The Invisible Heiress

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  Reply: I’m with you on the baseless rumors. You’re smarter than I first thought. I could give haiku a go, but if you haven’t noticed, you all are my new journal. Don’t need the old one.

  Norma B.

  FYI: You know shrinks often become shrinks because they’re nuts.

  Scribbler

  Let’s email. Seriously. You’ve got a book in you. I’ll help get it out.

  Reply: You’ve got your head in your ass. I can’t help get it out.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Preston

  “Heads a muddled mess, but I’m fucking sure I didn’t manage to kill anyone. I mean wouldn’t a murdered person make news or be missed?”

  I drew invisible circles on the wall of the phone room with my index finger.

  “I assume,” Brendan said. “Probably lies. Bitter people jumping on the bandwagon.”

  “But I can’t shake the feeling. Death plagues me.”

  “What? We just agreed it’s only gossip.”

  “Gone Helen Keller on me? Said it was a feeling. No evidence.”

  “Well, Harrison might say otherwise.”

  “It’s not that. Well, not just that. I dream about something else. Dark, scary. I can’t get a handle on. I dream about Cooper a lot.”

  “Cooper’s been dead forever.”

  “Be that as it may, whatever the Queen and I bitch-fought over,” I felt wobbly, the walls tilted around me, “involved Cooper.”

  “I’m stumped.”

  “Fucked up, I know but I feel it in my bones.”

  I closed my eyes to stop the spinning. We stayed quiet a few seconds. I knew Brendan so well I could tell by the prolonged silence and his breathing he had something to say he thought I might not like.

  “What’s up, Brendan?”

  “I found Harrison’s maid, Alicia. Talked to her a couple days ago.”

  “What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me that first?”

  My husband could still get on my last nerve.

  “I’m telling you now,” Brendan said.

  “How’d you track her down?”

  “Talked to Herberto.”

  “Who?”

  “Christ, Preston. Your parents’ gardener for thirty-odd years.”

  “Oh right,” I said like I knew but forgot.

  I sat with my feet up on the desk. Leaned the fuck in, like a boss.

  “Anyway, Herberto told me where to find Alicia.”

  “How would he know? How would you know what he even said?”

  “I speak Spanish, Preston. Jesus, don’t you remember anything about me?”

  “Crispy Christ, I forgot. No end to your mad skills, Brenny.”

  “Can’t deal drugs out of Mexico if you can’t speak the language.”

  “Right, right. Still. Why would Herberto know anything about Alicia?”

  “You rich girls. Everyone knows the help sticks together. My dad could tell you the kids’ names of most cops still on the force.”

  “Falling asleep here.”

  “Turns out, Alicia’s got a new condo,” Brendan said. “Primo real estate. Clock Tower building.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Slammed the custom-made door in my face when she caught my drift.”

  “What drift?”

  “I asked why she left. If your folks paid for her place.”

  This was like getting blood out of a turnip. “What’d she say?”

  “Um, did you hear the part where she slammed the door?” Brendan’s tone turned impatient. “I’m sure she knows about my past. Thinks I’m up to something fishy.”

  “Damn it, we needed more. Now what?”

  “Well, it could mean nothing.”

  “What? You thought she knew something before,” I said.

  “I did at first. Maybe Alicia was straight up with my mom. Harrison stayed in the hospital for so long. Seemed like as good a time as any for Alicia to retire. No telling when, or if, your mom would need her again. Your parents paying for her new apartment doesn’t necessarily point to anything bad. Maybe it’s Alicia’s golden parachute.”

  “I hate it when you sound so reasonable. So, another waste?”

  “Maybe not. While I hablado español with Alicia, I saw Marcella sitting on the couch, pretty as you please. Thought she got her ass slapped in jail a long time ago.”

  “Who?”

  “Alicia’s daughter. You know, the nurse? Christ, your mother paid for her to go to college.”

  “What? How? What?”

  “Marcella’s our age. How can you not know her?”

  “Better question, how can you?”

  “Dunno. Probably met at your parents’ summer barbecue or something. Gonna meet her for coffee.”

  Holy fucking guacamole. A whole world I didn’t know about revolved outside my mansion while I’d shopped Net-a-Porter online loaded. “You talked to her already?”

  “Yeah. Not talk, talk. Made arrangements. She stopped me before I could drive off. Didn’t want Mamacita to see us.”

  My feet hit the floor. I didn’t want to hear more but doubled down. “Why would she go out of her way for you?”

  “How do you think I made all those connections back in college? She’s related to a bunch of guys in the drug biz, plus she’s a nurse, peddles prescriptions. Think she got caught though. Anyway, me and Marcella, before. Before you and I got together, well, officially together.”

  So that’s why he didn’t rush to tell me. Why Brendan’s veiled confession coldcocked me I didn’t know. What’d I give a rooster’s dick who he fucked?

  “That it?” I said. “You done?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Speed it up then.”

  “Look, Preston—get serious. Marcella doesn’t mean anything. You and I weren’t together then. You’re not seeing the forest for the trees. She can help us.” I could feel Brendan sweat through the receiver. “You’re pissed?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Well, you’ll like this. I got in our house this morning.”

  “You’re just now telling me jackwad?” I screeched in the mouthpiece like one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey during sweeps. “What’s with you today?”

  “Guess I felt bad about the Marcella thing. It’s all I could think about. I knew you’d get—”

  “Move it along. Nothing to be done about the past.”

  Except stew in jealousy and resentment then hold it over Brendan’s head forever.

  “Right, okay, well, I didn’t stay long. Something happened. The alarm went off again. Scared the shit outta me. My guy fucked up, gotta set his ass straight.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Looks like whoever lives there is a woman. Lacy panties and stuff.”

  “Lying around on the first floor?”

  “Well, folded. On the couch.”

  “Weird. Go on.”

  “Must be your mom.”

  “My mother’s panties? Lay off the hookah, Brendan. Can’t imagine her chin-huggin’ drawers flung around anywhere, much less the couch. Plus, as great as our house is, she’s got her own nicer one. Not to mention she can barely get herself across the room.”

  “Yeah, true. Well, here’s the best part. After I sped outta there I no more than got on the main road when I saw a car turn into our lane coming from the opposite direction. Just happened to look in my rearview in time to catch it.”

  “Could you see the driver? What kind of car?”

  “I barely saw the thing. Darker colored, I think. A bunch of cop cars swarmed in behind because of the alarm going off so long,” Brendan said.

  “Why does this feel dangerous? I’m the one everyone’s supposed to fear but something . . . someone—”

  “I feel it too,” Brendan said. “Makes no sense. You did a bad thing. You’re locked up. Despite the rumors I’m certain you didn’t kill anyone. That’s supposed to be the end of the story.”

  “Not a chance,�
� I said.

  “None at all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Preston’s Blog

  Musings from the Dented Throne

  Besa Mi Culo, Puta

  Much as conformity bores the shit out of me, the Heiress must follow the crowd. You, Dented Throne devotees, might cheat on me (Mon Dieu!) with younger, prettier bloggers. If you do indulge in the occasional dalliance you’ve noticed those dullard bimbos love lists. So here’s one. I’ve decided the best way to sort out my thoughts are to make like a lemming.

  1. Shit just got real. While the Heiress finds herself strapped to the rack in the dungeon, her Irishman’s sweating up the sheets with a hot tamale nurse he swears we’ve both known for years—a relative of the Queen’s entourage. Sure, he denies such an unholy alliance in the present day, says it’s all behind him, but I know the real deal. “Senorita can help our cause,” he told me. “Chica knows things.”

  “I’ll tell you what Chica knows—how to horizontal mambo like the rent’s due.

  Despite the Irishman’s assurances that his dalliance meant nothing, he played hide the chorizo during one of our many relationship breaks back in the day. I felt betrayed. How could his jumping-bean collusion go on under my nose with the help’s spawn?

  Ay, caramba!

  2. There’s room at the inn. Some unknown woman has ingratiated herself right into my vacant house. Where she apparently drops it like it’s hot in my living room. The thought of this mystery tramp prancing to and fro in her pimped-up lingerie is almost too much to take. It’s my fucking house. How did I discover this crime?

  My husband managed to find time in his own floozy-fucking schedule to make another recon mission to our place where he spied La Perla-type evidence, on my custom-made couch, no less. If my parents sold the mansion they paid for and gave to me, to someone else, I might need to bust outta here and find another weapon.

  The nerve.

  3. Royal She sat on her daddy’s lap until he died. So discomfited by this ick-inducing habit, I’ve never breathed a word. Every Christmas we’d gather ’round Grandfather and Grandmother’s big show-off tree with color-coordinated, ribbon-festooned décor. While the royal relations feigned surprise when fake Santa (Grandfather’s valet) hauled his fat ass in, carrying blue Tiffany boxes and loot from FAO Schwarz, the Queen, and Grandfather crept off to the library. Holiday after holiday I observed the Queen cuddled up on Granddad behind his antique mahogany desk.

  Ho fucking ho.

  4. She won’t touch or be touched. As much as I dread thinking about the Royal We in flagrante delicto, I can’t help but wonder how they managed not one, but two, offspring. If my brother and I hadn’t looked so much like them, I’d say we’d been adopted. The Queen has never been keen to have anyone’s hands on her or to bestow hers on them. Except with her beloved son. She couldn’t keep her hands off him. As for me? Not so much as a peck on the cheek or a hand to a feverish forehead.

  I’ve half a mind to bust out of this juke joint to try to find out what in Slim Shady is going on.

  The Invisible Heiress

  If you’ve got the gift of gab, use it. I might join in.

  Comments

  Jack

  How awesome would it be to get both you and the Queen on film? Now that’s a star-making documentary.

  Reply: Have you read one word on this blog? Queen’s already a star.

  Monica L.

  The Irishman’s giving you the run around to distract you from his goings on. Maybe it’s all a hoax. It’s probably his girlfriend’s lingerie. You don’t know what he’s doing in that house. You should get out so you can cut his throat too. Don’t trust him.

  Reply: Why would he tell me about the underwear, you asshat? Even he’s not that stupid. Thanks for playing. If you haven’t noticed, I’m an idiot savant when it comes to throat slitting.

  Masked Man

  Of course your husband’s got a side gig. You’re in the booby hatch. When u breaking out? Some group action with you, your MILF, and me would go far toward repairing your rift. From the sounds of it, your mother goes for older men.

  Reply: You’ve almost got a threesome, if you can find two more.

  Scribbler

  Obviously, the Queen’s daddy was a perv. Don’t be hard on her about it. Not the Royal She’s fault. BTW, seen Twitter lately? Check out #whoisinvisibleheiress #bloggerkiller

  Reply: Amateur hour’s on Tuesdays. Queen wasn’t a child Dumbo but a grown-ass woman. Tweets are for twats. #whogivesafuck

  Norma B.

  Scribbler’s got the right idea, sounds like inappropriate funny business. Doubt the Queen sat on Grandpa happy as Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Probably why she doesn’t like physical contact.

  Reply: Delusions, Norma. Grandpa babied her. Get your head out of the smut. Besides, no one makes the Queen do squat, at least not without body armor.

  Norma B.

  Don’t underestimate the power a parent holds over a child, even a grown one. Seems to me your own mother’s power over you isn’t the healthiest, now is it? As far as the Irishman goes, cut him some slack. He’s trying to help you. Stay put until he finds more.

  Reply: I don’t want to admit you’re right. So I won’t.

  Well Hung Jung

  I’m with Norma on this one Heiress. You’ve clearly got an anger management problem. You’re too hard on everyone who loves you. Speaking of hard . . .

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Isabel

  No lights brightened the front office. I checked the time. It wasn’t that late. I flicked on the overheads for a look-see in the common zone. Receptionist Rhonda’s desk sat empty. Whole place looked shut down. I veered to my side of the office, new key in hand, to unlock my private area. A note pressed to my door greeted me.

  Fired sticky fingered Rhonda. Voicemail will catch all calls. J.

  Crap. Collateral damage.

  Why didn’t I think that through? I needed the money. What could I do? The cash box beckoned on a regular basis. Jonathan never paid attention to details, and Rhonda seemed dense as a bag of dirt. I intended to pay it back when the cards fell in my favor. How much could I owe? Twenty here, forty there. Que será, será. Rhonda could get another shit job. Couldn’t she? My stomach gurgled with discomfort. As far as I knew, she’d never done anything wrong, didn’t deserve to get fired. Tried to remember if she had a husband, one with a job. That’d make me feel a little better.

  Nothing to do about it now, was there?

  I could admit I’d taken the cash and not Rhonda.

  That’s what I’d do. On the twelfth. Of never.

  I couldn’t concern myself. Dropped my bag on the floor, heard the jangle of the keys to my new sedan. I stared at the paperwork on my desk. Shoved the whole lot aside. Did Jonathan stash any more loot in his office? Would I even find his space unlocked? New wheels are nice and all, but I couldn’t spend my new car at the grocery store or the casino. Plus, Jonathan would assume Rhonda pilfered any cash in there, if he noticed.

  I strolled toward Jonathan’s side of the building and found his side wide open, marched right through his waiting room. At the end of the long hall, a beam of light lit the floor from under his office door. Goddammit. No mining for treasure there now. Interested to hear Jonathan’s version of the idiot receptionist’s drama, I went forward anyway until I heard murmurs. Like all therapists, Jonathan took late clients to accommodate their work schedules. So much for that, I turned around.

  On my way back through his waiting room, a bright white something on one of the chairs caught my eye. I grabbed a neatly folded piece of paper halfway stuck between the cushions. Scurried to my office, where I smoothed the creased surface, scanned the scribbled contents. I sped to the copy machine to make a duplicate, raced to return the original to the chair cushions, and beat a swift retreat to my office, paper in hand.

  I took a quick look. No date, no identifying info, only a short handful of sentences. What was this? A note? I read—Someo
ne’s trying to get in. I can hear them. Breathlessly intrigued, I kicked off my Manolos to read more when I heard a bustle from beyond my closed door. I cocked my head. Two voices. One was Jonathan. The other was too low to make out even when I pressed my ear to the wall. No idea why they’d have ventured out of their way to my side of the building or stopped right in front of my office. After a second or two, their voices waned. I waited several long minutes then poked my head out. They’d gone. I finished reading.

  I killed my baby. They will take him away from me.

  ****

  The delicious new-car smell thrilled me. Couldn’t help but wear what I felt sure was a smug smile while I oh-so-carefully swung out to the street. Intoxicated by my plush, fresh-from-the-dealer new car, I didn’t give Jonathan’s personal parking lot a thought when I drove by, except the light at the corner turned red, so I idled, glanced around to kill time. Jonathan’s Mercedes mini-van (a phrase that shouldn’t exist if you ask me) sat in its reserved spot, as usual, the car parked next to it was dark and so long that it jutted out well past the rear end of Jonathan’s van. Looked like a limo. Huh. He and his client must’ve gone back to his office after chatting in front of mine. I’d assumed they’d both left. Weird.

  I rolled down my tinted window to get a better look in the dusk, jumped when the obnoxious Range Rover driver behind me laid on his horn. Green light. I zipped back into Jonathan’s parking lot. Limo looked like Harrison Blair’s Town Car. Jesus Christ Almighty. Came this close to ramming through the tail end of the big mystery car. Harrison’s loyal driver stood outside it, smoking. He bolted sideways, so I’d miss plowing his uniformed ass to the concrete.

  Chapter Thirty

  Isabel

  “Preston, wake up.” I shoved her shoulder. She shot up like I’d cattle prodded her.

  “Don’t get grabby, Shrinky, or I’ll knock your scrawny ass to the floor.”

  “Bad habit you’ve got, knocking scrawny asses to the floor.” I jerked the chair toward Preston’s bed. “A miracle you didn’t do permanent damage to Rosalie this time. Nurse says she had to sedate her. What exactly is your issue with that poor, defenseless woman?” I looked above Preston’s head. “Your photo’s still there, couldn’t be that crap again.” Skimmed her desk. “See you found your journal too, so what?”