The Invisible Heiress

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  I guess melancholy made me listen again to all the voicemails my father left the past weeks while I, in a passive-aggressive offensive, punished him with my silence. He never mentioned the divorce in any message, but I assume he’d want to tell me that in person.

  One alerted me he’d changed his phone number. Made sense because he’d retired from the DA position. I called the new number several times over several days to ask if he’d left the Queen for Chica but went straight to voicemail every time. In light of his best friend’s death, you’d think he’d keep his head aboveground.

  What’s up with him do you suppose?

  By now, you’re used to me saving the best, most shocking, for last. Try these bits.

  Evidence points to Shrinky killing the Irishman.

  Read that again.

  Shrinky’s a bomber, done it before. Pictorial evidence puts Shrinky, my late husband, and a third shockingly familiar face, at the same place. But in the Irishman’s case, not the same time, at the kink club where Shrinky cavorts alongside someone completely out of her league. Who? Here come da judge is all I’ll say.

  Maybe those pictures are one smoking gun away from incriminating Shrinky and her unlikely judicial mate. While my husband’s reasons for bugging the psycho’s office remain unknown, maybe she found out he’d listened in, didn’t like what she thought he’d heard, then kaboom. Bye-bye, Irishman. Maybe that’s too many maybes.

  The Queen found out about Chica (hence the divorce). She’s got a do-nothing-but-get-everything Ivana Trump post-divorce plan. Not sure of details. Maybe the Jester’s off the grid or faked his own death to avoid the Queen’s formidable rage. Who could blame him? When it comes to dishing out, my money’s on the Queen.

  Before I forget the Royal She’s giving interviews. I’ve watched for said interview to show up somewhere on TV or online but nothing so far.

  Shitstorm’s coming, I can feel it about to rain down on all our heads.

  The Invisible Heiress

  Speak.

  Comments

  Hubba-Hubba

  Of course the Queen’s got a get everything plan. It’s bought and paid for by her rich daddy. She didn’t earn any of it.

  Reply: You obviously never met her daddy.

  Norma B.

  I’m not surprised in the slightest that Shrinky’s a bomber. I can’t believe you are either.

  You should get the story from the Queen directly. Maybe she knows what’s up with the Jester? Why don’t you go through the front door this time? Are you going to stay away forever?

  Reply: I hate to say I’m long on scared shitless and short on nerve.

  Norma B.

  By the way, I am sorry to hear about your father-in-law. Seems suspicious, doesn’t it? Considering the timing. And one more thing—I think the Queen would see you in a heartbeat. Don’t count that out.

  Reply: As if I didn’t have enough to figure or count out.

  4 Christ R Lord

  I know you don’t like me, but you are in my prayers. A suicide is the saddest thing ever.

  Reply: You do annoy me, but I’ll take any prayers I can get.

  4 Christ R Lord

  If you ask me, your father-in-law knew something he shouldn’t have, or did something he shouldn’t have and was afraid he’d get caught. Don’t you ever watch Law and Order?

  Reply: I’d say you just received your first real message from God.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Isabel

  Sherman’s mood has taken a decided downturn since our big day. Even pinching his balls with the needle-nose pliers didn’t raise his spirits. He’s been jumpy, terse. If we hadn’t already gotten hitched I might’ve felt alarmed. Soon as this baby arrives I plan to do what every sane married woman does—live a separate life from my husband. I’d also thought of divorcing him after a decent interval. No prenup (shocking, no?), so I’d get half plus upkeep for the kid. But half’s not all. I want it all.

  Too greedy for my own good is why I found myself in this mess to begin with. A mess I might not get out of.

  Armed with the shocking pages from the notepad I’d found, and directions to what looked like the stables at Beverley, I needed to make a trek to the mighty mansion. Strange thing about the notepad—the author’s unknown. I’d searched every page, no clue about the writer. Well familiar with Sherman’s handwriting (he’d left me plenty of stern notes), whoever scribbled in this thing was definitely not Sherman.

  Mysterious notes in hand, I parked farther from the stables, walked slower. I’d no more than reached the stable doors when I heard one of the gardeners (I assumed) yell something in Spanish. I dashed inside.

  Big enough to house a mid-size family in comfort the swanky barn and stalls stood empty. The whole building shone immaculate, concrete floors polished to a high sheen, the sweet smell of wood shavings, fresh, clean. No horses though. The conversation in Spanish sounded closer so to be safe I darted into the stall nearest the back wall, pulled the gate behind me.

  It took several seconds to adjust to the semi-darkness, several more to figure out what heap of crap I’d nearly tripped over. I crouched down (no easy feat in my condition) to see better. Saw some boxes. I opened one. I opened another and another—looked like a security camera graveyard.

  Just like it said in the notes.

  I think I might’ve found my ace in the hole.

  Since my swollen feet and legs forced me to walk in geologic time it took the better part of an hour to get them all in my car.

  ****

  Tired from my stint at Beverley I was in no mood for Jonathan and his mansplanations. I’d started to unload my treasure trove from the stables into my house when he called. Old habits die hard is the only explanation for my answering.

  “I knew I’d regret giving you my new number,” I said. “What do you want?” I waddled into the house, backed into one of our just-delivered custom chairs, for a cat-and-mouse chat.

  “What are you up to, Isabel?”

  “Don’t you sound menacing?” I said. “If you must know I’m in the middle of decorating my new mansion. You?”

  “Get off it. Your lawyer called.”

  “What dribble are you squawking now?” I didn’t have a lawyer but didn’t want to admit that until Jonathan sated my curiosity. “Why would I need a lawyer?”

  “You tell me. I hate to ask.”

  “What would pique your pea brain to wonder if I’d hired an attorney for Lord only knows what.”

  “He called here looking for you.”

  “He who?”

  “Elmer–” Jonathan paused. I imagined him peering through his professorial bifocals at a scribbled note. “No, Ernest. That’s right, Ernest Shaw.”

  That gnat buzzed around again? “What’d he want?”

  “So he is your lawyer?”

  “What if he is?”

  “Why is he calling me?” Jonathan’s voice turned adolescent squeaky.

  “What’d he say?”

  “Only that he was following up on some paperwork he sent you.”

  “What the—”

  “Are you suing me?” Jonathan yelled now. “This is it, Isabel. I’m going to—”

  I jammed my phone off. What the fuck’s up with this Shaw guy? Paperwork? What paperwork? What about his business card I’d liberated from the floor? Couldn’t say for sure where the stupid thing came from.

  The hairs that’d started growing back in at my neckline tingled. Bad juju wriggled over my stretch-marked skin like worms. I waddled quick as I could to Sherman’s office to try the drawer again. With no proof whatsoever, I knew the contents would change my life forever. I’d bet the McMansion on it. Gave the bronze pull a jerk. Still locked. I’d need to pick the damn thing now. Where’d we put the steak knives?

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Preston

  Not much from Smiley since Marv ate his gun.

  I’d never been a Marv fan, but his suicide still caused a twinge of sadness. Brendan�
��s heart would’ve broken over his father’s self-inflicted demise. Losing a parent is usually a defining moment in an adult child’s life. One made more difficult when the two are estranged. Brendan and Marv had both gone to their graves without any understanding of each other at all.

  I’d planned another snoop session at Beverley but could never get myself to go. Brooding and self-pity took up most of my waking hours. If it weren’t for Walter White and Smiley I’d cave.

  And what on earth had Marv done? My blog follower might’ve been on to something. What did he know that drove him to such an extreme? Or worse, did someone do it for him? Hard to get away with a murder trumped up to look like suicide these days. Modern forensics took that kind of misdirection off the table. But no one ever said killers were smart. Maybe an idiot killed my father-in-law. Who’s to say? Never knowing the whys of his suicide seemed likely.

  Some secrets do go to the grave. Maybe a lot of them.

  The paper reported Chief of Police Marv Finney’s accidental death, not the truth. Of course, the department would do what it could to sneak in that designation, instead of suicide, to preserve his benefits for his family. Did Marv have a family anymore? Who would bury the poor man? Could they find Colleen? Would she care? Should I offer on Brendan’s behalf?

  Mother would know what to do, she always did. Her pitch-perfect decorum buoyed many a calamitous situation. She’d known Marv Finney for more than thirty years. I don’t think she cared much for him or any of the Finneys for that matter. But now two out of three were dead, she’d put the past where it rightly belonged, behind her, at least long enough to do the right thing. Wouldn’t she? The Finneys were family of a kind.

  I almost called her, still knew her number by heart. But stopped. The blood on my hands killed my courage.

  I corralled Walter to take him to the dog park where I blended with the rest of those annoying weirdos who considered themselves puppy parents and paraded among them with a plastic glove on my hand, held aloft like I’d just given a prostate exam.

  With Walter shimmying and chattering beside me I went on my usual hunt for car keys and phone. In my fog I couldn’t keep track of a damn thing. Aunt James’s desk was where I usually got lucky. Sure enough, my phone lay next to my checkbook where I last paid bills. With Marv’s death throwing the precinct into a bit of a flux, Smiley hadn’t the time to check in on my father, as he’d promised as a favor to me. He was trying to find Colleen, which was job enough. A quick search on the small desktop didn’t turn up my keys.

  I pulled the top drawer open. Right on top sat the cream-colored, unopened envelope I’d run across the other day. I flipped it over to see Harrison handwritten on the front in a calligraphy-type penmanship—only her first name, no address. I grabbed my silver letter opener, intended to slice it, then didn’t. Opening the letter felt wrong. My mother still lived. The correspondence had been addressed to her. Besides, if I opened it, no way could I make the thing look like new again. I should forward it.

  Or I could use the letter as an excuse to ring the bell, go through the front door like Norma B. suggested. I swallowed hard. Could I summon the boldness? Before I could make a determination, my phone rang, scared the bejesus out of me. Guard gate. Why could I never remember their names? I answered anyway.

  “Detective Smiley dropped off an envelope for you. Said to tell you he’d come up later. After he gets Chief Finney’s—well, takes care of that sad business.” Guard paused, cleared his throat. “I can bring the envelope to the house when the shift changes.”

  “No, I’m on my way out. I’ll pick it up.”

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Isabel

  I barreled home with my finds from Beverley’s stables focused on Sherman’s locked drawer. I needed to get in that thing. I’d started to bring the cameras in but decided to worry about them after I found whatever lay hidden in that desk. I lumbered through the house to Sherman’s office, reminiscing.

  One of my previous fiancés, the wacko from Waco (as my mom loved to call him) taught me to assemble a fertilizer bomb, kite checks and pick locks. None were as easy as I remembered. When I’d busted in to Preston’s prissy husband’s crap apartment to muss it up it took so long I think three neighbors saw me. Didn’t help his little dog yipped and pissed all over the place. I hadn’t meant to squeeze it so hard, but the thing wouldn’t shut up. Why would a man own such a fem dog anyway?

  Neither bomb I concocted solo got me the expected results. One fizzled, started a lame fire in the office. The other blew a car to the sky along with that pesky Brendan. So far, my attempt at opening Sherman’s desk drawer didn’t work so great either. The steak knife tip proved too big for the hole. I scoured Sherman’s office boxes until I found a box of paperclips.

  That did the trick. You’d be surprised how many of life’s conundrums can be solved with a paperclip. It’s when you try to get fancy that fucks things up. I no more than heard the “click” of success when my cell rang. Sherman. Shit. Well, I’d need to know where he was, how close to home, so I answered.

  “Jesus, did you sprint to your phone?” I said. “You’re huffing and puffing like a rutting pig.” If the pig fit.

  “No, I’m—” he stopped to catch his breath but wasn’t too successful. “I’m—never mind. I’ll explain when I get home. I’m going to be late. Not sure how long.” His voice trailed away.

  “Hello? You there?”

  “I wanted to make sure you’re going to be home later.”

  “Where would I go?”

  “I don’t know where you go half the time.”

  Walked right into that one. “Yeah, well, I’m home. Planned to stay. Where are you? Outside somewhere?”

  “Movers gone?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Sherman composed himself somewhat, his breathing slowed. “We haven’t spent a night uninterrupted since we got married.”

  “Great, now I need to find the lube and—”

  “Don’t worry about that stuff.” He trailed off again. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Wait—”

  He’d gone. Oh well, all I cared about was time. Now I had plenty of it with Sherman out of my hair. Didn’t need to ruffle through the drawer at all. On top, an ominous, yellow envelope lurked, addressed to me. The neat, black-bordered address label matched the business card I’d found from Shaw, Smithson, and Price, Attorneys at Law.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Preston

  I hadn’t planned to bring Walter White with me but couldn’t stand to see his sad face when I told him the dog park would need to wait. He hung his big lunk head, stared at the floor. His disappointment palpable Walter couldn’t bear to look me in the eye. I fell for it.

  Equipped with Walter, the still sealed correspondence addressed to Mom as an excuse, and the envelope from Smiley, I sped to Beverley. With every intention of marching up to the front door, I didn’t. What kind of crazed, homicidal maniac didn’t possess backbone enough to rap on a door? The pep talk I’d given myself on the drive over hadn’t helped. Even Walter, whose unconditional love made me feel worthy, couldn’t close the deal.

  I’d seen my mother up close and personal at Haven House but that was my turf, not hers. Plus, I’d been so angry then. Without rage to buck me up, the thought of facing my mother, her scar blazing, in the house I grew up in, made me woozy. The thought of breaking in unseen again didn’t seem too gonzo anymore.

  What about Walter? Even I knew I couldn’t leave him inside the Rover where he might bake to death.

  I parked near the stables, my usual spot. Since they couldn’t be seen from the house I latched Walter’s long leash to the gate of the first stall. He could sit in the shade just inside or get some sun outside. My visit wouldn’t take long. I didn’t know why I felt compelled to at least catch a glimpse of my mother. I only knew I needed to see her.

  ****

  As if I’d never left I took my usual place under the stairs. Mom sat in the exact same spot, camera g
uy across from her. Mother touched the corners of her mouth, a lipstick check. I’d seen her perform this unconscious act countless times growing up. I felt comforted, like that small gesture signaled divinity. I was meant to be in this spot at this moment. Didn’t even have to wait through a lot of their boring chitchat. A few minutes in and I was rewarded.

  “How’d you find Preston’s blog by the way?” camera guy said.

  Oh, Lordy.

  As soon as mystery guy said “blog,” I knew his identity. Jack. Jack the documentarian who dogged me to let him film my life story, our life story. He’d halfway succeeded. How? Why?

  “I took her journal from Haven House,” Mother said. “I snooped in her room, found it on the desk. Swiped it. She’d written about the blog in the journal. I’d wanted her to stay at Haven House forever, until I read that blog. Sure, a lot of what she wrote hurt. Her rage scared me. But I read other things that gave me pause. Well, I realized my daughter wasn’t beyond help. After that, I wanted to reach out to her to know whether or not she was okay. My online ruse was born.”

  “Norma B.” Jack said.

  I felt like I’d just lifted one foot off the high wire.

  “Yes, as you know.” Mom smiled in that way that made you feel like the only person in the universe.

  “What’s the B stand for?” Jack said.

  “Bates. Norman’s mother.”

  The room went silent then Jack laughed too loudly. Like his boss told a mediocre joke at the company party. They both laughed. Mom sucked him in. I wasn’t too stunned to notice his crush. Norma Bates was a clever pen name though.

  “How did her journal page get back to you? Isn’t that what some nut used to try to blackmail you?”

  “I’d forgotten I tore that page out of Preston’s journal, kept it in my purse. I’d made an appointment with Jonathan something or other, Isabel’s partner. Somehow it got away from me while I was there,” Mother said, shocking the living daylights out of me. “That pompous Jonathan probably sent it. Looked desperate to me.”