by I. L. Wolf
“Ungrateful what?”
Venetia took another step toward the door, but neither seemed to notice.
“I think he called you a biddy,” she said, knowing the exact distance to the Achilles’ heel within her sight. “It’s another way to say ‘old lady.’”
“You’re now calling me ‘old?’ Because that’s not what you had to say when we got embroiled with all this mess, not that first time in your office, and not the times after—”
“Ew. Ew, I am really hoping that I am totally misunderstanding what is being said here, and either way you don’t need to say it. At least not now. In front of me. On account of the queasy.”
“Oh grow up, Venetia,” they both said in unison.
“You already said you knew,” said Sissy, “there’s no need for hysterics.”
“So you not only slept with Tipsy in your office, you slept with my aunt? What is wrong with you?”
“What does she mean, you slept with Tipsy?”
“Why would it be your business?” he said.
“When was this?” Sissy said.
Venetia sensed her chance and she dove for it, trying to hold her most recent meal where it belonged. “Right around the time you were securing the estate of your late husband, I’d say.”
“When she said you’d slept with a client, I assumed she meant me,” she said. “There were others?”
“You’re concerned about the fidelity of your lawyer’s physical affections? Sissy, not for the first time in your life, I don’t think you have your priorities straight.” Venetia turned toward Dane. “How many clients have you slept with?”
“It’s really not relevant,” he said. “There are far more important things happening here, and I think, Sissy, you are losing sight of them.”
“Don’t tell me what you think,” she said. “You aren’t here to think. You were never here to think, you low-level idiot.”
“Wow, she’s mad,” said Venetia. “I wonder how mad she really is?”
“Stop with that, Venetia, I know what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“You’re trying to antagonize me.” Sissy’s look was sharp and pointy.
“What do you mean, I’m a low-level idiot?” Dane nearly sputtered the words. “I got you the estate, didn’t I?”
“As if you actually had anything, really, to do with it. You were an errand boy, Dane. A boy. That’s it. In all senses of the word.”
“What was the errand?” said Venetia.
“Well, it was something he wasn’t able to manage competently,” she said, “or we wouldn’t be in the bind we’re in now.”
“Ah, when there’s trouble, now we’re we,” he said.
“Why are you the beneficiary of Delenda’s life insurance policy?” said Venetia.
“I don’t see why you keep harping on that.”
“It’s weird, Sissy. And given your fondness for collecting all the money from dead people, and Delenda conveniently becoming dead, I’d say it’s a pretty relevant question.”
“I told you, we’re family. That’s how it works.”
“But that’s the strange thing,” she said, “I’ve never understood how it works in our case. How, exactly, is Delenda related?”
“That’s what you want to talk about now? I don’t have time for this. I’ll give you three hours to get the documents to us, and that’s it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said.”
“Or what? Sissy, you have absolutely no earthly control over me, and frankly, your problems are your problems.”
She closed the final distance toward the exit, storming past a long glass display case, the surface strewn with papers. The conspicuously un-dusty pages smeared dirt where they’d spread.
“What are these?” she said.
“You don’t need to tell her,” said Dane.
“Why didn’t you put all that away before she came in here?” Sissy spat out her words, the edges ragged.
“You didn’t say to put them away.”
“Are you, in fact, a moron?” Sissy said.
“That’s pretty mean,” said Dane.
Venetia pushed the papers around, hoping to find a little light. “Those are none of your business,” said Sissy.
“Frankly, I’m not concerned about that,” Venetia said. “This is a paternity test.” She shifted the paper in the dimness until she found a brighter spot. “No. Wait. This is a maternity test. Who needs a maternity test?”
“Obviously people do, or they wouldn’t exist. Back to the matter at hand.”
“No,” said Venetia, “this is the matter at hand. Why is there a maternity test here?”
Sissy’s lips practically disappeared into her face. “It’s really none of your business. Those are documents I have. You’re here to discuss ones I need.”
“Where are the lights in this place?” she said, feeling along the wall. “Did you not keep up the electricity?” She fumbled along, finally finding a switch. The fluorescents popped and buzzed as they flickered, reluctantly, to life. All three of them blinked against the newfound glare.
When her vision cleared, Venetia gaped at her aunt. “Sissy, what happened to your face?” The right side, from above her eye to below her cheek, was a dark red, heading toward purple.
“I have no idea what you could mean.”
“You aren’t aware of the enormous bruise on half of your face?”
“Small, irrelevant accident.”
“What’s actually going on?” Venetia emphasized her words with her hand, prompting her to look at the paper she forgot she still held.
“I need documents. That is the entirety of what you need to know.”
She read the paper slowly, flipped it to the second, stapled sheet, and back again. “Delenda paid for a maternity test.”
“Again, I’m not sure how to express to you in your native tongue that that is not important at the moment.”
“Well, until you can explain to me how you got that shiner you’re sporting, I think this moves into first place.” She turned back to Dane, who was still blinking dramatically. “What, are you hung over or something?” He angled his head away from her, studying an empty corner. “You are, aren’t you. Wow, you’re all kinds of in good shape. That bender that earned you that hangover, it wouldn’t have had anything to do with that eye, would it?”
“What?” he said. “What do you take me for?”
“The list is long and sordid,” said Venetia.
“She’s got your number there,” Sissy said.
“We’re supposed to be on the same side,” Dane said. “You’re really not good at this cooperation thing.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s going to say on her tombstone,” said Venetia.
“Can we please refrain from discussing my tombstone?” Sissy had paled under her bruise.
“OK, so you can tell me what’s really happening, or you can tell me why you have a maternity test Delenda paid for.”
“Why don’t you tell her what your relationship with Delenda really was?” said Dane.
“I’m listening,” said Venetia.
“It’s not relevant to anything,” said Sissy.
“Well, given that she’s dead, it could be.”
“I wouldn’t have killed her,” she said. “Ever.”
“Right, because your word is so believable,” Venetia said.
“She was my daughter,” said Sissy. “Happy?”
“No, not really. What do you mean she was your daughter?”
“What else could those words mean?”
“I thought she was one of your husband’s sister’s daughters.”
“That was because it was a long time ago, and no one raised children as single parents.”
“So she got a maternity test? Why on earth would she?”
“She didn’t believe me when I told her,” she said, “she thought it could be a way for me to double cross
her.”
“Double cross her? With what? That makes exactly no sense.”
“I’m sorry it doesn’t sound all neat and tidy for you, Venetia, but Delenda was mine. And we had the DNA test to prove it.”
“Why?”
“Let’s leave it at that.”
“So framing me was a big old family affair? A regular party?”
“Framing you? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, get off it, Sissy. I know.”
“You know what?”
“I know.”
“This again. You can keep repeating that phrase, but it won’t give me any greater insight into what, on earth, you could mean.”
“Lanmark Real Estate. We’re in it.”
“So?”
“A subsidiary of ShamCorp? Ringing a bell?”
“I have no idea what that has to do with anything, Venetia. But it’s so like you, only worrying about yourself at a time like this.”
“A time like what?”
“I’ve explained it to you. I need those papers from your client, or I can likely expect more of, well, this,” she said, vaguely motioning to her face.
“Who did that?”
“It’s not important.”
“Delenda is really your daughter?”
“One of your most frustrating habits is that you never seem to move forward in a conversation. Yes, as I told you, she was my daughter.”
“I’ve got to go,” Venetia said.
“Are you going to give them to us or not?” said Dane.
“I wouldn’t give you a life preserver if you were drowning in a pool of your own lies,” Venetia said.
“That’s very colorful,” said Dane. “Not all that coherent, but colorful.”
“Your problems, and let’s be clear, I mean the both of you, your problems are not my problems. Whatever kind of ridiculous bed you’ve created for yourselves, those sleeping accommodations are all you.”
She closed the distance to the door, her hand on the knob, when she was startled by the light, papery feel of Sissy’s hand on her arm.
“Venetia, I’ve never asked you for much.”
“That’s not entirely true,” she said.
“But this situation has gotten whatever it is that lies beyond desperate. I need your help.”
“Sissy, we are standing in the very evidence, physical evidence, of how much regard you’ve shown me my whole life. Need a scapegoat? Use Venetia. Need an errand girl? Oh, Venetia. Need something that you don’t have a right to in the first place? Venetia.
“Oddly, in all these years, I haven’t seen you going to your supposed daughter for these things.”
“It’s completely different,” she said. “She was supposed to have—never mind. I can safely tell you that our lives are at stake at this point.”
“And that’s the thing,” said Venetia. “Your lives. What about mine?”
She shoved her way out of the shop, the broken bell above the door still giving a half-hearted, flat ding.
Chapter 22
Delenda was Sissy’s daughter? It seemed awfully farfetched. Why the cover-up for all of those years? Who would bother?
Venetia whipped out her phone and took pictures of the labels in the store windows, eventually making her way back to the car. She checked her messages, one from Detective James, wanting to know if she was OK, and another from Billie, asking for some things from her apartment. Mason texted to say hello, and first she sent him a quick response, then Cadby. She set out for Billie’s.
Claiming to be Delenda’s mother didn’t rule out Sissy. Or Dane, for that matter.
What was the obsession with those documents? And where were they?
Billie’s apartment was a two-bedroom walkup between storefronts. The street was pretty much all retail and business, her unit split above a hipster clothing store and a computer tech shop.
Venetia jiggled the key in the lock, it was old and uncooperative, but she finally got the door open. The place was a disaster.
And not Billie’s normal disaster, either.
Drawers were upended all over the floor, papers slid from cabinets to the floor, and even the couch cushions were cut and bleeding stuffing. It looked like whoever attacked Billie harbored some anger toward her apartment too.
***
Detective James arrived in under ten minutes. “You found it like this?” he said.
“I certainly didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re implying,” she said. “Billie’s not the best housekeeper, but she isn’t this bad. You guys never executed a warrant?”
“Not like this,” he said.
Several gloved officers carefully made their way around them, and he motioned her to step out into the hall.
“How well do you know her place?” he said quietly.
“I don’t know. Somewhat well?”
“Would you be able to tell if something was missing?”
“Not as easily as she could, obviously. But I think I know what they were looking for.”
“Care to share?”
She dropped her voice and stepped in closer. “Those documents Brenna supposedly left for me.”
“Those again?”
“Those again.”
“And you have no idea what they might be? Or where?”
She shook her head. “I wish I did. They seem to be a pretty popular item.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you later,” she said. “By the way, you were going to tell me something before.”
“Oh,” he said, “Come with me.” He headed down the short landing toward the stairs.
“Aren’t we going to see if they find anything?”
“I’ll find out either way,” he said, “Come with me.”
She followed him down the stairs and out to the street where his car waited, lights flashing. He ducked inside, and came out holding an enormous glass platter.
“I believe you’ve been wanting this back,” he said.
“Aw,” she said, “thanks. I can’t believe you got it back for me.”
“Well, I have my ways. Least I could do after the interrogation and all.”
“Sounds about right,” she said, holding the platter toward her chest. “What about the stuff Billie needed from her place?”
“It’s going to have to wait,” he said.
“Did you know that Sissy is claiming that she was Delenda’s biological mother?”
“Where’d you get that from?”
“Sissy.”
“Why would she say that?”
“Apparently there was a maternity test done and everything.”
“Who needs a maternity test?”
“That was my question. Anyway, that was part of the big revelation. That and she’s involved in trying to frame me.” She brought up the pictures on her phone and scrolled through them.
“I think the easier question at this point is who isn’t involved in the trying to frame you?”
“That’s very kind,” said Venetia, “thanks. Also Dane slept with my aunt.”
“Why are you telling me that?”
“I think it’s only fair that you should have that horrible image as seared into your brain as I do into mine. You were going to tell me about the press leak?”
“Yep,” he said, “I think Mason is off the hook.”
“Who is it?”
“Are you familiar with Tipsy Nightingale?”
“What do you mean by ‘familiar?’”
“Don’t try to get cutesy, it doesn’t suit you. You know who she is?”
“Of course I know who she is, she’s at Local 9 with Mason.”
“It looks like she’s had some kind of inside source.”
“I haven’t seen anything.”
“That’s because they haven’t run it. Yet. But there’s a good chance that things are going to hit the you-know-what with tonight’s broadcast.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We had people calling
to verify some of the details. Some detailed details.”
“Then why do you think it’s Tipsy? Or better yet, why don’t you think it’s Mason?”
“I talked to him about it. He’s managed to hold back the story. But he can’t do it anymore.”
“First you interrogated me, and then my boyfriend?”
“Hey, you got your platter back, I think that earns me some breathing room. He was very helpful, actually.”
“And yet you thought it was him?”
“I’ve got to be thorough,” James said, leaning against the car.
“Get an instinct or two once in a while,” said Venetia, shifting the heavy platter in her hands. “I wish I knew what they were looking for in Billie’s apartment.”
“There’s one person who would definitely know,” he said, “and you’re the one who can get in to see her.”
“So you really think that Tipsy has an inside source? What do you think the story’s going to be about?”
He said nothing but half-pointed his index finger at her.
“What do you mean, me?”
“Well, to be more accurate, ShamCorp. Which can be related to you.”
“But Dane and Sissy.”
“You know that. And I know that. But the news apparently doesn’t know that. Or that’s not the angle they seem to be pursuing.”
“I’ll call Mason,” she said.
“You could do that,” he said. He locked his door and walked back toward the apartment stairs. “You could do that,” he said again, “but what they verified was, technically, accurate.”
“You told them that?”
“No, I told them ‘no comment.’ I’m not a total idiot.”
“Maybe not a total one,” she said. “Thanks for the platter.” She looked past it down toward what she could see of her feet with it in the way and sighed. “So how much is this going to suck?”
“I’d say,” he opened the outer door to the stairs, “that all depends on you.”
She made her way slowly back to her car, keeping the platter close though her arms were tiring. It really was enormous. She rested it on the roof of the car, one hand to steady it, as she opened her door.
It was back to the hospital, back to see Billie. Clearly whoever attacked her wasn’t done with her yet. Venetia got in, nearly forgot the platter on the roof, got out, grabbed it, and was getting back into the car when she caught a man staring at her from across the street.