The Invisible Heiress

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  Microphones crammed through the open window paralyzed me. Cameras clicked a crazed tune, a symphonic assault. Questions in stereo ricocheted around the SUV’s interior. The security guard pushed and shoved, yelled at everyone to get back. He was outnumbered.

  “Why’d you cut your mother’s throat?”

  “How’d you get away with it?”

  “Did Harrison Blair really kill her baby?”

  “Is Brendan Finney’s death connected to your attack on your mother?”

  “Did you kill your husband?”

  I couldn’t tell which mouths the words gushed from, the squawking buzzards circled me like roadkill. The guard yelled something unintelligible, snuffed by the din. The collective rattle and hum churned, scrapped, jockeyed. I rolled the electronic window up, an arm kept it from closing. I pinched the intruding limb hard with one hand, worked the window down a smidge with the other. The reporter attached to the arm jumped back, yelping.

  I stepped on the gas, screeched away from the melee just in time to almost collide with a car turning onto my property. We both slammed to a stop. My neck snapped forward then back, but my seatbelt kept me in place, safe but probably sore. I straightened myself out, couldn’t really see the driver through the tinted window but what little I glimpsed pricked something in my swirling brain. Then the trespasser (a woman?) hit the gas, squealed in reverse to a stop long enough to throw the car back into drive, peeled out, tires spitting up gravel like a chainsaw.

  ****

  The first real grownup thing I’d ever done—burial arrangements for my husband. I felt outside myself as the director droned on about casket quality, cremation, graveside service, church, or both. I let the morbid, pale, little man shamelessly talk me into the most expensive everything. My endgame wasn’t to do a funeral on a shoestring but to get the whole unbelievable event behind me, no matter the price. Besides, Brendan paid with his life. How much would I need to spend to even the score?

  The choreography of death finally done, I intended to answer my stomach’s call with a Big Mac on the way home from the funeral home. Not too familiar with this area of town I spied the golden arches a few blocks down in one of the countless strip malls I’d passed.

  Of course, in my fervor to find it, I missed it. I hung a sharp U-turn through the nearest parking lot surrounded by shops and restaurants. Maybe one of the more upscale places would suit me better. After all, I hadn’t been to a restaurant in who knew how long? True, my appearance left a lot to be desired. Hard to make a bandaged forehead look chic, so I didn’t try. I planned to find a secluded quiet spot to eat and think. Especially about that car almost crashing into me earlier. Smiley must’ve been wrong. I am a target. Perhaps I am the target.

  I slowed to a crawl so I could get a good look at the various food offerings. That’s when I saw them. So intent on each other, they didn’t notice me come to a full stop, their heads together mid-coo at a cute, little, alfresco, bistro table like newlyweds in the Poconos.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Preston’s Blog

  Musings from the Dented Throne

  My Own Private Hiroshima

  So many bombshells dropped, my followers. Pop a Xanax, throw back a stiffie, whatever trick gets you through trauma. Here find the facts only the facts. I must recite them fast or trigger my own downward spiral.

  The Irishman is dead. Murdered.

  You read right.

  My husband martyred himself for my cause, a modern-day Jesus. No sign of the killer. Contrary to rumor mill gist, the Heiress didn’t do it. In fact, I’d give anything, everything if it hadn’t happened.

  At this moment only smartass wants to come off the end of my keyboarding fingers. If I give in to the bottomless sorrow, it’ll be the end. But know my world is blackened. I don’t know if I’ll ever see in anything other than deep shades of gray again.

  I think I’m being followed. A car with an unknown driver nearly slammed into my chariot. I believe they were turning into the Heiress’s drive. Something I can’t name agitates my memory about whoever sat behind that blackened window. Her (yes, her, but do I really know?) quick escape kept me from seeing enough to know for sure.

  Will my funeral follow soon behind the Irishman’s?

  New Dick in town absolved the Queen of the Littlest Heir’s death. No murder most foul but mundane illness instead. At least that’s the story for public consumption, which doesn’t feel right. Something happened to my brother, something bad, besides his illness. I feel it but can’t prove a thing.

  Jester and the Irishman made themselves a hot tamale sandwich with the Chica.

  Yes, it’s true.

  I bore witness with my own orbs. Hubby’s Chica and my dad cuddled up for all to see over cappuccino. I think I blacked out for a few seconds. You don’t know this, my faithful, but I thought we’d come to an understanding, the Jester and me. I thought he wanted, more than anything, to fix our family. How could I fall for that claptrap?

  As you know, if you’re a faithful follower, Norma B. hit the bullseye when she said another woman was responsible for Jester’s camera-ready beauty routine and snappy suit choices. The reason his face looked like he’d been flung through the sound barrier—a girlfriend the same age as me. I remembered the day Rosie the Ripper and I glimpsed the Queen, on camera behind the clueless Jester, frazzled as a hit-and-run driver. Did she know that day? Must’ve been the source of her unseemly display. I get her. For once, I do.

  Now what, you ask? I’m left to puzzle these pieces together alone, that’s what. For sure the Heiress will post updates as she sifts through the collateral damage.

  If you’re still conscious—stay with me.

  During the routine course of my sifting I rediscovered the hidden path behind the Royal’s behemoth plantation, the place where I was raised. This road less traveled used to aid my many escapes from the Queen’s prying eyes and her annoying insistence I attend school. As if paved by the gods of sneaky behavior this few-miles-long trail dumps out at the highway.

  Convenient. No?

  I happened to pass the old stomping ground on my way to. . .okay, not exactly on my way, but I did pass it. Well, I would’ve passed it if I hadn’t turned onto it. Before I knew what overtook me I found myself at the empty but pristine stables far enough from the main house to hide my presence but close enough to trek on foot without much ado. Slim to no chance of discovery by any groundskeeper since the sport of kings had long since lost its allure for the Royals. I parked, hoofed the rest of the way right to the back door. Good sense prevailed. After almost waltzing in, I scampered like a scared rabbit back toward my SUV.

  I felt the Queen’s eyes on my back as I made tracks. I stopped, turned toward the house through no fault of my own. Royal She controlled me. I saw Mother standing at her bedroom window like a woman carved from stone. Dusk fell, so I felt fairly confident she couldn’t actually see me, like I could see her, backlit. I stared at the Queen’s still form, willing her to acknowledge me, scared bug-eyed she might. Her hand glided to her neck, where that hideous scar resides.

  Words formed around my throat but stuck. I stepped forward.

  Then I saw her.

  The Irishman’s, and now the Jester’s, Chica. She came up from behind the Queen, a beautiful, dark-haired apparition, stood still a few seconds, then led Mother away by the arm. I felt my lids bat open, close, open, close, as if I could blink out some Morse code of understanding. Could I trust my jaded eyes? Could the Jester’s balls, once missing, now have inflated on such a scale that he’d move his girlfriend into the house he shares with the Queen? Is such growth even possible?

  What do you make of these devilish developments, my faithful?

  The Invisible Heiress

  Rain your wisdom down on me.

  Comments

  Jack

  My head spins. I’ve no advice other than make sure New Dick is on speed dial. BTW, maybe the Queen did see you. Would that be the worst thing?

  Rep
ly: Too bad you can’t ask her yourself. She’d part your hair with the Royal wrath. You should know by now New Dick might be the same old, same old. I’ve made baby steps toward trusting him.

  Maggie May

  OMFG. Poor Irishman. Hard to believe these things happen in real life. I’m so sorry for you. But an upside is the Queen’s innocent! Now you can patch things up, can’t you?

  Reply: Why would we do that when things have worked out so swimmingly for her?

  Well Hung Jung

  I never thought the Irishman was man enough for you. Too much blarney, not enough stones, you know what I’m sayin’? Didn’t you say Chica’s mamacita has a connection to the Royal She? Maybe Chica’s an innocent bystander helping out after the Queen let her lay low at your house.

  Reply: The Chica’s connected to the Jester’s codpiece. You know what I’m sayin?

  Well Hung Jung

  Or maybe the Royal She is keeping her enemies close.

  Reply: Finally something not idiotic.

  Norma B.

  I’m very sorry and sad to hear of the Irishman’s terrible death. I think the new detective sounds above board. Let him help, particularly if your FIL chief of police delegated you to him. Maybe the old regime is out. I told you that nonsense about the Queen doing harm to her son situation would work itself out. Too bad I was right about the Jester and his Chica.

  Reply: Yes, you are my supersmart Siri, Norma.

  Norma B.

  Well, where there’s smoke there’s fuego.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Isabel

  I’m no sitting duck.

  Wary of Sherman’s doings or motives I decided to take the reins, again. Some say if you’re not sure what to do, do nothing. Some would, but not me. I’d do something even a wrong thing.

  First, I cruised Sherman’s new swank townhouse to see if I might catch the weasel in the act. No such luck. I didn’t see any red flags, but I couldn’t very well knock on the front door. No way I’d give him the satisfaction. From what little I could see, slowed to a crawl, neck craned toward the front windows, the place looked peaceful as a monastery. Of course none of that meant anything. He could be orchestrating a Caligula-style orgy in the garage for all I knew.

  I drove on.

  Guess it’s never dawned on Preston that I know her address or how easy she is to follow. Almost ran into her head on but I don’t think she saw me. Probably too stoned, as I doubt she’d stay clean. No reason not to go back to her old ways.

  Because my bribery plan flopped, I’m vigorously looking down new avenues for conspiracies. What better avenue than Preston? I’ve tailed her for days. She didn’t even notice I almost rear-ended her when she turned off the highway onto a dirt road. I didn’t dare track her down what looked like an almost hidden path.

  So I waited.

  A convenient mess of roadside shrubs let me camouflage my car until I saw Preston drive out. Soon as she sped out of sight I retraced her drive. The road meandered for a few miles surrounded by dense forest. Before I knew it the trees cleared. I found myself parked behind some barns or some such. I’ll admit I broke a good sweat not knowing where or what the hell. I got out to inspect.

  Sometimes my nerve surprises even me.

  A giant, swank, white house with black trim and striped awnings filled my field of vision. I knew right away I stood on Harrison Blair’s sacred grounds. Everyone knew the Blair Fitzgeralds lived a genteel, frozen-in-time existence on one of the few, still-standing (albeit extensively renovated) privately owned plantations in the state—Beverley. I Inspector Gadgeted my way from behind one Greek-type lawn ornament to the next, mincing closer to the magnificent estate, grateful for the near darkness. Mid-tiptoe a light went on in the grand old house. I froze.

  Harrison Blair, plain as the crazy on Preston, looked right at me from an upstairs window. I ducked down, peered around the side of the faux Venus de Milo. The lamplight illuminated the space all around Harrison, lit the old bitch up like an angelic apparition. Wished I could remember how that all worked. Could she see me if I saw her? Not if it’s dark out? I took a gamble, inched my way up to an almost standing position.

  That’s when I saw him.

  A man.

  A young man appeared alongside the matriarch. I rubbed my eyes, certain I hallucinated. Nope. A super-sized, young, blond man sidled up beside Harrison, draped a log-like arm around her shoulders. So shocked I couldn’t move, even though it looked like he stared at me too. My chest expanded, felt tight, from the breath I drew in but didn’t exhale. Then, just like that, mystery guy leaned down, kissed old lady Blair smack on the lips.

  Fuck me six ways from Sunday. Harrison Blair’s gone cougar.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Preston

  “Pull over.”

  “Why?” Smiley turned the radio up louder.

  I turned it off. “You can’t drive my car. Range Rover’s twice the size of your heap.”

  “Hey, that heap’s new. Old one got totaled. Too close to Brendan’s car when it—”

  “You drive like an old lady with a dog in her lap.”

  “We’re not even off your property for chrissake.”

  “I could’ve driven myself to my own husband’s funeral.”

  “I’m sure. Safer this way though, so humor me.”

  “Better slow down. Gate guard thinks he works at the Pentagon since the last press stampede. He’ll want to probe our cavities before he lets us out.”

  “He knows the drill now. Gate’ll open in time for us to make a clean getaway from the media frenzy.”

  Smiley slammed the gas pedal. We sped through the yawning gates and the howling wolf pack of press like Bonnie and Clyde.

  “They think I killed Brendan.”

  “Buck up, Preston. You don’t seem like you give a fuck about what anyone thinks.”

  “Who says ‘buck up’ anymore? Golly gee whiz Howdy Doo—”

  “What’s the deal with your staircase?” In the clear, Smiley slowed to a reasonable pace.

  “Where’d that come from?” I said. “What are you talking about?”

  “I noticed you don’t walk near it. You cut a wide berth to go around the damn thing.”

  “Aren’t you observant?”

  “I am a detective.”

  “Then detect,” I said.

  “Okay. I’d guess upstairs is where it all went down with your mom.”

  “Good job.”

  “You haven’t gone up there since—”

  “That night. Right.”

  “Do you plan to move or just live on the first floor for the rest of your life?”

  “What’s it to you, nosy?” I watched the hills and trees through the window as we drove past, didn’t watch Smiley.

  “Might help to face it,” he said. “It’s just a room, after all. I’d go with you.”

  “What happened to your daughter?” I looked right at him this time.

  Smiley’s skin blanched pale, his hands turned white, clutched the steering wheel. “You do go right for the throat, don’t you?”

  He jerked the car back over the yellow line.

  “Oh, I see. You know all about me, but I can’t know about you.”

  “How do you know anything about my daughter?” Smiley said.

  “You’re as bad as my dad. Ever heard of Google? It’s the wave of the future. I knew I’d seen your mug before. In the papers a few years back.”

  “Corey’s on Google?”

  Hearing him say his daughter’s name hit me like a slap. After that smack down, I didn’t feel so superior. Even if I didn’t already know, I could’ve guessed she’d come to a bad end just by the way he said “Corey”—his tone low, dreadful. I wondered if my mother sounded the same way when she said my name or Cooper’s. My own voice softened.

  “Yes,” I said. “Online newspaper articles. After I read them, I remembered. My father talked about the case ad nauseam.”

  “Then you know what happened to
her.”

  “Yes. She was—”

  This topic definitely didn’t feel like a good idea anymore. I couldn’t repeat the awful details of her brutal rape and murder.

  “I’m so sorry. What a terrible—” I couldn’t think of a word horrible enough to finish my sentence. “Did you catch her killer?”

  “Yes. Didn’t Google finish the story for you?”

  “No.”

  I hadn’t looked too deep. I’d seen the headline trumpeting her murder and the ongoing investigation then got distracted by who could remember what.

  “Well, Google it again.”

  I’d hit a raw nerve. No way he’d chat about his daughter as if she were cocktail party conversation with someone he barely knew—someone who showed an embarrassing disdain for his feelings. I checked my watch. As was often the case, the more I thought about my insensitive and cruel behavior, the more I felt compelled to take it across the finish line unimpeded.

  “We’re late. Can you speed this up so we at least get to the cemetery today? Bad enough they think I killed my own husband. Best not to mosey in like we’d rather be at the mall.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Preston

  While a dour Smiley piloted us toward the cemetery, I worked to settle my nerves. Pushed Smiley and his murdered teenage daughter out of my thoughts. Felt horrible I’d brought Corey up. I’d think about that later. Maybe even apologize. Profusely.

  I arranged my hair to hide my Frankenstein forehead. Brendan married me in part for my looks, thought I should make an effort. Checked my face in the visor mirror. Seeing the bandaged wound felt like a bitch slap.

  Brendan died. No joke. Murdered.

  Last time I’d laid eyes on my husband, I’d tried to string him up by his sober chip chain. Self-loathing made me withered and ugly, like the picture of Dorian Gray. I mushed my lids shut with the heels of my hands ruining my puttied-on eye makeup.