The Invisible Heiress

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  “You okay? Is he gone?”

  “Um, yes. Think so.”

  I’d opened my mouth to scream but fear froze me. The second I thought this is it, a chorus of voices then the slam of a door surprised both the creeper and me. Creeper booked, followed by the giggling couple from next door probably on a last-ditch booze run.

  “Isabel, you still there?”

  “What? Yes.”

  “Cops. Did you call?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Call right now. Mention the bugs again. They’ve got to be connected. Maybe Brendan didn’t do anything. If he didn’t the bugger’s still on the loose.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Dial nine-one-one, Isabel. It’s not complicated. A monkey can do it. I’ll hang up.” And he did.

  I’m on it.

  Pulled the covers up around my neck, ears out, listening hard for any squeak or sign the bogeyman returned. Didn’t give a hoot for the late hour. Dialed Sherman. Straight to voicemail. Goddammit. Fine time for his phone to completely break, left another message.

  After the cops conveyed the news about my recently departed mother, naturally I called Sherman to tell him the news. No answer. I left a message. Okay, a couple of messages, maybe ten or fifteen. I left so many because Sherman told me he’s had trouble with his phone lately, can’t hear the ring or retrieve messages. Oh so busy. Oh such a liar.

  A blocked number called over and over, which I ignored. I’d fallen for that creditor ruse before. Then Jonathan called, like a million times. Ignored the obsessive-compulsive dialer until the millionth time. Thought I’d feel comforted, telling Jonathan about my brush with disaster. His broken record, call-the-cops chorus wore thin in a hurry. Sherman could calm my nerves, couldn’t he?

  Of course, Sherman didn’t know a thing about my harridan of a mother. Neither did Jonathan. Humiliating that the biggest, single lottery winner in the United States wouldn’t help her own daughter. Besides, if they thought I might get money out of dear mummy, they’d feel disinclined to pony up. Well, Sherman would. Jonathan’s pony will stay saddled forever.

  Police told me no sign of stepdaddy whose name is apparently Dwayne (what else?). No immediate evidence of foul play. The scroogess dropped dead with no fanfare. Surely stepdaddy Dwayne recognized a winning hand when he saw one (probably dumb as Camille Cosby most days), absconded with everything worth taking.

  No sleep for me, so for giggles I thought I’d see if I could still squeeze into my wedding dress. Didn’t look too bad. Seams puckered a bit what with the weight I’d piled on playing the waiting game, but I put on two girdles, which helped.

  I lay back on my bed, all dressed up, nowhere to go, one eye on the window the other on my phone.

  Someone’s moving in for the kill.

  Chapter Sixty

  Preston

  “We need to talk.” Detective Smiley wriggled out of his coat. “We pulled security tapes from around Brendan’s neighborhood. Anywhere we thought he’d go.”

  “Oh good, great.”

  Smiley beat me to the library, tossed his trench on the ottoman, pushed piles to the side on top of my antique heirloom desk. I snatched the monogrammed blanket I’d tossed near the stack of unpaid bills, shoved it into the top drawer before Smiley got a gander.

  “That desk’s an antique,” I said to distract. “Belonged to my Aunt James.”

  That stopped Smiley’s rearranging. “Oh, I’ll be careful. You didn’t know her, did you?”

  “No. She died well before I arrived. My mother furnished this house.”

  “Look at these. Stills from the security footage.” Smiley spread photos. “Anything jump out?”

  I rotated pics. Smiley plucked one out. A beautifully restored Victorian smack in the center of two parking lots.

  “What about this?” He said.

  “A house turned office?”

  “Your therapist’s office.”

  “Shrinky? You sure?”

  “Yes, if Shrinky is Isabel Warner. That’s the converted offices she shares with a partner, Jonathan Meyers.”

  “What about it?”

  “Brendan might’ve bugged the place. Jonathan Meyer found the bugs. Uniforms dumped their security cameras. Brendan’s on film in their parking lot, as is his Tesla.”

  He handed me another pic of what looked a lot like Brendan’s head and bun.

  “Brendan never found anything that would throw suspicion on Isabel. If so, he never mentioned it,” I said. “Then, well, he couldn’t tell me.”

  “She’s on the radar now.”

  “I think she’s following me.” I pointed out the red car in the parking lot.

  “Why?” He stopped tossing photos around.

  I confessed I’d almost run into the same car the day I’d made Brendan’s funeral arrangements, plus I’d seen her right next to me at a stop sign. What an idiot I was for not telling Smiley earlier. I could never take Shrinky seriously. Right about now underestimating her felt like a big mistake.

  “Any idea why she’d follow you?”

  “Other than she’s mad as a hatter? No. But I could be wrong. It’s not like I own the roads. She could’ve been going anywhere, right?”

  He’d taken out a pad. Wrote fast, made a few more notations, then said, “It’s possible, but I’ll reserve judgment for now. All we know is Brendan was in the parking lot a couple of weeks before they found the bugs. But his prints weren’t at the scene. If they were they would’ve come up. He’s in the system.”

  Brendan knew how to break the law. Of course he’d never leave fingerprints.

  “If Brendan thought nosing around Isabel would turn up anything useful, can’t believe he didn’t tell me.”

  “Maybe he would’ve the day he died, if he’d found something.”

  “So nothing but more questions,” I said.

  Leaning against the desk with Cooper’s blanket stuffed in, I decided to come clean. I opened the drawer, pulled the thing out. Smiley was trying to help me. My natural inclination to hoard info would only hurt me.

  “I found this in Brendan’s apartment.”

  “A hand towel?” Smiley said.

  “My brother Cooper’s receiving blanket.”

  I showed him the monogram.

  “That’s odd. Why would Brendan have that?”

  “No idea.”

  He took the blanket to get a closer look.

  “Cooper died, what? Decades ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you think this blanket looks new?”

  I grabbed it back. “I don’t know. It’s not like it got used much.”

  “Can I take it?”

  “No.” I shoved the blanket back in the drawer.

  I felt Smiley thinking. Wondering, like I did, about the blanket’s significance and how the thing could be new. I’d never noticed anything but the small embroidered initials. New or old its randomness made it feel important. He wrote on his pad but didn’t press me to give up the blanket.

  “Probably doesn’t mean anything,” he said. “It’s not a crime to own a baby blanket.”

  Smiley thought it did mean something. I could tell by the way his brows scrunched together and he kept adding to whatever he was writing.

  “Back to the bugs,” he said. “I need motive. Why would Brendan have bugged Isabel’s office? For all we know he went to talk about you. Or make an appointment. Nothing solid connects Brendan to the bugs. Love to get a look at Isabel and her partner’s computers but can’t get a warrant.”

  “Why not?”

  “HIPAA laws for one. They’re psychiatrists. For another, far as we know, they’re the victims in this. Keep looking through the photos.” Smiley shifted his weight from one foot to the other. We’d stayed standing behind Aunt James’s desk.

  I flipped through a few more. One showed Brendan’s Tesla blurred by its motion caught in still frame, passing by an almost imperceptible building with no clear identity. I pointed.

  “Th
is?”

  “Private fetish club.”

  That staggered me.

  “What? Drugs and freaky shit sex too?”

  How could a man I’ve known since nursery school end up a complete stranger?

  “Just because he drove by it doesn’t mean he indulged.” Smiley held the photo up toward the light.

  “True.”

  Still. I didn’t think he’d have a Chica either.

  “Security footage from inside gave no clues. Everyone’s masked.”

  “Freaks.”

  “Casino in the front. Nothing obvious there either,” Smiley said. “Anything else?”

  I shuffled through more pics, aware of Smiley’s nearness, his earthy scent. No matter how seductive his packaging, or how much I trusted him, there was some info I still needed to hoard. Like, my peeping at Beverley. I wanted to keep anything that might make me look peculiar, more peculiar, to myself.

  Thinking of hoarded info and Beverley reminded me. I’d never shown Smiley that last photo of me and Cooper.

  Even though it seemed less and less likely that my parents had done anything criminal, whenever I ran across the photo I’d tossed on Aunt James’ desk, I felt uneasy about their innocence. Smiley worked his ass off on my behalf, I needed to help, not hinder. I dug the photo out from under the accumulation.

  “What about this?” I held out the pic.

  He looked taken aback for a sec.

  “Well, let me see. This is you?”

  “And Cooper.”

  “You were beautiful even then,” he said. “Cooper too. Definitely genetically blessed.”

  “Beautiful? Cooper’s dead in that picture.” I heard myself talking too loudly.

  “What?” Smiley jerked the pic out of my hand. Looked at me, then the pic, then back again. “Preston, I’ve seen more dead people than I care to remember in person and in photos.”

  Somehow, I knew what he’d say next.

  “Cooper is very much alive in this picture.”

  ****

  “Sorry to disturb, ma’am.”

  The biggest dog on earth stood at attention next to the guard.

  “Couldn’t leave my post,” he said. “And since you let the cop posted at your front door go I wasn’t sure what to do with him, exactly.”

  The beautiful beast stood still, bearing proud, military like. A bright orange vest yelled “Do Not Pet” on both sides. A lone reporter snapped shots from across the road. I’d fallen far on the ladder of interest.

  “Holy Mother. Is that a Dalmatian or what?”

  I jumped out to get a good look at the most gorgeous animal.

  Guard shuffled through the file in his hands. “Oh no, ma’am. Great Dane. A harlequin.”

  “It’s a he?”

  Guard peered around the Dane’s south forty. “Yes, but neutered.” He read through more of the paperwork. “Says he’s trained. There’s a list of commands. If you take off the vest he relaxes. Vest on he’s at work.”

  “Work? What’s his job?”

  “I’d say protecting you.”

  “Where’d he come from? Or who?”

  “No idea. A real nice lady dropped him off. She said to give you this.”

  I tore open the envelope he handed me. A plain piece of typed paper read, “He can use the dog dish.”

  “A nice lady from where?” I said.

  “Training place, I thought. But now that you mention it she didn’t say exactly.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  Guard scratched his chin. “Well, normal, I guess. Nothing special. I can pull up the surveillance.” He pointed to one of the two cameras looming at the gate.

  I followed him into the guardhouse where he pressed keys and scrolled up, down, and around on the monitor.

  “Here she is,” he said.

  I looked over his shoulder. “You’re right. Nothing special. Never seen her. White van, unmarked.”

  “I’ve got the license plate. I can run it.”

  “Please do.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying, you’re gonna need a dog run.”

  “Huh? What’s that?”

  “A place in your backyard fenced off just for him. These types of dogs make a hell of a mess. If you know what I mean.”

  “Oh right. Great Dane-sized shit.”

  “Dinosaur sized more like it.”

  “How does he know he’s supposed to protect me? I didn’t train him. He’s never seen me before.”

  “He’ll know. They just do.”

  “You a security and dog expert?”

  “Danes are just about the best dogs ever. My daughter’s got two. He’ll die for you if need be.”

  I reached to pet my new friend, who stepped back.

  “Don’t.” Guard pointed at the neon vest. “Take it off him when you get back up to the house. Then you can get to know each other.”

  “He got a name?” I said.

  Guard referred once more to the folder. “Let’s see. Oh, yep. Here it is—name’s Walter, of all things. Walter White.”

  That froze me. Whoever sent the dog knew about Jesse Pinkman.

  He opened my car door, said, “Up.”

  The magnificent creature hopped into the back, reclined like royalty on the leather seat, neck craned, ears alert.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Isabel

  “Christ. What do you want now, Jonathan? Sun’s barely up. You’re phone-stalking me.”

  “You never mentioned your mother. Not that I ever wondered. But—”

  “My mother? What are you—”

  “Across town this whole time?”

  “Yeah. So. What about her?”

  “She died.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “How do you know anything about my mother?”

  “Morning paper, second page. ‘Biggest Lottery Winner’s Luck Ran Out.’”

  ****

  I sprinted to the corner 7-Eleven for the day’s paper, still wearing my nuptial dress, now ripped at the seams. In a tizzy, I’d stuffed my swollen feet into the footwear closest to my bed, Uggs.

  “Love the walk-of-shame outfit,” said the mouthy cashier, with at least three missing teeth, to my back, as I dashed out with a fresh copy of the Tribune.

  Just like a convenience store brainiac to get all judgmental while she counts fingers to give back change for a fucking Slurpee.

  Rooted in the parking lot, I tore open the newspaper. Jonathan said the second page. Why didn’t I anticipate media interest? She’d made the papers when she won. I sped-read through the crap I already knew. Focused on the important blips: Survived by her husband, Dwayne Cooney, and her only child, daughter Isabel Warner, a local therapist. As of press time, calls to Mister Cooney and Doctor Warner have not been returned. It’s unknown if either or both inherit Ms. Turner’s record-holding lottery winnings.

  My name didn’t come up when she raked in millions but leave a decaying corpse and suddenly family matters.

  ****

  “That her?” the coroner’s office minion said.

  “Yes.” Mom looked mostly the same dead or alive, same casino pallor, gray hair long, stringy, dirty. To my shock, a tear bubbled to the edge of my fake lashes. I touched her cold, hard-as-concrete face but resisted the urge to bid my lifelong archenemy adieu with a kiss. I studied her for several minutes, taking her in. I wondered if my baby would resemble her at all.

  The baby I’d grown to love, more or less, despite not wanting to at all.

  “Listen, it’s late,” the minion said. “I shouldn’t have let you in.”

  “You did though. Can we move on?”

  Minion yanked the sheet over Mom’s head. How surprised was I when he pushed the refrigerated drawer shut and it felt like a fist to my windpipe? Fighting the urge to keel over, I leaned against the cold steel, reached for my belly as was my habit these days. Reality slapped me hard. All these years, I’d waited for my mother to love me. Now she never would.

  “Autops
y won’t get done for at least forty-eight hours. Plenty of time to get your ducks in a row.” The oblivious minion hustled me out then locked the door behind me.

  I took Lamaze breaths, consigned my unexpected grief to the back burner of my mind, then tooled over toward Sherman’s part of town. Planned to have a come-to-Jesus with my duck tout de suite. With that in mind, lo and behold, my route took me right to the winding dirt road off the highway on Beverley’s backside.

  Did I dare? Again?

  I’d need to exercise caution in broad daylight so I parked farther away from the stables than last time. Wished I’d have worn sturdier footwear than Uggs but managed a quick lope across the yard that brought me flush against the back wall of the Blair Fitzgerald plantation. I ducked down near a window, then peeked around the frame, and saw Harrison plus young buck clear as a summer sky.

  What in jumping Jesus were they doing?

  Harrison sat prim, proper, coiffed, on what I’d call a settee of some sort, across from her boy who operated a video camera. Rapt, I watched for who knows how long. Harrison’s fuchsia lips moved, then the boy fidgeted with a whatchacallit on the camera. Boy’s lips moved, then Harrison’s, then boy adjusted some doohickey on the tripod. If I had to guess, I’d say he asked questions, she answered, he filmed. No network logo on the camera that I could see. Did that mean he wasn’t a reporter conducting an interview? No, the boy asking questions was the same one I saw kissing Harrison last time.

  Was a Harrison Blair pool boy movie in the works?

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Preston

  “I believe you or someone who works here dropped off a dog at my house earlier,” I said to the tie-dyed onesie, puka-shell wearing woman behind the counter. Looked like the one caught on my security camera. Gate guard IDed the van’s plates, owned by It’s a Dog’s Life kennel and training.

  “Walter White,” I said, in case she’d need me to identify him.

  “Oh, yes, he’s a great dog. Don’t you just love him?” she said.