The Invisible Heiress

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  “Still the ladies’ man, aren’t you? Well, sounds like she’s experienced quite the turnaround then.”

  “Speaking of—you look a little, well, under the weather?”

  I tucked my gnarled fingernails into my palms.

  “You know me,” I said. “I ebb and flow.”

  “Mostly ebb. Noticed your steady stream of clients slowed.”

  “They’ll pick up again,” I said.

  “Judge Seward run out of delinquents?”

  “They come and go.”

  “Your fella still around? Or did he run screaming?”

  “Fella’s around in a big way. Getting serious. Who knows? White picket fence might hover in my future.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.” I headed for his office door. “I’ll keep you apprised.”

  With my due date and resignation, sucker.

  ****

  “It’s a global economy,” they said. “Whole world’s connected,” they said. Well, they’ve never tried to blackmail someone with no landline, no email, no access to their fucking front door. Try to get to a rich person in this day and age. If Harrison Blair owned a cell, I had no idea what the number was. I couldn’t very well call the number they gave me exclusively to report on Preston. Besides, cell phones were out, too easily tracked, seemed dicey.

  If I tried to find any contact information online, the search might come back to kick me in the ass. That shit’s traceable too, unless I did it from Jonathan’s computer. No. Still too close for comfort.

  Snail mail was my only option. The address had to be somewhere. They got billed, didn’t they? With Rhonda gone, I’d have to dig around, because she’d handled all that. Rhonda’s old desk still had a computer on it. I could use that. Any hinky search would get blamed on her. My stomach gurgled again. How much could I pile on poor Rhonda? Even if I used her computer, then what would I do, type out a letter? Probably not a good idea either. I toyed with cutting various words and letters out of magazines and newspapers, but that seemed quaint. Amusing, but quaint. Nah. Too much work.

  Wearing those thin plastic gloves I’d swiped from Haven House, I spelled out on a plain piece of paper what I wanted, made another copy of the stolen info, popped the discreet-looking envelope into a mailbox at a post office across town. Easy peasy. I couldn’t squash my giggles.

  Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with an impending ass load of cash.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Preston’s Blog

  Musings from the Dented Throne

  Frankly My Dear, I Don’t Give a Fuck

  My Irishman’s throwing shade.

  I believe bitch held the top spot as his favored description of the Heiress. So stern a rebuke almost toppled my tiara. I fear he’s gone Rhett Butler, and now I’m abandoned to save the plantation alone.

  Funny how I didn’t think I gave a single fuck. Spent most our married life stoned, not concerned with my husband’s comings or goings, other than his steady drug supply. I considered the Queen and the Jester’s hysteria over my betrothal, to one of the dirty masses, reward enough. Didn’t need a happily-ever-after ending. When he stepped out one night to buy a pack of crack but didn’t return, I toked up, carried on.

  But my Irishman did return, to save me. Hang tight for this, my faithful. I love him for trying. I’d never tell anyone but you. Like a silly schoolgirl, I imagined a future for him and me better than our past.

  We’d turn geezer together. I’d clip the hairs in his nose. We’d wear matching “I’m with Stupid” T-shirts to all-you-can-eat-buffets. We’d laugh, wax nostalgic about that time I got sent to the pokey for trying to kill my mother.

  ’Til death do us part. Lock, stock, and two smokin’ barrels.

  If the Irishman votes me off the island, my safety net’s gone, no Sherlock to do my snooping. I’m afraid the Heiress might’ve shot herself with her own derringer.

  He promised one last poke at the piñata on the Heiress’s behalf, if I zip my potty mouth. I’m sure he meant one more poke at his senorita. Nothing I can do about that. Yet. Don’t know if I’ll get the chance to show off any behavior modifications to my husband. Or if I even want to, considering my nagging qualms about his truthfulness.

  If you can indulge my sap a moment longer, I feel I must tell the truth. I’m scared shitless, for my husband, for myself. He’s in too far. They’re after him. They who, you ask? I don’t know, or maybe I don’t want to know. It’s anyone’s guess at this point. Neither of us have exactly been model citizens. No end to our list of enemies, I’m sure.

  Here’s a turd in the punchbowl fact: Jester let me know Chica had insinuated herself into my house. Chica and her pimped-up lingerie.

  I’ll wait while you read that again.

  The Queen, as a favor to her devoted servant who, I think I told you, happens to be Chica’s madre, gave her the keys to my castle for a brief, but Jester says, necessary sojourn. “Chica’s got troubles,” he said. Don’t we fucking all? Swears she’s over it and gone. Another thing gone? My trust fund, thank you very much. Jester’s got no idea where all my money went, which cheers me no end.

  Boom shakalaka.

  You, my followers, comfort me from distant shores. You can’t know the half of it. I feel your consoling presence despite my constant irritability and your periodic annoyances. The only thing that won’t leave me alone is loneliness. To add piss to the vinegar—I’m motherless. The woman I thought I’d never miss, I do. There’s a hole in my life where my mother should be.

  The Invisible Heiress

  Whatever you say, I’ll think about it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.

  Comments

  Well Hung Jung

  L is for loser Irishman husband. You can clip my nose hairs anytime. Up for a ride on the Jungster? Hey, what about the money? Where’s your trust?

  Reply: WHJ, you romantic fool, you. Much as nostril cleanup and a giddy-up in your saddle excites, I must pass on yet more of your enticing offers. But know this—my money’s safe. I’m not as dense as I once imagined.

  Jack

  Wish you’d contact me. I’ll make you a star, the Irishman too. Protect you both. Hook you two up with an agent. Queen too.

  Reply: You again, Jack? Hook yourself up to a potassium chloride drip. Pretty please. (See, the Heiress is warm and fuzzy already).

  Norma B.

  Good job, getting smarter about your own money. It’s high time, sounds like. The Irishman will forgive you if you treat him right. Look at all he’s done for you even though you’re mean to him. Imagine what he’d do if you weren’t. He obviously wants to be in your life whether he realizes it or not. Who cares about Chica? He doesn’t.

  Reply: Fingers crossed, Norma B.

  Norma B.

  The Irishman loves you. You do know that, right?

  Reply: Here I thought you were the smart one.

  Scribbler

  Jack’s probably a scammer. I’m the real deal. Anyone with an iPhone can call themselves a documentarian. Would a six-figure book advance sweeten the deal?

  Reply: Wouldn’t get out of bed for less than seven. BTW, any dimwit who can type can publish a book. You, for instance. I mean, super handsome dimwit. (Touchy feely, that’s the new Heiress.)

  Amy W.

  Jung, Jack, Scribbler—shut up. Your idiotic comments aren’t the advice the Heiress needs. I’m with Norma. Chica means nothing to anyone. All it means is your mother was trying to do something nice. That’s good, right? If you’ve got control of your money and you’re worried about the Irishman, why stay locked up? You could help him, couldn’t you? What are you waiting for?

  Reply: Think I’ve been unruly too many times. Not sure if I could leave if I wanted to.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Preston

  “Geez Shrinky, been hitting Mickey D’s pretty hard or what?”

  I hadn’t noticed her gut until she sat down in my room and it splay
ed out onto her lap.

  Isabel smiled. Not the least bit perturbed.

  So, I said, “Valium kicked in?”

  I could tell she was trying not to laugh, which made me realize she hadn’t in quite a while. That bothered me. The fact that it bothered me, bothered me. I’d need to up my game.

  “You’ve behaved yourself for quite a stretch now. Good for you,” Isabel said.

  I took a few minutes to comb over her appearance while trying to muster up some smarty-pants retorts. All these months her looks vacillated between loony crone and Banana Republic working girl. Today she was somewhere in the middle. Dress too tight (the gut) but not horrible to look at. Hair neat but styled in a swooshy combover. Something about her struck me as definitely different. Catlike, smug.

  “What’s going on with you, Shrinky? You’re glowing. Run over an old lady on your way here?”

  Before Isabel could open her mouth to laugh or talk, Nurse Judy barged in. “Preston, there’s a detective here to see you.”

  ****

  “Sure you don’t want your therapist with you?” Detective Smiley said. “Not a problem if you do or if you don’t.”

  Nurse Judy opened the visitors’ room. I sat in one hard chair. He sat on the table’s ledge—already a cop cliché.

  “Are you kidding me?” I said. “Your name’s Smiley?”

  Detective Smiley smirked but didn’t give an answer. “Therapist?”

  “Not even a consideration.” I felt the front of my hospital-issued tunic twerk in rhythm with my heart. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “For what? You’re already . . .” He looked around.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  I cased the detective with the weird name, felt a twinge. “Do I know you?”

  “Probably not.”

  “You an FOM?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Slow witted for a detective. Friend of Marv? Finney? Police chief?” I said.

  “Oh, right. Well, friend is a stretch. Of course I know him. He’s my boss.”

  Told me all I needed to know.

  “Recognize this?”

  He handed me a folded piece of paper plucked from the inside pocket of his cheap suit jacket. I scanned what looked like a copy of a handwritten document. My eyes stuck on I killed my baby. I felt a weight lower itself on the top of my head. It started to hurt.

  “What is this?” I dropped the aberrant paper on the table.

  “Your mother is Harrison Blair?”

  “First-class detective work.”

  “Does the handwriting look like your mother’s?”

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “Does it look like your mother’s handwriting?”

  He picked up the missive, held it out to me for another, perhaps better, look at the obvious copy of an original. I didn’t indulge him.

  “Are you a fucking parrot?” I knocked the paper away.

  “So, yes?”

  “I’m not answering anything ’til you tell me where the fuck you got this.”

  “From your mother.”

  “What?”

  “Someone tried to blackmail her with it.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “What’s she say about it?”

  “Says she didn’t write it.”

  “Whoever tried to pull this over on my mother is either brain dead or swings porn-star sized balls. I’d love to shake the moron’s hand.”

  “Any idea who that brain-dead, big-balled person would be?”

  “Our family brings out the nuts. You must know that already.”

  Smiley smoothed back his dark hair, flecks of silver at the temple. Glanced around the asylum, scanned my scrubs. “Obviously.”

  “Why isn’t Marv here himself? He never delegates my family.”

  “I caught the case. That’s all I know.”

  A missing Marv meant, well, not sure what his absence meant, but it sure as Christ meant something.

  “So we’re done now?” I said.

  I wondered how mashed up I looked, hated myself for caring what this new, suspiciously mysterious cop thought. I didn’t even know the jerk. Handsome jerk, though.

  “Ms. Blair, what do you remember about the circumstances surrounding your brother Cooper’s death? Anything?”

  “I remember he died.”

  “How?”

  “Crib death.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure as an eight-year-old.”

  “Did someone tell you he died of crib death?”

  “I don’t remember,” I said.

  I felt lines of sweat snake down my sides.

  “Didn’t Marv tell you anything before he paraded you down here with your caught case?”

  “You’re here at Haven House because you tried to kill her. Your mother?”

  Guess no interesting Marv info was coming my way from this guy.

  “Can’t get anything past you,” I said.

  “Were you defending yourself?”

  A knot pushed at my waistband, felt like kicking the handsome, meddlesome dick.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “You look frightened,” Smiley said. “Does that question make you uncomfortable?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know if the question makes you uncomfortable, or you don’t know if you had to defend yourself against your mother?”

  “I don’t remember much about that night. What difference does it make?”

  “A lot, perhaps.”

  I kept quiet, couldn’t grasp any words that felt right.

  Detective Smiley nodded toward the paper lying on the table.

  “Do you think you’re holding Harrison’s confession? Did she kill your brother?”

  I could hear my father arguing with Isabel outside my door, their voices more and more agitated. Picked up the page to read the first sentence again.

  “Can’t answer that.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “End result’s the same.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Isabel

  “Mom, you’ll never guess.”

  “Don’t tell me. You need money. I’ll hang up this instant if—”

  I shifted my cell from one shoulder to the other. “No, no, nothing like that this time.”

  “What else could you want?”

  “I’m getting married.”

  Her coughing fit hacked at my eardrums like an ax.

  “To what?” She collected herself.

  “I’ll wait while you scrape up your lungs,” I said.

  “Not in the mood.”

  I heard the flick of her lighter, the catch of flame, her sharp inhale.

  “I’m serious this time,” I said.

  I slurped down the dregs of my booze. Last one. I promised myself.

  “When’s this miraculous event taking place?”

  “Not sure yet. I’ll let you know as soon as we set the date.”

  “Who? Hope he’s better than that guy who wouldn’t step on cracks or the dope with the harelip. I—”

  “Mother, stop. Listen, I’ve gotta go. Just wanted to tell you my good news.”

  I’d intended to tell her about the pregnancy but didn’t. She could slam me all she wanted but not my baby.

  “Don’t come crying to me when he dumps you. They always do.”

  “Can’t you just be happy for me?”

  “I’ll be happy when I hear your new mark say I do.”

  ****

  Got comfy in front of my TV, patted my baby pooch, poured a fresh Scotch. Last one, for sure. I’d need a bracer to figure out what to do since my plot petered out. That detective showing up at Haven House was a real downer. I could only imagine what Preston told him. I drank, mulled over my epic fail.

  Who let the dogs out? Jonathan? Did he read that note and alert the authorities? Doubtful. He couldn’t break privilege. He might sc
rew his patients, and his partner, but he wouldn’t kiss and tell. Too much to lose for loose lips.

  Wait.

  Who’s to say Preston didn’t send the blackmail letter? Maybe that’s why the cop showed up. He suspected her. That had to be it. Preston was the obvious choice. It’d never been clear to any of us what pissed her off enough to try to kill her mother. That photo in her room of her and her dead baby brother—if it was true—who wouldn’t want at least some revenge for that twisted shit? Preston had nothing but time on her hands. Any detective with a pulse would make the leap.

  What about the chief of police? Why didn’t Marv Finney come riding in on his white horse to pull the plug on Preston’s interrogation? Todd Fitzgerald sailed in quick enough. Why not Marv? Could the blush finally be off the Blair Fitzgerald rose?

  I’d bet. Didn’t I always?

  Convinced I’d get away with my failed extortion attempt while the blowback landed on Preston, I felt a kind of peace. My letter might not’ve done the damage I’d intended, but it’d wreak a bit of havoc for the Blair Fitzgeralds. Who knew what else might turn up? I drained my Tiffany glass in one swig, hit speed dial.

  “Hello?” Sherman said.

  “It’s me.”

  “Didn’t we just talk? I left my wife already. Isn’t that what you wanted?” His voice lowered.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  I heard Sherman’s heavy breathing and something else.

  “Is that a woman I hear?” Muffled noises in the background. “I know you’re covering the mouthpiece with your hand. I’m not a complete simpleton.”

  “What are you ranting about?” he said louder. “Listen, why don’t you come over, see my new place? We could get in a little slap and tickle if you hurry.”

  I couldn’t figure Sherman out. He either jumped all over me like a liberal on sanctimony or shunned me like I’d goosestepped my way through Yom Kippur.

  “What? Really?”

  “I’m already hard thinking about it.” He clicked off.