before. It’s part of what we do. I can handle this.”
“I know you can. But if you keep hitting a brick wall with this clown …”
I smiled. “I’ll let you know.”
“Good. So what’s our next move, kiddo?”
“Stay on Hirschbeck about that audit, I guess, and push for them to check the computer system. Find out what Marzetti and Cooper know about this.” I paused to think of more options, but little came to mind. “I could try to get Marzetti to go back to Kozmik and tell them about the account he saw in the system.”
“Didn’t Jon Fielding mention it to someone?” Walt asked.
“Yes, but that was second-hand knowledge. He didn’t know all the details. If I could get Marzetti himself there, he could tell them what he found, which might move things along. Assuming he can remember. It’s been more than a year.”
“If push comes to shove,” Walt said, “I say we go right to headquarters. They’ll put the pressure on, if Hirschbeck continues to stonewall us.”
Assuming there aren’t accomplices at that level, I thought. Now I was getting paranoid.
“Speaking of Philadelphia, I was thinking of taking a trip this weekend.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Up to Philly, with a short detour to Frederick. A nice little road trip.”
“Sounds like fun,” Walt said.
“I haven’t seen the Liberty Bell since I was in high school. And I could go for a Philly cheesesteak. The real thing.”
“I’ve never seen the Liberty Bell,” Walt said. “You’ll have to tell me all about it when you get back.”
“Will do.”
“Enjoy your cheesesteak. Don’t forget the Bromo.”
Well, another Monday, another chapter. We’ll see how many I feel like posting, okay? 
If you haven’t read the first six, here you go: Least Wanted, Chapters 1-6 Click there and you can open it in Word.
And in other news, I’m really thrilled to read that Mr. Teachbad is writing a book for the right reasons.
Since Paul posts such awesome music on his blog, it’s occurred to me that I could also post my favorite tunes, as well. In the blogging spirit and all that.
Here’s one he posted yesterday that I enjoyed very much!
So … here’s one of my old favorites. The Gogos, Our Lips are Sealed.
And, of course, since it’s Monday … remember this one?
Finally, here’s a quotation for you.
“Simple can be harder than complex. You have to work hard to get your thinking clean to make it simple. But it’s worth it in the end, because once you get there, you can move mountains.”
– Steve Jobs
Hello!
UPDATE: That’s right, subscribers, those few of you who actually exist. I’ve changed how I format my updates. Isn’t that awesome?
I thought I’d share some awesome links I found while I was scanning the news and doing my job today.
Davey Johnson: the right guy, the right temperament.
How to buy your way onto the New York Times bestseller list!
I’ll take two! (Photo Credit: Wikipedia)
Gender gap in media is a crisis! :-O
Uh … Miss Curlers? A little help here?
Also, thank you, Guy Kawasaki for your advice about my Amazon Author Central profile, which I’ve updated.
Just click on the link for Least Wanted, then click on my name and you’ll see this photo and my new bio!
Hi there!
Finally, thank you, Paul, for your awesome quotation and videos on your blog today.
Also, congrats to the Oscar winners, especially Daniel Day-Lewis!!!
“Most of the time, I’m here in Michigan and I’m taking out the garbage every Monday.”
– Bob Seger
Yeah, I know the feeling. I’ve been removing garbage, slowly but surely, from my blogroll. And I’m not done. Yet. However, I know one blog that’s a definite keeper: Zen Habits, and here’s why.
And I choose the video New Order Blue Monday!
Oh, yeah … here’s something from the funnies that really seems appropriate made me wonder why laugh!
UPDATE 2: Oh, look! Almost immediately after I updated this post, My Other Career posted this film. Well, I think you’re ready for this! 
I’ve changed my author profile on Amazon UK, too.
Paul, Trevor (who gave me the TARDIS necklace), and me in Brentwood, England.
Thanks, Paul! You really are a saint.
And, of course, Kobo is awesome! So …
Download away!
My Homage to Hitchcock
Posted in Advertising, Amazing Sh*t, Blogging, Blogs, Blogs of Note, Business/Economic, Commentary, Digital Publishing, Dystonia/Movement Disorders, Food/Beverage, Government/Politics, Humor, International, Internet, Journalism, just messed up, Legal, Movies, Music, My Writing, Parody, Privacy, Publishing/Bookselling, Quotations, Random Ramblings, Science, Social Media, Suspense, Travel, Video Madness, WTF, tagged Alfred Hitchcock, female sleuths, humor, my, Mystery/Crime Fiction, suspense on February 27, 2013 | 2 Comments »
UPDATED
Here’s a parody I wrote a while back. I’m sure the fine folks at World O’ Crap would approve.
Anyhow, without further ado, here you go.
The Woman Who Knew Too Little
by Debbi Mack
I was sitting in my office, listening to the staccato drum of my fingers on my desktop, when she walked in.
“I’m looking for Michael Arbogast,” the woman said.
“You’re looking at her.”
She seemed taken aback. “I … I guess I was expecting a man.”
“Most people do. Frankly, it can be something of an advantage.”
Even in today’s post-Gloria Steinem, equal opportunity climate, people seem to prefer male private eyes.
“Interesting.” She sounded like she meant it. Keeping her deep blue eyes on me, she took a seat, uninvited. “Did you change it for that purpose?”
“No. It’s my real name.” I wondered vaguely why that would matter. “Anyway, you must have come here for a reason. What can I do for you?”
She leaned forward. She was the kind of blonde who exuded a sultry, yet innocent air.
“It’s my Uncle Charlie. He’s disappeared.”
“Could he have simply left town without telling you?”
She shook her head. “He would have said something. We’re very close.”
“Why don’t you give me the details?”
She proceeded to do so. Uncle Charlie was an entrepreneur, it seemed, and a highly successful one.
“He always has plenty of money,” she said. “He’s always lavished gifts upon my sister and me.”
“Your sister?”
“Yes.” Her lips puckered. “Charlotte. She seems to think that just because they both go by Charlie that they have some kind of weird bond. Creepy, huh?”
“Um. I guess.”
Without further prodding, she launched into a mini-rant about her narcissistic sibling. I took a few notes, but tried to steer the discussion in a more rational direction.
A few more pointed questions later, we’d managed to establish that one day Charles Oakley was there and the next day he wasn’t.
“Have you called the police?”
“No!” She blurted the word. “No, police.”
“Why?” I didn’t like where this was going.
“Because … I think he may have been involved in something illegal.”
Fabulous. I took down the details of Uncle Charlie’s mysterious ways. The way money seemed to simply appear in his bank account. The way everything he touched turned to gold.
When she paused for breath, I jumped in with a question. “If he were going to hide somewhere, any idea where he’d go?”
“He’s always wanted to go out West. Maybe there.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
She shook her head.
I groaned internally. The West took in a lot of territory.
“Who are his closest friends and associates? Anyone who might provide some insight.”
She looked thoughtful. “You could try George Kaplan. They were once partners.”
I jotted down the name. She added, “One other thing. A family heirloom is missing. An emerald ring he promised to give me.”
I noted this, as well.
“The ring had great sentimental value,” she said. “If anything has happened to my uncle, I’d like to get hold of it. It’ll be all I have left to remind me of him.”
“Yes, of course.” I cleared my throat. “First, I need your name and address. Plus there’s the matter of my fee.” I saved the most important part for last.
“Naturally. I’m sorry. My name is Marnie Smith. I live in Pittsburgh, but I came to Baltimore to visit Uncle Charlie. How much do I owe you?” She pulled a leather-encased checkbook from her purse.
I had her sign my standard agreement, requesting triple my normal retainer amount. She wrote the check without blinking.
After exchanging cell phone numbers, she said, “I’m staying at the Bates Motel, if you’d like to drop by sometime.” She placed her hand on mine and stared into my eyes.
“Um, not to be rude, but maybe you missed the part earlier about me not being a guy?”
She smiled “And you must have missed the fact that I’m a lesbian.”
I felt my face flush. “Well, it’s not exactly stamped on your forehead, is it?
“No. I suppose not.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “It’s just that I thought we might be … I’m sorry. I completely misunderstood.”
“No problem,” I said, gently pulling free of her grip. “I’m on your side, Ms. Smith. Even if I don’t play for your team.”
“Of course. But, please … call me Marnie.”
***
After depositing the check, I stopped by the boardinghouse Charles Oakley called home. The fact that a wealthy entrepreneur would choose to live in a boardinghouse did little to dispel any concerns I harbored that Oakley’s entrepreneurial enterprises might be criminal. The landlady said he’d cleared out a few days ago but paid rent several months in advance, so that was no problem. She let me take a quick look through his room. No dead bodies, blood stains or other obvious signs of skullduggery. And no clues as to where he’d gone.
Since Charles Oakley did his entrepreneurial thing from home, there was no office to search. So I went looking for his former business partner, George Kaplan.
Kaplan lived in a dilapidated mansion on a hill. A long flight of stairs led up to it. I hiked them to the top – thirty-nine steps (I counted). Once I reached the door, I turned to take in the small vista afforded by the higher elevation.
As I prepared to knock, the door swung open. A tall thin man stood there.
“I saw you coming.” He looked me up and down.
I took a moment to recover. “Is George Kaplan here?”
He smiled. “Oh, yes. This way.”
As I followed him, it struck me that he hadn’t even asked who I was or what I wanted. He led me to a set of basement stairs. “He’s down here. In his workshop.”
“Okay.” I trailed behind the man, as we descended the steps. “By the way, my name is Michael Arbogast.”
“I know,” he said, stopping and turning to look at me. “Marnie sent you, right?”
“I can’t discuss who I represent.”
“Skip it. I know it was her.” He turned and we continued downward. The stairs were dark, and I figured if this guy even mentioned casks of amontillado, I’d hightail it out of there. He took us into what he called the “fruit cellar,” which had been converted into a workroom dominated by a table. A table covered with heads.
“Fascinating,” I said. “Kaplan’s a taxidermist?”
“Indeed he is.”
Kaplan’s clients really had a thing for stuffed heads. Buffalo, moose, bears, lions, cougars, leopards. He had a wide sampling of big game.
“So … Kaplan?”
“He must have stepped out. Maybe I could help you.”
“And you are?”
He extended his hand. “Ambrose Church. I’m his nephew.”
***
Church explained that he worked as Kaplan’s apprentice. It was his hope to take over the business one day.
I think it takes a special kind of person to spend their days stuffing dead animals. I could already tell that Ambrose Church was pretty special.
After explaining my desire to find Charles Oakley, Church smiled. “That Marnie. Don’t bother to deny it. I know she put you up to this.”
“What do you mean? Put me up to what?”
Church explained that Marnie had a strange relationship with her uncle. She seemed almost insanely jealous of her sister, Charlotte, because of the bond Charlotte shared with her uncle based, apparently, on name alone.
“If you had to guess, what do you think has happened to him?”
“My guess,” Church said. “I think he’s run away. I think he wants Marnie out of his life.”
***
Church’s words created an interesting conundrum. First, they belied what Marnie had said about her uncle doting on her. Second, they put me in the uncomfortable position of looking for someone who might not wish to be found.
I tried to reach my client on her cell and got voice mail. Not bothering with a message, I proceeded straight to the Bates Motel.
The place had, to put it kindly, seen better days. I wandered into the reception area, where anemic-looking, skittish young man sat behind a desk guarding a large, leather-bound guest register. I had no idea such things still existed.
“May I look at your register?” I asked.
“Why? Who are you? What’s this about?” He peered at me with beady eyes.
Rather than parse out each question and try to answer them individually, I simply said, “I’m trying to find Marnie Smith. I’m a business associate and I haven’t been able to reach her. She told me she was staying here.”
With an anxious flourish, the young man turned the open book my way. “Feel free to take a look,” he said, his voice cracking.
I scanned the few – and I mean very few – names in the register. No Marnie Smith. I did see a Marie Jones, however. Interesting.
“It appears that my business associate may have registered under an assumed name,” I told the desk clerk. Or given me a false name. Or both. “Could you ring Marie Jones in her room?”
The young man complied with haste, to no avail. However, he was reluctant to tell me her room number. Through my usual diplomatic persuasive methods – which, in this case, consisted of threatening to sic the board of health on him and his rattrap motel – I was able to get the information.
I knocked on the door to Unit #1 and waited. A rustling sound came from inside. The door opened. She stood before me, looking slightly amused.
“Hi, Marnie,” I said. “Assuming that is your real name?”
She shook her head. “I’m not Marnie. I’m Charlotte. We’re twins.”
***
After inviting me inside, Charlie (as she preferred to be called) said Marnie had made a most unusual request.
“Marnie and I are both brunettes,” Charlie said, her expression quizzical. “But, just recently, she asked that I dye my hair blonde like hers.”
“I thought you two weren’t close?”
Charlie looked shocked. “What gave you that idea?”
“I, um, clearly misunderstood something your sister told me.” The same sister who registered in a rundown motel under a false name and who’s looking for a man who may be trying to steer well clear of her.
In an attempt to change the subject, I asked, “Any idea why your sister wanted you to do this?”
“Not at all. At first, I resisted, but she almost begged me. I agreed mostly to make her happy. Sometimes I think Marnie gets a bit jealous of the bond Uncle Charlie and I share. I’d do anything to change that.” She looked pensive. “Anyhow, she’s gone. I had the impression she was going to look for our uncle herself.”
I sighed. “Good of her to tell me. She mentioned an emerald ring. A family heirloom your uncle was supposed to give her. Do you know anything about that?”
Charlie shook her head. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
Swell. Apart from finding out that Marnie wasn’t a natural blonde, I’d learned little. “So what are you doing here?”
Charlie shrugged and smiled. “She asked me to be here in case you stopped by looking for her. I’m glad you did. Now, I can check out of this dump.”
“And did she explain why you needed to do this when she could have called me anytime?”
Charlie shook her head. “I asked her, but she insisted it was important I be here. I didn’t want to pry further and upset her. Marnie can be a little … eccentric.”
“If by eccentric you mean extremely weird and possibly a pathological liar, I’d have to agree.”
Charlie looked sorrowful. “She’s changed. She hasn’t been the same since she met that stranger on a train.”
She then recounted a long story about Marnie’s cross-country trip to Rapid City, South Dakota. She’d always wanted to see Mount Rushmore. Well, sure, haven’t we all?
“She met a man who …,” Charlie paused. “Well, if you ask me, he was a bad influence.”
“Tell me what you know about him.”
“All I remember is his name. Roger Thornhill.”
***
Turned out Thornhill was a local. I looked up his address. He lived in a house so big, Buckingham Palace could have been its servants’ quarters.
After failing repeatedly to reach Marnie on her cell, I made an appointment to see Thornhill. When someone’s that rich, you can’t simply knock on their door. You have to make appointments to see them.
I was still trying to figure out how to ask Thornhill about Marnie without giving away our business relationship – which in itself I was also trying to figure out – when a butler ushered me into a book-lined study.
Thornhill strolled through the door, looking like he’d walked directly from the eighteenth hole. Tanned and handsome, he flashed a blinding smile. “Ms. Arbogast. It’s good to meet you.”
We went through the usual formalities – a handshake, small talk, glimpses of impossibly white teeth. Finally, I said, “I’m trying to find Marnie Smith. I understand you know her?”
“Yes. She stayed with me recently. I offered to put her up here instead of that flea bag motel she’d checked into. That clerk there gave me the creeps, actually—”
“Wait,” I said, holding up a hand. “Can you just tell me where she is?”
“Well,” he said and launched into yet another long story. He and Marnie had been riding around Glen Cove in his good friend Lara’s Mercedes. During the ride, Marnie mentioned that she planned to go to Santa Rosa, California. She thought her Uncle Charlie might be there, since he’d often spoken of his fondness for the town.
“Good grief,” I said. “Why didn’t she just tell me her uncle might be there?”
Thornhill laughed in a not entirely mirthful way. “Marnie can be difficult.”
No shit, I thought.
***
After trying Marnie’s cell number for the umpty-umpth time, I threw in the towel on that approach.
Apparently, Marnie had taken matters into her own hands. However, for all intents and purposes, I still had a client. So I still had a job to do and a duty to uphold. Not to mention questions I wanted answered.
I intended to find my client and get to the bottom of this.
***
If I was going to find Marnie, I’d need to use the element of surprise. So, I bit the bullet and spent part of her healthy retainer on a plane ticket to San Francisco. I managed to snag a deal on a flight. I went north by Northwest to Minneapolis, where I connected with a flight to San Fran. From there, it was maybe an hour’s drive to Santa Rosa. I intended to find Marnie, Charles Oakley or both, if it was the last thing I did.
Northern California is a pleasant place. Rolling hills, vineyards, temperate climate. Yet, as I sped north in my rental on the 101, I was too focused on how to find Marnie and Uncle Charlie to appreciate these lovely attributes.
One thing I did know was Charlie’s full name. And, assuming Marnie hadn’t adopted yet another alias, I knew hers.
Thornhill had also provided one more clue. Uncle Charlie was an avid historian, who had a fascination for old Spanish missions. It was quite possible that he might be staying at a B&B near Santa Rosa that he’d heard about. I’d start my hunt there.
***
The Mission of Saint Jude Bed and Breakfast couldn’t have been more appropriately named. What with Saint Jude being the patron saint of lost causes and given my situation with Marnie, I pulled up to the B&B thinking, “This must be the place.”
The B&B looked in every way like a mission, complete with bell tower. I walked into the lobby, where a balding guy dressed as a monk sat at a reception desk. Suppressing the urge to bolt (Catholic school had left its indelible mark), I walked up and asked if a woman answering Marnie’s description had been there.
The man fished out a pack of cigarettes. Tapping one out, he produced a book of matches and proceeded to light up.
Frankly, this put me more at ease, despite California’s strict smoking laws. It underscored the fact that this monk wasn’t going to be doing any Gregorian chants anytime soon.
“Yes, a woman like that came here to meet one of our guests. Why?”
“I’m a business associate. I need to find her.”
“Last I saw, they were taking a walk around the grounds.” He waved his cigarette, airily.
***
I strolled the well-manicured grounds, past trellises of bougainvillea and berms carpeted with bright, spiky ice plant blossoms. The sweet, heady odor of mock orange blossoms perfumed the air.
As I walked, I glanced up at the bell tower and saw two people tussling with each other – a man and someone I could have sworn was Marnie. My heartbeat quickened.
I ran toward the tower building. In vain, I tried to find the entrance. A bald, pudgy man with a solemn expression ambled by. I grabbed him and asked how to reach the bell tower. Without a word, he pointed and I ran off.
The door he’d indicated led to a long, circular flight of stairs. I climbed them fast as I could, but ran out of breath halfway up. I took a quick rest, looked down and got dizzy. Hanging onto the rail, I turned my gaze upward and resumed climbing.
While pulling myself up the last few steps, my lungs near to bursting and my leg muscles barking complaint, I heard a man scream. I flung myself through the door. Marnie stood looking over a ledge as the scream faded.
“Marnie.” It was all I could manage.
She turned and looked at me, eyes wide with shock. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing. What the hell is going on?”
Marnie’s face darkened like a stormy sky. “Charlotte. That bitch told you, didn’t she?”
I shook my head. “All she said was something about Roger Thornhill.” I rambled through the litany of steps I’d taken over the past few days to find my own client. “Marnie, I’ve been looking all over for you. I find you here arguing with a man I assume is Charles Oakley. Now he’s dead. I think you owe me an explanation.”
“Okay,” Marnie said. “I lied to you.”
“Duh.”
Marnie flinched. “I’m ashamed to say this, but my uncle didn’t shower me with love or money. He always liked Charlotte. We were identical twins, yet he always preferred Charlotte.”
“How could he even tell you apart?”
“He said they had some weird psychic connection. It was sickening. I had to stand by and watch her get treated like a queen. Meanwhile, he abused me.”
She lowered her gaze, looking truly tortured.
“You mean …?” I asked.
“Yes. He sexually abused me. Touched me inappropriately, as it’s put these days.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been horrible.”
“The man was evil,” she said. “He was sick. By shoving him to his death, all I did was rid the world of a cancer.”
“So you came to me … why?”
Her face contorted. “I wanted to use you to establish my alibi. I paid my sister to pretend to be me. Obviously, the bitch double-crossed me.”
Oh, good. Twin pathological liars.
“All right. So you figured your uncle was probably here. Then you hired me and directed me toward George Kaplan – who I never did meet, by the way – sending me down a deliberate dead end, so I’d go to the Bates Motel where your sister was supposed to give you an alibi? Have I got that straight?”
“Exactly. A simple and elegant plan, wasn’t it?”
“Well …” I shook my head. “If you say so. What about the emerald ring?”
“Oh. I made that up. I thought it would provide you more incentive.”
“Cute. So now what?”
She drew herself up. “Are you turning me in?”
“Marnie, if that is your name, a man just fell off the tower. I didn’t see anything and I can’t prove anything. And this conversation? Never happened.”
She blew out a breath. “Good enough. Oh, by the way – here.” She reached into her purse, pulled out and handed me a paperweight. I recognized it as one from my desk.
I blinked. “You … you stole this from me?”
“Yes.” She issued a deep sigh. “I’m not only a liar, but a kleptomaniac. Plus I’m not even a lesbian. I seem to be incapable of loving anyone—”
“Marnie, Marnie.” I waved my hands around. “Too much information, okay?”
“Sorry.” She shut her mouth and looked depressed.
“So what will you do now?”
She examined her well-manicured nails. “Oh, I don’t know. Change my name, maybe dye my hair a few more colors. Leave the country, see the world.”
“Why not start a new life here?”
She snorted. “Are you kidding? This place is for the birds.”
THE END
******
There you go. Hope you enjoyed it, even if you aren’t a
student of filmmovie geek like me.Now, here’s some real news of possible interest.
Connecting the neural dots!
Answers to common questions about horse meat.
Ikea recalls meatballs after detecting horse meat.
Most “social” brands missed their chance to shine on Oscar night!
“Reporting is reporting, storytelling is storytelling.”
What Barnes & Noble’s stores might be worth.
New York Times to rename International Herald Tribune.
Right!
The Onion apologizes.
Music with 1,000 pairs of jeans.
Can Barnes and Noble be saved? There is a joke buried in here.
And thank you, Paul!
I did get your tweet with this awesome image!
Finally, from Nik Nak’s Old Peculiar, possibly the most hilarious ad for jeans ever plus a quotation I can totally relate with.
“I have often said that I wish I had invented blue jeans: the most spectacular, the most practical, the most relaxed and nonchalant. They have expression, modesty, sex appeal, simplicity – all I hope for in my clothes.”
– Yves Saint Laurent
I hear that!
And here’s my own quotation and music video.
“Never be afraid to laugh at yourself, after all, you could be missing out on the joke of the century.”
– Dame Edna Everage
Hey, look! News that actually makes sense!
The Dude abides!
There, I said it!
UPDATE: As you can see, I’m continuing to make progress on organizing my blogroll.
I’ve created a section for real legal blogs or blawgs, as they were called at one time.
And I’ve been thinking about telling more of my true stories about what it’s like to have your own law office. You see, I kept a journal for a freelance writing class I took with Loree Lough, before I had my stroke and developed dystonia.
I think this may surprise many people who assume lawyers are all rich, full of themselves, and unethical sleazebags. It will also show readers how I was inspired to write about a strong female lawyer with her own office. Hopefully, it will provide insight into why I write my stories, as well as amuse and/or inform readers.
So … while I was reviewing the ABA headlines, I noticed two blogs that I decided should be included in the sidebar. They happened to feature news I found interesting, so here are the headlines!
New birthday song makes you even more depressed to get older. Ha! That’s nothing, but thank you Above the Law.
The blessings of jet lag.
I know those blessings. Believe me!
Thank you, Lessig.
And, hey, Denise Howell!
Remember that blog I used to have, Word of Blog? Well, this explains what happened to that blog and a whole lot of other things.
And in other news, Yahoo tells its workers to get out of the house!
Really cute, but totally faked.
PS: And now I think you’re ready for this!
Pin this!
UPDATE 2: By the way, Denise, I forgot to mention how much I like your blog. I see you not only include legal stuff, but you post about your travels. That’s awesome!
My husband and I took a trip to Ireland and the UK last summer, and I’m so glad we did. I met a reader named Paul, who’s a real saint. He introduced us to Trevor, and now I have two real friends in England.
Paul’s so much like my dead friend Bill it’s
scaryawesome.Paul, Trevor (who gave me my TARDIS necklace), and me in Brentwood, England.
Thanks, Paul!
You saved my life.
UPDATE 3: And this is why I love Twitter! Thank you, Paul.
UPDATE 4: Since I love web recursion, and I jsut lvoe tihs, I had to include this awesome quote and song from Nik Nak’s Old Peculiar.
“I thought I’d begin by reading a poem by Shakespeare, but then I thought, why should I? He never reads any of mine.”
– Spike Milligan
Oh, now Stephen Leather decides he wants to follow me. Hello! *waving*
How do you like my necklace?
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