by Ivy Thorne
Marla didn’t know how much time the police had spent going through her stuff. But judging by the ransacked condition of her condo, she bet it had been longer than an hour. They must have been desperate for a lead if they’d been willing to spend their precious time pursuing Marla as a suspect.
The more Marla thought about the predicament, the angrier she got. Being angry didn’t help to lower her body temperature, which, in turn, didn’t help her insomnia.
At last, Marla kicked the sheet from her bed and flicked on the bedside lamp. She needed to dig through the mess strewn across her floor to find her journal and pen. Often Marla would write down her frustrations to extract them from her mind. It was her way of purging negative energy so she could fall asleep or move on with whatever task her mind was preventing her from accomplishing.
Currently, Marla was experiencing insomnia because of her animosity toward Speckleman and vexation toward the detectives. She could feel the sweat trickling down her temples as she madly searched for her notebook. Usually, she kept it stashed away inside the table next to her bed. But, of course, the police had emptied that drawer. They’d probably even snooped through the contents of her journal.
Good luck deciphering my crazy handwriting!
Finally, Marla found the leather-bound book beneath a pile of crumpled clothing. She went inside the pockets of her work blazer to find a pen − she never went to work without one.
The trick about writing down her distracting thoughts and emotions was to not hold back. If she was experiencing intense anger toward someone, she would exact her revenge by scribbling it down between the lines of her notepaper. She wasn’t usually thankful for her atrocious handwriting, but, as she plotted out the disturbing and violent things she wanted to happen to Speckleman, she was glad for it.
Still, if the police had been able to decipher her chicken scratch, the many hateful rants she’d written down could serve as evidence of her being a psychopath. At the very least, they hadn’t taken the journal as evidence, so it likely had held no significance to them.
One day I’d like to beat the living crap out of Speckleman, Marla wrote. I want to roundhouse kick him in the face for every time he’s said something inappropriate about women. I want to string him up like a pinata and give the nail-studded bat to his wife. Then, after he’s whizzed his pants, and made sounds similar to those of a tortured mouse, I’ll wrap him up in trash bags with all the disgusting used tissues and coffee filters from the funeral home and toss him into the dumpster to be taken to a landfill, where his garbage ass belongs.
Satisfied with the imaginary justice she’d served Speckleman, she then turned her pen toward the detectives, more specifically, Detective Wiggins. He seemed like the sort of policeman who looked for trouble where trouble didn’t exist − the sort of power-abusing guy who told people they were lying when they weren’t and was all too happy to slap on the handcuffs, regardless of whether the person was guilty or not.
The only reason that washed-out son of a bitch Detective Wiggins decided to point the finger at me is because he’s too lazy to do any real detective work. He’s probably locked away countless innocent souls simply because he could. When I, a regular citizen without a detective’s badge, solve the case of the copy-cat killer, I’ll expose just how crappy of a detective he is. Everyone will know he’s an apathetic dirty bastard without a single sense of what’s fair and what’s not. I’ll personally lock him behind bars so all the innocent people he threw in there can have their way with him.
Eventually, Marla’s pen came to a stop. Her hand ached from the vicious strokes she’d been making. Deep down, Marla knew her judgments against Detective Wiggins weren’t necessarily fair or accurate. She was making deductions regarding his character based upon the way he’d spoken to her inside the interrogation room, which hadn’t made her feel good. The man somehow had made her feel guilty, even though she’d done nothing wrong.
As for Dane, Marla hoped he’d only gone along with the interrogation because it was what his superiors wanted. She fell asleep, her spiteful writings beneath her pillow, remembering the shameful look Dane had worn on his face when Detective Wiggins had gone off on her.
Although she’d slept in, Marla was glad she’d woken up before it was time for her to go into work since she’d forgotten to set her alarm the previous night. It was now eleven, according to the clock that was lying sadly on the floor amongst the clutter.
Marla groaned as she sat up in bed, yawning while rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her phone was dead next to her. She plugged it into the wall charger, which she was thankful the police hadn’t decided to yank out and throw somewhere.
She grumbled as she trudged through the flood of clothing, books, and other items that sat on her floor. As she walked to her kitchen barefoot, she worshipped the fact that shedidn’t have any kids who were avid Lego users. There was nothing more uncomfortable than stepping on a Lego.
Marla contemplated what she would have for breakfast as she fed coffee grounds into her coffee machine. Her pantry hadn’t been particularly full. On the plus side, that had meant less searching for the coffee.
While she waited for the coffee to brew, she returned the items the police had displaced from her cupboards. The nasty words she’d written about Speckleman and Detective Wiggins floated within her subconscious. It occurred to Marla that she hadn’t written anything about Ashley, even though Ashley had participated in her suffering. She’d been the one to lie to the police about Marla hating Reggie.
As far as Marla knew, Ashley hadn’t been in a relationship during the time she’d rented from Reggie. At least, she’d never had anyone else over. But, then again, Ashley and Marla had worked opposite schedules during that time and never had seen much of one another. For all Marla knew, Ashley had had her lover stay overnight while Marla had been working night shifts at Sipping Saucers.
A buzzing noise emanated from Marla’s room as she was dissolving the sugar in her coffee. It was the sound of her phone vibrating. Marla abandoned her mug in hopes that it was Dane calling to apologize. The name that showed up on the phone screen was Jackie’s.
“Hey, what’s up?” Marla answered, casually.
“Nothing much. I’m just enjoying these delicious muffins that Shawn brought over from the bakery. Come over and have one with us!”
Marla was thankful for the invitation. Currently, the only food she had in her refrigerator was some shriveled blueberries, condiments, drinks, and overripe apples. As much as Marla enjoyed a refreshing smoothie now and again, she’d rather have a freshly baked muffin.
“There’s also something I should tell you,” Jackie added. Something about the tone of her voice told Marla her she had bad news.
“Oh, God,” she muttered. “What is it?”
“You want me to tell you now?”
“Yes!” Marla declared. “Just tell me and get it over with.”
“There’s an article on the Wallsberg news site that mentions you being a suspect in Reggie’s murder,” Jackie said.
“Crap!”
“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Jackie assured her. “It’s only briefly mentioned. Besides, people don’t tend to read the news because nothing of interest usually happens here. Just come over. Muffins will make it all better. Make sure you wear your uniform. I figure we’ll just go straight to work from my place.”
Marla did her best not to lose her head as she dressed and headed to Jackie’s. Marla’s police interrogation only had been yesterday. How could word have gotten out about it so quickly?
The answer came to Marla in the form of a name: Speckleman.
Chapter 10
“That asshole is relentless!” Marla exclaimed as she haughtily took a bite of her muffin. She sat in the dining area of Jackie’s house, which Jackie had been lucky enough to get in her divorce settlement. After Richard’s departure from her life, Jackie had been free to paint and adorn the house with whatever she’d pleased. There were many apt artworks c
ontaining jokes about drinking too much wine as well as a sunroom that Jackie named ‘the plant therapy room.’ Whenever Marla was invited over and saw that the room was being completely taken over by vines, leaves, and other green bits, she would get an insight into Jackie’s mental state.
Jackie had her laptop open to the article. The bit about Marla read: Police believe a woman named Marla James might be the one responsible for Reggie’s untimely death.
“You don’t know for sure he was the one who leaked your name,” Jackie pointed out.
“Oh please!” Marla blurted. “Who else would the journalists get that info from?”
Jackie hesitated before responding. “Yeah, you’re right. I doubt the police would go blabbing to a bunch of gossiping pencil pushers. The man’s a conniving shit smear.”
“Thank you,” Marla said. “These muffins are amazing,” she added, nodding her thanks to Shawn.
“Muffins are supposedly a healthy version of cupcakes,” Jackie stated. “However, judging by the number of chocolate chips protruding from these muffin tops, I don’t think the calorie and fat content is much different. It’s probably worse.”
“Calories and fat are nothing you have to worry about, dear,” Shawn said to Jackie. “Since we’ve started dating you’ve probably lost at least twenty pounds from working so hard at that job of yours.”
“Aw! Bless your heart, Shawn,” Jackie responded. Beaming, she turned to Marla. “He always knows exactly what to say to me.”
Until that point, Shawn had sat quietly sipping his coffee while Marla had been ranting about Speckleman. He smiled at her and stroked his salt and pepper beard.
“If it’s any consolation, I believe you’re innocent,” he said.
Marla only had been around Shawn a handful of times, but from what she’d been able to gather, he was a generous, caring man.
“Shawn knows the lady who wrote that line about you,” Jackie announced.
“I read the byline,” Marla said. “The writer’s name is Debbie Schooler.”
Shawn got up and began collecting the dishes from the table. “That’s right,” he affirmed.
“Debbie is the wife of one of Shawn’s associates,” Jackie elaborated.
Marla didn’t know much about Shawn’s line of work, nor did she understand what his responsibility was. All she knew was that he worked in an office as the manager of some construction company and made a handsome sum of money. Thus, the exquisite muffin surprise.
“Debbie is known to report whatever she thinks will gain views, regardless of whether it’s true or even the right thing to be reporting on, such as the details of a confidential investigation,” Shawn stated. “She’s been slapped on the wrist a few times for it, but ultimately, her articles do attract more readers, so terminating her wouldn’t exactly be good for the business.”
Marla swore. “She sounds like Speckleman’s type.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s having an affair with that woman,” Jackie said. “He certainly doesn’t respect his wife, that much he’s made clear.”
Marla had a feeling Speckleman would be receiving an entire chapter within her journal. Why couldn’t he just mind his own business and leave Marla alone?
Jackie placed a hand on Marla’s shoulder. “You know I’ll always believe in your innocence. Anyone who has known you for long enough will too. Whatever you need from me, just let me know and I’ll offer whatever help I can.”
Marla appreciated Jackie’s offer, though she didn’t know what her friend would be able to help with. She’d log this offer away for future reference.
Muffin therapy was exactly what Marla had needed that morning before work. The minute she walked through the doors of the funeral home, Speckleman was there to rub the article in her face.
“Looks like someone is becoming a celebrity,” he said. “First the police deem you a murder suspect, then they search your home for a murder weapon, and now you're in the tabloids! What will it be next? Maybe you’ll be invited to show up on a talk show starring infamous homicidal maniacs.”
Marla ignored his comment. She wondered how he’d known about the police searching her condo. Had he gone to her building after work to stick his dirty nose in her life? The thought of Speckleman knowing where she lived alone made Marla shudder. Maybe he’d employed his mistress Debbie to spy on her.
Stop being paranoid! Marla silenced her thoughts. If she was going to get through her day without going insane, she needed to keep a level head.
Speckleman didn’t make this easy for her. Clothing had been brought in by Reggie’s family. There was also clothing available for the dead person Speckleman had embalmed and then left for Marla to finish.
“It must feel weird dressing the man you killed,” Speckleman remarked as Marla busied herself altering the dress shirt that had been brought in. “I bet Slasher Saul fantasizes about dressing Jared up like a little corpse doll. Soon you’ll get to tell him all about it.”
“In what world do women get sent to men’s prisons?” Marla retorted. She knew she shouldn’t engage Speckleman in his repugnant talk, but she couldn’t help but point out the stupidity of his statement.
Speckleman shrugged. “Maybe the women’s prisons are all filled up with naughty bitches like my wife.”
Marla moaned. The horrible way Speckleman talked about his wife made her want to grind her teeth together. It was then she decided to focus on her task of dressing Reggie.
Whenever clothes were provided for a deceased person, they had to be modified to fit. Much of the time after people passed away they either lost weight or gained weight as a result of whatever had killed them. Ultimately, altering the clothing facilitated the dressing process, as it wasn’t as if a dead man could stand and lift his arms for Marla to put on his top.
Shirts and jackets were cut in half down the backs and then placed on the body and sewn at the collar. Marla always felt a twinge of guilt whenever a family would purchase clothing for their loved one to wear in the casket. Sometimes the clothing would be from expensive brands. Marla hated to see beautiful clothes get slashed and buried.
Continuing to ignore Speckleman’s comments, she slipped Reggie’s shirt and jacket over his top half before moving to his bottom half.
Much of the time, formal clothing was brought in for decedents to wear, but there were times when a family would choose to dress their loved one in casual clothing. Marla recalled numerous occasions when pajamas were chosen simply because the person who’d passed had been known to prefer wearing pajamas over other clothes. The mentality was that these people who had been known for being down to Earth would be comfortable in the afterlife.
“Ooh-la-la! Now you get to put on his boxers and pants. Remember when you made him crap himself by slitting his throat open?”
Speckleman’s comment was disgusting. As much as Marla wanted to verbally punish him for his disrespect, she clamped her mouth shut. The man was getting on her last nerve. She turned on the radio in the hopes that the music would tune him out. Speckleman was on to her strategy and immediately turned off the radio.
“You’re just like my wife, you know that?” he said. “You turn on the television or radio to drone out my voice so you don’t have to listen to me.”
“That’s because you’re obnoxious and disrespectful,” Marla stated. She was tired of holding her tongue.
Enough was enough. If Speckleman was going to continue to harass her, she wouldn’t be able to focus on her work.
“Stop talking to me as if I’m Reggie’s murderer,” Marla said. “You know I’m not. You’re the one who orchestrated the interview and got your side chick to write that article. Leave me the hell alone!”
“Fine,” Speckleman replied. “I could go for a cigarette anyway. Do me a favor and put clothes on that other body too. I think the dead guys prefer it when you dress them.”