Finding Miranda

by Chacon, Iris

  They arrived at the parlor entrance like characters out of The Wizard of Oz: a dowdy Good Witch accompanied by an impaired Viking and a lion-size bandana-wearing beast. If flying monkeys had suddenly launched themselves from the room’s eight-foot ficus trees, Miranda would have taken it in stride.

  Seeing the odd trio in the doorway, Hermione rose from her seat at the tea table. Her silk cocktail pajamas billowed gracefully as she glided across the room and gave Shepard a Euro-kiss on each cheek. “So glad to have you, dear,” she said. “Please be seated.”

  Hermione neither looked at nor spoke to Miranda. Dave and Miranda were nudged aside as Hermione stepped to Shepard’s side and put her hand on his elbow as if to guide him.

  “I’ve got this, Mother,” said Shepard, withdrawing his elbow and reaching around her to touch Dave.

  Hermione returned to her chair. Shepard followed Dave to the table, where Shep pulled back a chair and seated Miranda before sitting down beside her. Dave lay down beside Shepard’s chair.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse,” said Miranda.

  Hermione did not raise her eyes above the exquisite silver teapot from which she was pouring. “I hadn’t expected to meet you again, Miss Ogilvy. So soon, I mean.” She passed a delicate tea-filled cup to Miranda and then one to Shepard. “Will you have milk, sugar, or lemon, Shepard?”

  Miranda noticed his mother looked up when speaking to Shepard. When Shepard declined condiments for his tea, Hermione made no such offer to Miranda. Miranda smiled and helped herself to milk and sugar.

  Hermione lifted a crystal plate of tea sandwiches and pastries and set it beside Shepard’s saucer. “Cucumber sandwiches and Black Forest torte,” she said proudly, “as promised.”

  “Wonderful,” Shepard said, and offered the plate to Miranda before selecting anything for himself.

  “Shepard, dear, you are always welcome, you know that.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “Yes. Well, ever since you telephoned yesterday I have been wondering about the occasion for this unexpected visit. You, ah, you’re not announcing an engagement or anything, are you?”

  “No!” Miranda said.

  “Not yet,” Shepard said.

  “It isn’t ‘not yet,’ Shepard, it’s no. N. O.” Miranda clarified.

  “I see,” said Hermione in a tone that belied the words. “What is it, then? Are you changing jobs? Moving from the woods back into the city? Preparing to run for office at long last?”

  Shepard took a moment to chew and swallow a circular, bite-size sandwich. “Who is Iggy?” he said, too casually.

  A lesser matriarch might have choked on her torte or sloshed the tea from her Limoges cup, but Hermione Montgomery hyphen Krausse was made of sterner stuff. She reacted not at all. Just as casually, she answered, “I don’t believe I know anyone named—Eggy, was it?”

  “Iggy.”

  “Iggy. Nnn-no, I don’t recall meeting an Iggy. Who is he? Or she, as the case may be?”

  Shepard shrugged. “Dunno. Phyllis mentioned him.”

  “Not recently, I trust,” Hermione said with a bitter smile.

  “Why have you and my aunt been estranged for the last thirty years?” Miranda spurted. For the first time that afternoon, Hermione looked Miranda directly in the eyes. It was not a friendly look.

  “If you must know, Miss Ogilvy, your aunt was in love with my husband. More fool she, because he chose me. We all knew how Phyllis felt. We thought it best to sever all contact and avoid any unpleasantness or misunderstanding.

  “The fact that Phyllis never married, I believe, proves that we made a wise decision. Neither she nor my husband were forced to contend with awkward social situations or temptation of a salacious nature.”

  “Salacious?” asked Miranda. “Aunt Phyllis?”

  Hermione’s voice was hard and strong: “Garrett Krausse was the love of her life. I did them both a favor by making it a clean break.”

  Miranda reeled mentally and sat back in her chair to sort the ideas piling into her head.

  Shepard let the silence breathe for a moment before he asked quietly, “Did Phyllis ever contact you—after Dad died, maybe?”

  “Why should she?” Hermione was abrupt. “Garrett was dead. Phyllis and I had nothing in common any more.”

  “Nothing in common?” he asked. “Not even me? Not even Iggy?”

  His mother ignored all but the last. “I told you, I don’t know anyone called Iggy.”

  Shepard finished his last sip of tea, folded his linen napkin carefully, placed it beside his saucer, and stood. Dave scrambled up immediately.

  “What are you doing?” asked Hermione.

  Shepard pulled back Miranda’s chair and offered her a hand to rise. “Thank you for an enlightening visit, Mother, but we really need to be getting back to the woods. I find the air in the city especially oppressive this afternoon.”

  “Thank you for tea, Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse,” murmured Miranda. She followed as Dave led Shepard toward the exit.

  Hermione jumped to her feet with considerably less aplomb than when they’d first arrived. “But you can’t go! It’s too soon! You’ve only just arrived!”

  Shepard stopped and turned to face her. “Too soon? For what?”

  His mother stammered uncharacteristically, “Um, well, i-i-it’s too soon to get back into a stuffy automobile. You’ve scarcely had time to cool down from your long drive.”

  “Cool down, Mother?” Shepard spoke as if exercising great self-control. “I’m afraid if I stay much longer I won’t be cool at all, I’ll be ‘hot under the collar,’ as the saying goes. Then this visit could deteriorate into one of those ‘awkward social situations’ you’ve spent thirty years avoiding. Allow me to wish you good day. Perhaps we’ll speak again when I have indeed ‘cooled down.’”

  Hermione was silent and still while her visitors left the house.

  In the car a half-hour later, Shepard broke the silence for the first time since leaving his mother’s mansion.

  “Well,” he said, “Phyllis is dead, Hermione is lying, and I still have two questions. Who, who, who might have the answers?”

  “Depends,” said Miranda. “What are the two questions?”

  “Who is Iggy? And where did Phyllis put the pictures?”

  “Mmm,” said Miranda. Dave panted into her left ear while she thought.

  Shepard shifted in his seat, trying to keep the vibrating passenger window from bruising his shoulder. The little car chugged valiantly, maxed out at a racy fifty miles per hour.

  “Oh, and I have one other question,” said Shepard.

  “What?”

  “Bean, will you marry me?”

  “Not today. But thanks for asking.”

  “You’re very welcome,” he said. They finished the trip in comfortable silence.

  14 THE TROPHY

  Monday morning, Miranda the Invisible Librarian was re-shelving books in the self-improvement section, enjoying the quiet and the smell of the Starbucks lattes smuggled in by the college students working in the nearby reference section. She had just placed a well-worn copy of Thirty Theorems on Thicker Hair and Thinner Thighs when Annabelle poked her head around the corner.

  “Miriam, there’s a delivery for you at the front desk.”

  Miranda started to say, “Be right th—,” but realized she was talking to air.

  At the desk, a forty-ish balding gnome with wire-rimmed glasses and a handlebar mustache waited with a package wrapped in white butcher paper. It looked like a seven-foot submarine sandwich. The gnome didn’t see Miranda approach, though he was facing in her direction.

  Accustomed to the phenomenon, Miranda stopped in front of the oblivious little man and spoke softly, “May I help you?”

  He jumped and nearly dropped his package. His eyes jerked to Miranda’s face and focused. “H-how did you do that?” He glanced left and right beyond her as if he would discover where she had been hiding.


  Miranda’s smile was resigned. “It’s a gift. Is that for me?” She gestured at the parcel.

  “You Marguerite Ogilvy?”

  “I’m Miranda Ogilvy.”

  He looked at the label on the package. “Close enough. Gotcher rattler.” He pushed the parcel toward her, but she didn’t reach to take it.

  “I’m sorry. Did you say something about rats?” Wild horses couldn’t get her to touch that package. Seven feet of rats?

  “Rattler,” he said, loudly and slowly. “I said ‘I got yer rattler’ for ya.” He smiled proudly. “Mounted it myself. She’s a beauty, too. Congratulations.”

  Annabelle, stunning in a low-cut, tight-waisted, short-skirted red dress, leaned way across the counter toward the man. “What did you say you mounted, sugar?” she purred.

  The man’s mouth dropped open and his eyes bulged when he turned to see Annabelle and her girls mere inches from his right shoulder. He forgot Marguerite Ogilvy ever existed and rotated to face Annabelle. “Huh?” he breathed.

  Annabelle smiled—half Marilyn Monroe, half cobra—and walked her fingers up his shirtfront. “Were you talkin’ about mountin’ somethin’,” she looked at the name on his shirt, “Ray?”

  Ray snapped out of it, overcome with pride in his accomplishment. “Oh, yes, ma’am! I mounted this here snakeskin for Miz Oglethorpe. Six footer, mint condition—except for the missin’ head—and a lovely mahogany platform. Look here!”

  Before she could stop him, the man had begun tearing paper away and shoving the mahogany plank onto the counter, forcing Annabelle to stand up and back away. Miranda stepped in to look over Ray’s shoulder. Within seconds they were looking down at Miranda’s trophy rattlesnake skin, professionally affixed to shining rich dark wood.

  “Lovely,” said Annabelle, meaning, of course, the opposite.

  “Is this the snake I shot?” asked Miranda.

  “Are you Marianne Oglethorpe?” asked Ray, surprised to find someone standing beside him.

  “Close enough,” said Miranda. “But who did this?” She spread her arms to indicate the massive trophy.

  Ray produced a folded invoice from his pocket and shook it open. “Order was placed by Mrs. Martha Cleary out in Minokee. She brung us the corpse, and I took care of it personally.”

  Miranda read the figure at the bottom of the invoice. She gasped. “But Martha can’t afford this! Neither can I, for that matter!”

  “Oh, don’t sweat the money,” Ray said, folding and pocketing the invoice. “I already got a check from the Shep and Dave Show. Why some crackpot radio program would be buying somebody a snake is a mystery to me, but that’s life, ain’t it? Ya think you’ve seen it all, but....” He shrugged.

  He admired his product in silence. Miranda looked from one end of the reptile to the other and back again. Annabelle got bored and walked away.

  “What am going to do with it?” asked Miranda of herself, but Ray heard and answered.

  “Hang it on the wall! Be proud! Tell the story to your friends! Thing like this is priceless!” He patted it fondly as if saying farewell to a pet. “Y’know what’s weird?”

  Miranda’s eyes widened. “There’s more!?”

  “I don’t wanna go into too much detail, but part of the job was to separate the outside of the snake from the inside of the snake. Know what I mean?”

  When she nodded uncertainly, Ray continued. “Y’see, this feller had eaten not long afore he ‘uz kilt. And he hadn’t been livin’ in the wild. No, ma’am, he ‘uz chowing down on domestic white mice—like lab mice, y’know. He didn’t get those in the Little Cypress.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Miranda said. “Where would a wild snake get white laboratory rodents to eat?”

  “Weren’t no wild snake,” Ray said. “This snake ‘uz somebody’s pet.” He looked at Miranda in mock accusation. “You sure you don’t have a neighbor mad atcha fer shootin’ Fluffy here?” He laughed at his own joke and moved toward the door. “Congratulations again!” he called as he left.

  Miranda stared down at the bizarre memento spread across the library counter.

  Annabelle’s voice wafted to her from the office beyond a partition, “For pity’s sake, Myrtle, take that awful thing and put it out in your car before somebody comes in and sees it!”

  My car! thought Miranda, and spread her arms to measure the length of her trophy. Maybe if I hang it out the window?

  15 THE GOVERNOR

  On the same Monday that Miranda received her snake from Ray the taxidermist, a snake of another kind rode in his limousine through the electric gates of the Montgomery-Krausse estate. There was no great fanfare. Security was casual, the entourage limited to a handful of discreet, trusted minions. No big deal. Just the governor having lunch with his sister.

  The black-suited butler opened the massive double doors before the governor reached the top veranda step. Reginald Jackson Montgomery could not be kept waiting at the door, in fact could not be expected to break his stride as he traversed from limo to dining room.

  Hermione greeted Reginald at the door of the cavernous formal dining room. They exchanged their customary cheek-pecks. Reginald ushered his elegantly dressed sister to her chair, then seated himself at her right—at the head of the twenty-person table. The unseen butler softly closed the dining room doors.

  Miranda would have thought the scene ludicrous, but to the pampered pair of diners it seemed mundane. The room held two priceless Tiffany chandeliers, eighteen empty upholstered chairs, a 500-year-old Turkish carpet, and a fresh flower centerpiece the size of a small refrigerator. China, crystal, and sterling silver, together with linen napkins, awaited only two people. Presumably their gourmet repast would pass through guts and gullets no different from those of any commoner, however.

  Ignoring their surroundings and all their obvious reasons to be grateful, the siblings began eating without a word of grace. Praying was something Reginald did only in public and Hermione did not at all. They were their own gods. But all was not sunny atop Olympus this day.

  “Well, I’m here,” the governor growled between bites of salmon mousse. “What was so important that I had to reschedule three meetings to get here?”

  Hermione took her time swallowing her latest mouthful, placing her silver utensil carefully on her gold-rimmed plate, dabbing her lips with her linen.

  “I recall telling you that Phyllis Ogilvy would come back and bite you in the ass someday, Reggie,” said Hermione. “I’m afraid that day may be upon us.”

  “Nonsense,” Reginald said. “Phyllis is dead.”

  “But my son is not dead, and he apparently has read Phyllis’ letter. He was here asking questions about it yesterday afternoon. And Phyllis’ frumpy niece was with him.”

  “That letter was destroyed. All Shepard has is the rumors he spreads on his idiotic talk show.” Reginald continued eating, unperturbed.

  Hermione put her hand on his forearm and stopped his fork in mid-air. “I destroyed the original letter, yes, but this is Phyllis we’re talking about. She always was compulsive about books and papers. Her house is probably like an archive—file cabinets or boxes of files in every closet. She probably kept carbon copies of every grocery list she ever made, much less what she would consider ‘official correspondence’!”

  Reginald shook her hand away lightly and continued eating. “You know the nice thing about paper, Hermie?”

  “What?”

  “It burns,” said Reginald.

  “What are you saying? That you would commit arson? Add another crime to your curriculum vitae? You’ll ruin us all! Aren’t there enough skeletons already waiting to spring from the closet at the worst possible moment?”

  “Keep your voice down,” he said. “No crime. I’m not stupid. But anyone will tell you those old shacks in Minokee are nothing but firetraps, what with all that dried out wood and frayed, inadequate wiring.”

  “And the niece who lives there?” asked Hermione, not concerned, but curious
.

  “Perhaps she won’t be at home,” Reginald said.

  Hermione picked up her fork and prepared to finish her lunch. “I don’t care what happens to the little busybody, but hear me well, Reggie. Nothing and no one is to raise a hand against Shepard. If anything happens to my son because of something you’ve said or done, you’ll be very sorry.”

  “I imagine you’d withdraw your considerable financial support,” he acknowledged. “I would expect no less, and you would be justified in doing so. Don’t worry. My nephew is a fly in my ointment, but he is no danger to me, Hermie dear.”

  “Good,” she said. “Because—and let me make myself absolutely clear—you harm Shepard in any way, and I will obliterate you, Reggie dear.”

  She said it with all the emotion she might have invested in suggesting a good movie. And they both knew she was deadly serious. They had grown up together. Reginald was the peacock, more visible and colorful than the hen. Hermione was the mother grizzly bear with a cub to protect.

  They polished off their meal. Reggie said the Black Forest torte was extremely good. Then it was kiss-kiss, butler-door, limo-gate, and life went on as usual.

  16 THE ARSONIST

  Pietro bustled about the Krausse kitchen making dinner. He was stirring the tomato sauce for his chicken cacciatore when Shepard and Dave entered the room. Dave smelled like expensive shower gel and moisturizing hair conditioner. Pietro got a whiff of the dog, shook his head and sighed.

  “Before you sit down,” Pietro told Shepard, “your message light is blinking.”

  “I really hope it’s not my mother,” Shep said, moving to the counter where the machine squatted. “I had enough personal time with mom yesterday to last me a long time.”

  Shep punched the playback button. The message was from Miranda. He smiled when he heard her voice. Pietro glanced at Shep, then glanced again and chuckled.