I.L. Wolf - Her Cousin, Much Removed

by I. L. Wolf

  “Yes. I can’t believe no one from the police department told you.”

  “Do you still have my handbag?”

  “Yes, of course. But seriously, that’s the thing you’re most concerned about?”

  “It’s important.”

  “I know you love your handbag, Billie, but this is scary. Delenda’s dead. Dane is dead—”

  “Dane is dead? When did that happen?”

  “Is no one telling you anything?”

  “The nurses are pretty strict about who get in here,” she said. “What happened to Dane?”

  “We’re not sure yet.”

  “Huh,” she said. “Huh.”

  “Tell me you never—”

  “With Dane? Eww, Venetia. That’s disgusting.”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Billie, I know you know something you’re not telling me. Who attacked you? Why did someone search your house?”

  She said nothing.

  “Fine. How about you tell me why Delenda called Tipsy Nightingale, only to not say anything at all to her? Was she trying to out Marlene?”

  “Out Marlene? I told you before, you don’t want to know any of it. You don’t want to be involved.”

  “It’s too late for that, I seem to be in it up to my eyeballs.”

  Billie sighed. “Do you have my purse?”

  “I told you I did. Are you sure you’re still feeling OK?”

  “No, I mean with you.”

  “No, it’s—”

  “Don’t tell me. Don’t say. Go through it,” she said. “And I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I’m just sorry. I wish there had been a better way to handle it, but I was in over my head.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. I only hope it doesn’t ruin our friendship.”

  “Billie, you’re freaking me out.” The chair creaked as she shifted in it. “What did you do?”

  “It isn’t so much what I did. It’s what I didn’t do. I think you should go now,” she said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think it’s time,” she said. “I never thought it would be this way. Never. You have to believe me.”

  “You never thought what would be this way?”

  She shook her head. “Just go,” is all she said before turning her head away. She didn’t look at Venetia again, not then, not before she left. Confused, she tried to make sense of what happened the whole long drive home.

  ***

  Venetia sat on her floor, the contents of Billie’s handbag spread around her. All she’d found were the usual things, the makeup, the receipts, Billie’s wallet, some cash. Loose change. She certainly hadn’t found anything worth trashing an apartment for, let alone attacking someone over.

  She ran her hand through each of the compartments again. Nothing. She shook the empty bag.

  Wait. There was a sound an empty bag doesn’t make. She stuck her hand back in, this time feeling along the lining. She found a lump.

  Turning the bag inside out as best as she could, she kept her finger on the lump and inspected the lining. There it was, a small row of tiny, neat stitches.

  She wasn’t sure if she was more surprised that Billie thought of hiding something in the lining of the purse, that she’d be willing to violate the lining of the bag, or at her sewing skills. She hoisted herself from the floor, pulled a pair of small scissors from her desk, and then grabbed her tea while she was at it, placing it next to her on the wood.

  Carefully, she snipped the stitches, doing her best not to snag the lining. The hole was big enough for a finger, but she couldn’t quite get at whatever it was lodged in the inner structure of the purse. She tried shaking the bag upside down, but it only served to get the object, whatever it was, further away from the opening.

  Keeping the purse as inside-out as she could, she laid it flatish on the floor, and formed the lining around it. She pushed it toward the hole, until, finally, there it was.

  Or, at least, there part of it was. Careful not to spill her tea, she slid her tool kit from the space between the desk and the wall. She chose the needle-nose pliers.

  Trying not to break it—not even knowing if she could break it, she couldn’t see enough of it to tell—she gingerly grasped it with the pliers. She kept losing the grip. When the phone rang, she nearly knocked her mug over.

  “Toxicology is working on the chocolates that were sent to me. No poison so far,” said Detective James, “so you can relax about that. They have more work to do though.”

  “You mean I can relax about the possibly poisoned chocolates that you offered me? That’s quite a relief,” she said, hoping the sarcasm carried.

  “At least I let you know,” he said. Apparently it did.

  “So Tipsy’s off the hook?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to know if you found out anything from Billie.”

  “I’m working on it,” she said, picking up the pliers and wiggling the object. It was flexible, a little bit pliable. Finally she got a grip and tugged it out, the hole in the lining growing. Billie wouldn’t be thrilled about that.

  It looked like the rubber part of a stamp. She turned it over, and there was a little residue where the adhesive must have been. On the front side, she couldn’t make out what it said, the ink making it impossible to really see the raised part against the background.

  She got up again, phone still cradled. “Venetia?” he said.

  “I’ll have to call you back,” she said, nearly forgetting they were talking. She put the phone on her desk and took a sheet of paper, and then dug through the desk drawers for a marker.

  Found one.

  She colored in the front side of the stamp, and then carefully holding the edges, which was difficult enough, given how thin the rubber was, she pressed it firmly on the paper and lifted it.

  It was smudged, but it was definitely her notary stamp. Or at least a notary stamp with her name on it. No wonder Billie said she was sorry, she’d practically told her where to find it. The better question was how Billie got it in the first place. Stealing it didn’t seem like her, but there were a lot of things these last few days that didn’t seem like people.

  She’d had no use for her stamp for years now, if it had gone missing, she wouldn’t have noticed. Bracing herself, she went to the front closet, the one that served as a catchall for her stuff. She had to take down a few boxes to get to the layer that had her old legal things. Slowly, she unpacked it, dreading the moment she’d discover that her stamp was gone. After all these years, she didn’t want it to turn out this way with Billie, but, she supposed, it wasn’t her choice.

  And it wasn’t the way it would turn out, because there, right where she’d left it years ago, sat her notary stamp. She took it to the desk, and on the same sheet of paper, pressed it down. Though the self-inking pad had dried, it still left a faint impression.

  She compared the two, both apparently identical. But something was off. Bit by bit she examined them, and she knew it was something more than the smudging or the light ink. Only she couldn’t see it.

  No, wait. There it was. The expiration date. Her notary commission had expired, she’d seen no point in renewing it after she left the law, but the one from Billie’s purse was, supposedly, still valid. She may not have extended the commission, but someone did. Or at least bought a stamp that said they did.

  Taking her cup of tea from the floor, she plopped it onto her desk and woke her computer from its electronic slumber. She took a sip. Lukewarm. Oh well, it would have to do.

  She went to the Secretary of State’s website, clicked the “find a notary” box and typed in her name. She popped up, with a shiny little asterisk next to “Shipman.” An asterisk that meant that she was currently commissioned.

  Her name led her to the information with her commission number, the date of her renewal, and the company that provided her bond. All notaries have to be bonded and licensed.
Apparently even the ones who didn’t, in fact, renew their own applications.

  It wasn’t the bonding company she and Dane had used, and a quick check of his name showed him bonded with the same company they’d had when they were in the partnership. It wasn’t Dane, then.

  Given that Billie had it in her purse, odds were pretty high that once again, she had her erstwhile cousin to thank. And now Delenda couldn’t even be tried for perjury, what with her being dead and all.

  Checking the time, she looked up the contact information for the bond company and figured she might as well give it a try.

  “Charwall Bond and Surety,” came the chirpy answer.

  “Hi, yes, I had some questions about a bond on behalf of Venetia Shipman’s notary commission?”

  “Sure, I can help you with that. Let me get some information from you. Can I have your name?”

  “Venetia Shipman,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Venetia Shipman is not authorized to discuss this account,” she said.

  “No, sorry, that’s the bond I was interested in,” said Venetia quickly. “You meant my name?”

  “Yes,” said the voice, only a shade less perky.

  “Sorry,” she said, deciding to go for broke. “Delenda O’Brien.”

  “Delenda O’Brien?” the woman said, her chirpy now a little closer to wary.

  “Boggs,” she said. “You know us recently married, never can remember where we’ve changed the name.”

  “Oh, I know all about that,” she said, back in the range of canary, “I still haven’t changed my driver’s license, and I’ve been married nearly three years!”

  “It’s such a pain,” said Venetia, “such a pain. Anyway, I was going through my records—”

  “Commission number?”

  Venetia read it off of the website, swallowed hard and waited.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Boggs,” said the woman, her emphasis on the “missus,” but I’ll need your passphrase.”

  “My passphrase.”

  “Yes, you know, the passphrase you selected when you set up this account?”

  “Right,” she said. “My passphrase.”

  “I can give you a little memory jogger, if you’d like, it’s right here in the system.”

  “That would be nice,” said Venetia, wondering if she should fake a dropped call and hang up. On the other hand, there was a notary stamp on the desk with her name on it. Who knows how Delenda had used it. What if ShamCorp was only the beginning?

  “Your reminder hint is, ‘It always makes you laugh and laugh.’”

  Venetia closed her eyes, trying to will herself into Delenda’s thought process. What on earth would make her laugh? Starving children? Videos of people being injured? Setting up a money laundering scheme and blaming it on Venetia?

  “Mrs. Boggs?” said the woman.

  “Yes, sorry, still here, got distracted,” she said, grabbing her tea, hoping the dose of now room-temperature caffeine would give her some inspiration. Instead, she only had to get as far as the mug.

  “Where’s my donut,” she said, eye-to-eye with the frazzled cartoon woman on the cup from Delenda. Given that the whole reason Delenda created the account was, it seemed, to screw her over, what else could it be?

  She heard typing on the other end. She wondered if she’d gotten it wrong, and whether there were penalties for posing as a dead woman, when that dead woman was doing something illegal in the first place.

  “Sorry,” said the woman, “it took me a moment, I wasn’t sure if it was donut, N-U-T or if they spelled it the long way.”

  “Ah,” said Venetia. “So we’re in?”

  “Yep. What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to check to make sure your information was up-to-date on Venetia Shipman?”

  “Sure,” said the woman. “Which information?”

  “The date of the expiration of her commission?”

  “I have that as being renewed last year.”

  “Sorry to be such a ditz, but did I send that information or did my assistant, Billie Kaye do it?’

  “I don’t have a Billie Kaye on the account,” she said, the less-happy sliding back in.

  “All that wedding planning seems to have wiped that old brain of mine clean,” she said, wondering who, exactly, she was being because that wasn’t something Delenda would say. Ever. Then again, it wasn’t like this woman ever met her. Probably.

  She hoped.

  “One more question,” she said. “What do you have as Ms. Shipman’s current business address?”

  “You are aware that we need to be notified immediately if she changes employment, as it can affect the terms of the bond?”

  “Of course,” Venetia said gravely, nodding her head, though the woman couldn’t see her.

  “I have her still at the same place as the date of the renewal, a firm called, hang on, let me get to that screen,” she paused, and there was only clicking on the line, “Bloaerd & Associates,” she said. “Is that still correct?”

  Venetia sat, her arms falling to either side, her head still cradling the phone. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, did I lose you?”

  “Yes, for a moment,” Venetia said, trying to keep her tone level. “Can you repeat that?”

  “Cell phones, right? Can’t live without ‘em, can’t hear a thing with ‘em.”

  “You’ve got that right.” Venetia took in a breath as quietly as she could, as she seemed to have forgotten the previous one.

  “I said Bloaerd & Associates? Am I saying that right?”

  “You sure are,” said Venetia. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Anything else I can do for you today?”

  “No thanks,” she said.

  “OK, Mrs. Boggs, we appreciate your business, and you have yourself a great day and enjoy that new husband of yours.”

  “Thanks,” said Venetia. She couldn’t hang up fast enough.

  Bloaerd & Associates. First Dane had a weird relationship with it, and now Delenda? And, apparently without her knowledge, her?

  She wondered if Bloaerd knew Delenda had used the name of his firm to fraudulently obtain a notary stamp. Given Dane’s claim that he helped fix Aunt Sissy’s inheritance case, it really could go either way.

  Chapter 28

  Nearly as soon as she hung up the phone, it rang again. She eyed the number, certain that Lady Chirpy from the bonding company was on to her and calling her back. Nope. It was Julian.

  “Hello?” she said, not knowing what she’d get on his end. She wondered if Marlene had told him.

  “Venetia, we’re going to have to talk. I know I told you you were off for the week, but I need you to come in. Now.”

  “Is everything OK?”

  “I need you to come in,” he said again.

  Sending a quick text to Mason after missing another call from him, she was off, and in less than twenty minutes she was walking into the office at Water Me Green. Julian sat at the table next to Marlene. His normal wide smile was gone, his face more angular without his expression of cheer. She couldn’t read Marlene.

  “Close the door,” he said.

  “There’s no one else here,” she said. “Or is there?”

  “Just close the door,” he said.

  “Julian, are you firing me?”

  He shook his head in a tiny shake. “What?” he said.

  “Are you firing me?”

  “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Have a seat,” he said. He waited while she did. “Marlene tells me that you and she had a conversation.” She looked to Marlene for any hint as to what she’d told him. Still, her impassive face held no clues.

  “We did,” she said.

  “So you know.”

  “I know what, exactly?”

  “Don’t play coy, Venetia, it really doesn’t fit you at all.”

  “I’m not being coy,” she said.

  “Venetia, he knows about me being Dixie.
He’s known for a long, long time.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “Because it wasn’t for me to tell you. It was for him.”

  “But you just did.”

  “Fine,” said Julian, “I’ve known for a long, long time. We figured that you didn’t need to know.”

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

  “Why would we have to? Does it really matter? She’s our Marlene, and that’s who she is.” He smiled at her, the very same smile he’d been giving her since the first time he’d introduced Venetia to her.

  “But she was a con-artist. And she’s married.”

  Julian tore his gaze from Marlene and snapped his head in Venetia’s direction. “Don’t tell me she’s married. I know she is. To me.”

  “No, she’s married to Higson Boggs.”

  He sighed. “I know that too, and really, it’s only a matter of paperwork.”

  “How can you say that? She lied.”

  “I’m sitting right here,” she said.

  “No kidding. You know you lied.”

  “Marriage is its own thing,” said Julian. “And it’s bigger than a lot of things.”

  “This seems pretty big to me,” said Venetia.

  “Maybe it’s because it’s long enough that the shock’s worn off,” he said. “That’s not why I called you down here. And it’s not why I wanted to discuss this in person, not on the phone.”

  “What, there’s more?”

  “There is, and I’m asking you to wait before drawing any conclusions. Can you do that? Wait?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it would depend on what conclusions you mean.”

  “They could be some pretty serious conclusions,” he said, “but you’d be wrong.”

  “OK, now I’m more concerned than I was when you called.”

  “Delenda knew about Marlene.”

  “I know,” Venetia said, “Detective James told me. She had a bunch of IDs on her computer, apparently. But I didn’t know you knew, Marlene. Did you know she’d gone to the press about you?”

  “Why did your tone change?” said Julian.

  “Because,” she said, “if Marlene knew that Delenda knew, and Delenda, being Delenda, wanted something in exchange, then I really don’t know what to think. And I’m guessing she didn’t get it, because I think she was going to out you to Tipsy Nightingale. Did you kill her, Marlene?”