The Invisible Heiress

by Kathleen O'Donnell

I realized he didn’t give me the new address, then laughed. Of course he assumed I found it myself.

  He assumed right.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Preston’s Blog

  Musings from the Dented Throne

  The Heiress, Interrupted

  Tsunami’s hit the beach.

  Been a dog’s age since my last post. The Heiress needed time to gird her loins. I promised details. You know moi, eager to please as that snatch Mother Teresa. I remembered some snippets from that night—dreamt it—but know I’m on the road to truth. I keep rerunning my visions like a film behind my eyes. I see clear.

  So loud. An unbearable shrill clanging, like an air raid alert, made me want to cover my ears. The Queen burst in. Must’ve set off the alarm. Thinking about the look on her face blasts me, skin alabaster, sweaty, eyes rolled wild. She lunged. I parried. Fury overrode reason. The Jester, out of nowhere, jumped in the middle of the fray.

  So much blood. The Queen’s hands grasped at the gash at her neck, her life spurting out. She crumpled, a Chanel heap soaked in vermillion. The box cutter clattered to the wood floor. Would I have used it that day to . . . to what? Open a package? I think I remember doing that or something like that. I was high. It’s all a haze now. But why’d I have it then? Did I think I’d need it to defend myself later? Who knows?

  The Queen garbled choked sounds. I tried to lip-read. She clawed in my direction with one blood-soaked hand, the other clutched her gushing wound. The last thing my mother saw before losing consciousness? Me. To the grave I’ll carry the message she relayed by the only means left—her eyes. I’m sorry. I failed.

  Sirens screamed. I covered my ears, trailed blood through my hair. I know because later my strands dried stiff as uncooked spaghetti. The Jester paced. A madman, muttering nonsense, his wounded hand streamed blood of its own. My lawman father-in-law showed up, who knows when, kept up alongside.

  What preceded such a bloodied skirmish?

  No one recalls. But now I think I might.

  Maybe I found the Queen’s written revelation—but this is where the waters get murky. Yes, my faithful, the Royal She kept notes, admitted she killed my brother, her own son. Knowing my predilection for controversy, I’m sure I baited her with her own words, proof on paper. I realize this interpretation of events might be a stretch, but for some reason it’s bored into my brain.

  Anyway, father-in-law dragged my ass to a squad car. Grabbed furniture to anchor in. Felt desperate to take Mom’s admission with me along with the long-gone Littlest Heir’s favorite blanket that might’ve hidden the Queen’s memoir. I remember his tiny monogram—three petite initials in a subtle, tasteful font. Both stayed behind. Kicked, yelled, railed to the universe all the way to the state hospital detox ward.

  Hand to Bible—I am guilty—because I thought the Queen deserved it. But I didn’t kill anyone. She did. What zapped the Heiress’s memory? A strange, unfamiliar detective powered in to my abode today, not my father-in-law, to my shock and awe. He waved the old, familiar words under my upturned nose. Soon as I held the copy of the powder-keg confession, I knew I’d read those words before.

  No statute of limitations on murder.

  Here’s a real humdinger for you, did you note I said an unfamiliar detective came to paw around my space? My father-in-law chief of police sent a flunky. Why? In all the years I’ve lived on planet Royal We, no one but the head honcho wrangled our indiscretions. Now, all of a sudden, we’re treated like we live in a rental or ride the bus? If you know the meaning, cough it up.

  Even so, no way any dick, new or old, no matter their brawn, would slap the silver bracelets on the Royal She. We’re talkin’ generations of police favoritism. Don’t need to look any further than my own cozy setup for proof. Queen would rather take a lethal injection than suffer public embarrassment. Can’t figure why the police would go through ultimately useless motions. Can you?

  If you want more . . .

  After so many weeks of hellish silence, I finally got a note from my Irishman. So feeble with relief, I almost face planted. I’m alive but not safe. On to something big. Talk soon. Hang tight.

  Is there any other way to hang?

  The Invisible Heiress

  Talk is cheap. Thank God, because I’ve got to shell out for my own lifestyle.

  Comments

  Jack

  That’s big, big news, Heiress. Maybe the old guard’s dead. Cops don’t see the humor in coverups these days. If I were you I wouldn’t count on anyone in your family getting away with murder anymore.

  Reply: Still. What new could’ve developed to throw our get-out-of-jail-free-card guy off the payroll?

  Jack

  Friendships don’t always last forever. Maybe they fell out? Could be as simple as that. Maybe the stooge father-in-law got tired of covering up shit.

  Maggie May

  Forget about father-in-law for now. What’s Shrinky say about your recollections? You might not be able to trust what you remember, right? Sounds unreliable all the way around.

  Reply: Shrinky who?

  Well Hung Jung

  Father-in-law probably assumes no wrong doing on the Queen’s part. No intrigue there, so why waste his time and handcuffs? I don’t think anyone got murdered. What you describe only exists in fiction. A classic example of mixed the fuck up. A booty call could clear out the cobwebs. I’d do you for free.

  Reply: Priceless, I’m sure.

  Norma B.

  You should get out.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Isabel

  “Preston’s gone,” Judy said from the reception station. Not her usual spot.

  “What?”

  “She barreled out of her room carrying her laptop, some papers. I no more than stepped in front of this desk when a car pulled up out front. Preston hopped in. Off they drove.”

  “What car?

  “Um, no idea,” Nurse Judy said. “Nondescript. Beige, I think.”

  “You let a criminal waltz out?”

  Why did my legs feel full of sand?

  “Preston’s not a criminal. You should know that. She’s free to walk.”

  “Since when? Judge Seward—”

  “Sent over a signed order—Preston met all agreed conditions, which were really no conditions at all. Wimp. All the crap Preston’s pulled but she’s still free to—”

  “Anyone think to tell me?”

  “Ever look in your inbox? What’s wrong with you lately, Isabel? Not like you to neglect your patients.”

  “You didn’t think to call me when Preston rode off into the sunset with a stranger in a car? I am Preston’s therapist.”

  I gripped the ledge of the reception counter. Felt my stack getting ready to blow.

  “You don’t know for sure it was a stranger. Besides you didn’t answer. Left a voicemail. You don’t listen to those either anymore.”

  “Do her parents know?”

  “Left a message with her father. Been told Harrison’s in no shape. As you know, all things Preston go to Todd. Or did you forget that too?”

  Shit. I got exactly what I wanted. So why did I feel like I’d swallowed an anvil?

  “Dodged out of here so fast she didn’t take all her crap. Now I’ll need to box it up,” Judy said. “You know, Isabel, you’re not yourself. I’ve been worried about you for weeks. Are you—”

  I sped to Preston’s room, hackles up, leaving Judy to talk to the air.

  The door stood open, nothing to hide. Preston’s books covered most of the floor space, shelf too. The creepy photo of Preston holding Cooper in God knows what stage of rigor mortis, gone. On her desk nothing but a small pad of Post-it notes still in the cellophane. Even though I’d wanted her entitled bullying ass out of what was left of my hair, I wanted her out on my terms. How dare she just decide on her own to leave? I resented the element of surprise. She’d done it. Like that, she’d split.

  Sneaky bitch called my bluff.

  Part II

>   Nottingham Lane

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Preston’s Blog

  Musings from the Dented Throne

  Now You See Me

  The Heiress shawshanked herself out of the bin.

  Took Norma B.’s sound-bite advice—made my breathtaking great escape. Never mind I could’ve strolled out unimpeded way before now. Okay, escape might be an overstatement. A nail file chiseled breakout makes a better story than an email to Uber. I decided to cut my dependence on everyone else to save me.

  That’s right my faithful.

  The Heiress is trying to assimilate on the outside.

  The Irishman’s not yet aware of my address change. Not sure how to apprise him of this new situation. My amateur detective husband will figure out my whereabouts when he next calls the loony bin or maybe he might even make a personal appearance there since he found out something big. I hope he doesn’t tarry. Don’t even know where my own husband lives. Soon as my wits are about me, I’ll figure that out if I have to.

  My rush to live free feels like less of a relief than I imagined. I expected my house to look like Miley Cyrus rode her wrecking ball through, but instead it’s spotless. Chica’s left no footprint. Nevertheless, there’s a presence here I’m not sure I can abide—a blackened, haunting aura met me at the front door. Felt like strings connected my legs to my heart, every step delivered a sharp yank to my breastbone, yet here I stay.

  I wait, on pins and needles, to hear of the Queen’s arrest for offing her own child. Though I know that’s a long shot. Considering my own run in with the Royal She you’d think unbridled joy would run wild through my veins at the thought of her capture. I’m full of sorrow instead.

  Should I call? Visit? Check in on her well-being? Ironic, I know. Can’t help but wonder how the Queen zoomed from barking insults and orders during visits to me at the psych ward, to crazed harridan, swooning in public on TV, to food-stained zombie in such short order. Then she vanished from my sight. Family therapy tanked months ago, and she’s flown under my radar since. I’ll admit curiosity as much as anything might motivate me to go a-calling.

  What do you say to the mother whose throat you cut?

  I beg your forgiveness?

  Why does that phrase keep coming to mind? Do I want her to forgive me? Whatever I want feels much more than that.

  No Irishman. No Mother. No drugs. Yet somehow, I’m hopeful. No reason. Better bust a move. Lots of nitpicky household crap to do. Like hire a new maid. Woe is me, right? Then I’ve gotta plan next steps.

  The Invisible Heiress

  If you’ve anything to add, do.

  Comments

  Well Hung Jung

  Why the rush to springboard out? Whoever’s got it in for the Irishman will add you to the list, no? Aren’t you scared?

  Reply: Shitless, WHJ. Shitless.

  Well Hung Jung

  I’m at the ready. Happy to hand out a beating to anyone who needs one with my hard, pulsating bat.

  Reply: I’d never send a boy to do a man’s job.

  Amy W.

  Wow. Fingers crossed for you and the Queen. Somewhere there’s a happy ending. I can feel it. What do you have to lose by visiting her? The worst’s happened already.

  Reply: I’ll stuff that thought in my bong and smoke it. As soon as I find it.

  Jack

  Now that you’re out I can really help you. Seriously. A cameraman following you around tends to keep evildoers away. Plus, you’d make a ton.

  Reply: I already have a ton. They don’t call me the Heiress for nothing.

  Norma B.

  Good job on the break out. You seem intelligent. Use your head. Stay safe. Make no promises. Follow no one’s rules. Call me naïve, but I think the questions surrounding the Queen will straighten themselves out in due time. Give that unpleasant train of thought a rest. Tread lightly. Find your husband.

  Chapter Forty

  Preston

  Detective Smiley loitered on my steps. “Can I come in?”

  “Can I stop you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Maybe you’ll entertain me.”

  I motioned the dreamy detective through the doors, blasé as all get out. Chica had camped out in my home. My mother might have killed my brother. Marv Finney pawned me off. A dangerous, delicious detective with hazy motives stalked me. Got my game face on though. It’s never a good idea to let a cop catch you with your skirt over your head.

  “Your driveway’s longer than my street,” Smiley said.

  “All the houses on Nottingham Lane have long lanes. It’s a thing.” Nervy dick started toward the back of the house without so much as a by-your-leave. I followed.

  “Beautiful house.” Smiley snaked through the entry hall to the great room/kitchen area. “Can I sit?”

  He didn’t wait for permission before sitting in a shabby chic, dining table chair, too comfortable for my taste. Not sure what to do with my hands, or anything else, I poured two steaming mugs of the French roast I’d made right before his infringement.

  Smiley considered the view behind the wall of windows at the back of my kitchen, engrossed for a few moments. Even I admired the perfect pastoral splendor of Virginia’s rolling hills. Money did buy happiness or at least a great place to live while you searched for it.

  “Your aunt lived on Nottingham Lane, didn’t she? Before she killed herself?” Smiley finally said.

  My coffee caught in my throat. “Um, yes, a few houses down. Aunt James, my mother’s sister.”

  “Mental illness runs in the family?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”

  “Some kind of crazy shit runs amok in your family.”

  “Checkmate.” I stirred the sugar around in my coffee.

  “So you pretty much absconded out of Haven House?”

  “Well, I’ve always been free to leave. More or less.”

  He blew on the top of his mug like the brew was too hot, but it might’ve been nervous fiddling. I wondered if he felt as jittery as me.

  “What do your folks say about that?” he said.

  “My mother doesn’t say anything to me. My father, well, he’s sad, mad, scared for me, all of the above. I had to call him to let me in my house, unfortunately. Gave me an earful. Which reminds me I’ve got to change the damn locks and alarm code. Dad’s got court today or he’d be here already saying all kinds of bullshit.”

  “Ah, right. You’re Daddy’s girl.”

  That would’ve set me off except he sounded sincere, almost sweet. I studied him. Smiley looked a sad lot. Hollowed. His clothes looked like they used to fit before a hunger strike. If I could peel back his drawn skin I might find only air. Nevertheless, there was something familiar about this new, gloomy detective. Well, new to me. What exactly?

  “You ever wade through one of my parent’s parties? What with all your years on their paid-for-police department?” I said.

  “No. Not a partying, or paid-for, kind of guy.”

  “Did you work my case?” I cleared my throat. “You know. Before.”

  “Not much of a case to work, I heard. But no, I wasn’t around that night.”

  I stopped mid-sip. That night. Those two small words sounded like a twenty-one-gun salute to shame flush with my ears. I felt myself die a little on the inside. Silly, I know. Not like everyone and the horse they rode in on didn’t know. He referred to it the same way I did. That night. Why I minded Smiley’s exacting reference, I couldn’t say. But here he reclined, poking old wounds. My shit-don’t-stink façade dissolved.

  “You obviously know the deal.” I stared at the table like the Shroud of Turin could be found there.

  “Pretty much,” Smiley took a dainty nip of his coffee.

  “Why are you here? What do you want?”

  “Do you think Harrison killed Cooper? Maybe by accident?”

  “You’re still on that?” I said. “Does it matter what I think? I mean I was hardly old enough to for
m an opinion, gut or otherwise. Some might say I’m biased, not in my mother’s favor, considering what I did. Anyway—”

  “Hey,” he touched my arm. “Slow down. It’s okay.”

  “No. I don’t think she killed Cooper, accident or otherwise,” I lied.

  “Really?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “You’re pissed off at her for something big, aren’t you?”

  My thoughts exactly. He’d connected my rage with that confession just like I did. Maybe he wasn’t just a pretty face after all. Need to bring my A game to deal with this guy.

  “Who do you think sent me Harrison’s confession?”

  “Alleged confession.”

  I needed more than a nanosecond before I’d offer up my mother to Dudley Do-Right. She might be a blue-blooded bitch, but she was my blue-blooded bitch.

  “All right,” he said. “Alleged.”

  “Like I know? Been holed up at Whackadoodle Inn.”

  “Who would want to stir up trouble for your mother?”

  “Besides me?”

  He traced the edge of the mug with his finger.

  “Fuck all,” I said. “You think I sent that?”

  “Did you?” He took another pull on his coffee. “More than one way to get rid of your mother.”

  “Sending anonymous letters isn’t my style. Too subtle.”

  “I’m getting a subpoena for Cooper’s medical records. They should tell us what we need to know.”

  “Like those can’t be doctored.” I really needed to stop thinking out loud, but still. I couldn’t believe how naïve this guy was.

  “You really think your parents are god-like, don’t you? There’s nothing they can’t fix? Well, it’s hard to hide much in the information age. This isn’t the fifties.”

  I didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. Said too much already. Clearly, Smiley didn’t know, or pretended not to know, just who the Blair Fitzgeralds were and what they were capable of. We played chicken across my kitchen table. A clanging phone cut the silence.