The Invisible Heiress

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  I’m a woman divided between admiration—cut with a heavy dose of empathy for the saddest, handsomest detective—and irritation he felt compelled to make up a living spouse. I wasn’t groping him or doing anything that would induce lies to keep me at bay. I’m hopeful you, my followers, can advise me.

  A final perplexity: Who popped out from behind a tree at the cemetery after the Irishman’s burial but his mother? Yes, you remember mom-in-law? Her halfhearted attempt to go undercover couldn’t conceal her real identity.

  At first, mom-in-law’s appearance surprised me, but after some serious thought, it makes sense. She brought her son into the world—she’d see him out—peevish husband be damned. I thought they might’ve up and moved. But no, Colleen would never leave. She’d stay where the memories of a child gone too soon still seemed fresh—home. It’s what mothers do.

  Even mine.

  The Queen kept up regular visits to the psych ward, even if she wanted to hate me, showed up at the hospital when the explosion that killed my husband injured me, made her alliance clear for all to see at his funeral. I could still feel the champagne tickle of her touch on my skin.

  Some bonds won’t break no matter how fierce the beat down.

  I’ve given you a lot to kvetch over, my faithful.

  The Invisible Heiress

  In the immortal words of Chaka Kahn—tell me something good.

  Comments

  Jack

  So you’re saying New Detective says his wife is alive but she’s not?

  Reply: Yes. It’s a real Sixth Sense situation.

  Jack

  Isn’t it possible he remarried?

  Reply: Hmmm. You got me there. I’ll do more snooping.

  Amy W.

  That poor New Detective. You should make nice with him no matter what about the dead wife. I mean, really. What a cruel twist of fate to lose a wife and a daughter in such violent ways.

  Reply: I’ve taken that suggestion under advisement.

  Maggie May

  Makes perfect sense the Irishman’s mother would show. You’re right about mothers. I hope you and yours can kiss and make up. Now what? Are you going to try to contact mom-in-law?

  Reply: Can’t imagine it, but I’m considering any and all possibilities.

  Masked Man

  New Dick’s lying to get laid. There’s nothing more appealing to women than a man who’s wanted by another woman. I lie all the time about a Missus Masked Man.

  Reply: If you weren’t such an asshat I might take this possibility seriously. New Dick will keep little New Dick packed, I assure you.

  Norma B.

  New Detective’s personal tragedies make him the perfect candidate to help figure everything out. He wants to protect you. Show your Mom-in-law kindness. You two might bond in ways that could surprise you.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Isabel

  I planned to take a cursory look at Jonathan’s video then hit the slots. Instead I slogged to my office, pushed paper around, gave my current state of limbo some thought.

  “I’ve filed for divorce. These things don’t unravel overnight.” Sherman assured me over and over, but a nagging doubt thumped the back of my brain. The lout forced me to call twenty odd times before he answered.

  “I’m locking up. You staying?” Jonathan poked his head in my office, a whack-a-mole begging for a mallet. “You’d think I’d learn my lesson by now but dare I ask what you’re so deep in thought about?”

  “Someone tried to break in last night.” Didn’t mean to spew that out. I’d intended to tell Sherman earlier but didn’t get the chance.

  “Here?” Jonathan looked around my office, crossed immediately to the window, rattled the latch.

  “No. My apartment.”

  “Really? Well, I’m not surprised. Like I said, those listening devices have everything to do with you. Someone’s out to get you. I better not get caught in the crossfire.”

  “Or you’ll what?”

  “I don’t know. You won’t want to find out.”

  “Ooh, snap. Jonathan found his balls. Wife’ll want them back by end of day. No worries anyway. I’m sure I imagined the whole thing. Don’t know why I even mentioned it to you, of all people.”

  My teeny-tiny, inner sane person smacked herself on the forehead. I didn’t connect the bugs to my prowler until Jonathan threw the idea in my face.

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I did. Called them last night. Right away.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “Couldn’t find anything. They took note though, yep. Took note.”

  “Okay, well. You’d better be right.” Jonathan tucked his phone back in his pocket. “Look Isabel, I’m probably wrong. Just blowing off steam. Can’t expect me to feign happiness over this situation considering our history. I’m sure your imagination’s working overtime. You know how you can get.”

  ****

  I really didn’t have a care in the world, did I? I shouldn’t worry so much.

  Sherman would make an honest woman out of me (honest probably isn’t the right word) sooner rather than later. No one tried to break into my place. I’m sure Jonathan was right. I imagined the whole thing. My head played tricks on me. Jonathan knew me well. I could get a little—no other way to describe it—undone. Good things came to those who wait. I waited, if not with much patience, at least not psychotically. Well, not the strict definition anyway.

  I flirted again with the idea of going to the club, but the thought didn’t lift my sagging spirits. I steered my beautiful sedan home. I drove like a ninety year-old, followed the back roads, thinking, churning.

  Sherman wouldn’t try to pull one over on me. Would he?

  Spent a wad on my wedding dress. Soon the glorious confection won’t fit. Goddammit. I’d need to double up on the Spanx to get my expanding belly in a size six dress, but I’d give it a go. Jonathan keeps commenting on my weight gain, but if he hasn’t guessed I’m pregnant by now maybe I can fit into that gown.

  What if Sherman really did dump me? Then what? I wondered what alleyway I’d have to go down to get a late-term abortion. I absentmindedly yanked a wad of hair out at my neckline. Stop, Isabel. Don’t go there.

  I needed to calm myself before I made another terrible mistake. Sherman gave his word. I believed him. That was that. I felt a drip down my neck, wiped it away with an impatient hand, came back red. Shit. The gob of hair in my hand stuck to the gooey mix of sweat and blood. My neck started to hurt where I’d pulled, kept bleeding. So engrossed in stemming the flow, I about missed my street. Jerked the wheel, scraped the curb.

  Now what? Police parked in front of my apartment building?

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Preston

  Not sure where to begin my investigation, I’d driven to the Finneys’ place. Didn’t even need to slow down to see the place looked locked down tighter than a librarian’s thighs. Only sign of life was the old cop sedan parked in the driveway, stripped of its insignias, bought at the annual auction probably.

  I turned too sharp and my purse fell off the seat onto the floor, spilling girlie crap plus Brendan’s apartment keys. I’d forgotten about them until that second. Changed my mind about making peace with my in-laws. My husband’s apartment seemed like as good a place as any to start my look-see.

  I parked in the first open space, not caring if it was reserved for a resident. I was technically a resident, since I kept paying the rent. Couldn’t let the place go. Not yet. Good thing. I trudged around the complex looking for the number that matched the one scribbled on the paper tag clipped to the keys. Didn’t need to search long. Neon yellow tape crisscrossed the front door.

  “Crime-scene tape? Still? Jesus, how lazy is the landlord?” I said out loud to no one, ripped the yellow announcement of Brendan’s dirty dealings off the front door of his apartment. “Overkill.”

  I stepped in, touched a light finger to the hair-shirt gash on my forehead,
a forever testimony to the part I played in my husband’s ghastly death. The seeping cut refereed the outrageous games I played with my thoughts. Every time I gave myself a free pass, my wound cried bullshit, stung and wept like I’d used kerosene as antiseptic.

  “Christ. What a fucking mess.”

  I kicked piles out of my way to clear a path. Mining Brendan’s apartment seemed like the thing to do a few minutes ago. Now I didn’t feel so sure.

  I picked up a dual metal food and water dish, a smudge of dried food stuck to one side. Poor Jesse Pinkman, the furry, four-legged, innocent bystander. Why did the thought of an animal I never knew about make me want to throw myself to the ground in an operatic fit? I held Jesse Pinkman’s dish under an armpit instead. Didn’t own an animal, but I’d keep the dish.

  I weaved through toward the galley kitchen. The small apartment felt like Brendan. His smell, a mix of paint thinner, peppermint soap and musky sweat hung in the air. One of the few personal things about my husband I knew for sure.

  I couldn’t remember much of my life with Brendan. Maybe I chose not to. Flashes of tenderness sometimes popped up in my head. Did I really cuddle up to his backbone in bed, one leg thrown over his? Did he kiss my neck, brush my hair or rub my feet? Did we ever share the small intimacies that separated the fly-by-nights from the built-to-last? Or did his death already polish his rock-of-a-life into a gem?

  I felt suspended on the ragged edge of despair. Blairs didn’t cry. A rule I’d broken with impunity lately. Needed to steady myself on the fridge, opened the freezer for the hell of it. I reached in past the ice cube trays, one tube of hamburger meat, empty box of Hot Pockets and a brown butcher paper package. Tore open the plain wrappings to discover a wad of cash. I remembered Brendan used to hide drugs and/or drug money in the freezer but assumed the cops would’ve found them. Hiding shit in a freezer didn’t exactly ring original. How lazy had the cops gotten? My guess was they’d found the stash but didn’t want to log it into evidence to protect Marv’s son. At least they didn’t steal it.

  Smiley called it right. My Irishman tangled himself back up with his druggies. What I’d told Brendan was true. Can’t blame my parents for everything, or anything at all—my brother’s death, Brendan’s. But what would my world look like without archenemies?

  Wasn’t there always someone other than me to blame?

  I dropped the cash bundle at the kitchen sink, used a filthy sponge to scrub the dried food clinging to Jesse Pinkman’s dish under running water for something else to do. Grabbed the first thing that resembled a towel and dried with vigor.

  “What’s this?”

  I held the towel out, studied the familiar navy embroidery—CFB—in a classic font. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. My brother Cooper’s monogrammed blanket.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Isabel

  “Ma’am, are you all right?” One of the two uniformed cops planted in front of my apartment pointed out the blood smeared on my neck.

  “Oh, yes. Fine.” I rubbed my hand on my skirt to get rid of the sticky hair. “Cut myself, um, shaving.” I’d parked my new car in the covered lot, tried to keep my blood pressure at a reasonable level. Keep calm and carry on. “You’re not here to see me, are you?” I put my key in the door.

  “Are you Isabel Warner?”

  I wondered if it’d help to lie.

  “Yes.”

  No use.

  “Can we step inside?”

  “Sure.”

  My voice sounded breezy, didn’t it? Why shouldn’t it? I’d broken no laws. Not real laws. Well, not any these cops would be clever enough to know about. We all strode in easy peasy. On autopilot, both cops removed their caps at the same time. I dropped my purse on the coffee table, offered my unwelcome visitors a seat that they declined. Worked like a mother to keep my face neutral. One opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

  “I’m sure whatever it is can be cleared up in—”

  “It’s about your mother, Ms. Warner,” he said. “Jeanine Turner?”

  “Yes, that’s my mother.”

  I knew what he was getting at. The reason she hadn’t answered the phone. I steeled myself for the blow by trying to keep the cop from saying what I already knew out loud.

  “I told the klepto cheapskate last time I’d let her stew in the pokey if she—”

  “She’s dead.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Preston’s Blog

  Musings from the Dented Throne

  Good Golly, Miss Molly

  Call me crazy (I know you already do), but something funny’s going on. Funny as waking up in the middle of the night to find a clown perched on the end of your bed.

  I found my brother’s monogrammed blanket in the Irishman’s apartment.

  Let that sink in.

  The last time I laid eyes on a similar cashmere square I held it clenched in both fists before my excursion to the cuckoo’s nest. One of the few details I remember distinctly. Could it be the same one? I brought the evidence home from the Irishman’s. Smells fresh, clean, unlike everything else in my late husband’s apartment. Despite the small size, I can’t overstate how significant it is. Like a letter bomb.

  Jester’s decided, suddenly and shockingly, that life on the public dime doesn’t suit anymore. Financial planning’s his new gig. He plans to spend, I mean invest, other people’s money. The only kind he knows. Saw the doofus’s press conference on the news. I suspect the Royal She’s somehow cut his funds off at the knees on this one. The Queen considers herself a politico’s wife. She’d never agree to finance a private side hustle so he’d need to start scheming like his ass was on fire via Ponzi.

  Then there’s his wonky appearance plus attitude. I’ve given you the 911 on his face and hair but since he talked smack to the Queen that day in therapy he’s turned goon. No more doormat dad. The only explanation for all these oddities indicates something bigger is afoot. What? Got me.

  On my way home from the Irishman’s apartment you’ll never guess who I pulled right alongside at a stop sign. Shrinky. Driving what looked like a new luxury car, well, luxury for someone like her. Get this. Had a weird near miss with an unknown car near my gate a while back. Looked a lot like this same one. I noticed the crazy skank this time because she had the driver’s side window rolled down. Shrinky didn’t see me because she was too busy talking to an invisible friend and pulling out handfuls of her own hair.

  Welcome to my world.

  Random reminiscences come my way. The window in my old bedroom at the Royal’s doesn’t lock. Latch broke moons ago. Queen is old school. No alarm systems. A gun in the bedside drawer is her version of high-tech security. She conceded front-gate cameras, but they hadn’t been upgraded in eons to my knowledge. If the Heiress felt like a quick B&E she could get ’er done easy. A clandestine stroll down the hidden path, and some catlike maneuvers up to the second floor, is all it’d take. I’d done similar throughout my formative years, sneaking out to the closest rave or whatnot.

  The Invisible Heiress

  P.S. Such is my state that I brought home Jesse Pinkman’s dish. The Irishman could pick a great dog name. I don’t own a dog. It’s a reminder that only a man who loves dogs, and is loved by dogs, could put up with me.

  Put down that joint. Tell me how you feel.

  Comments

  Hubba-Hubba

  Who buys babies cashmere? You fuck nuts deserve whatever happens to you.

  Reply: We absolutely, positively, never, fuck nuts.

  Dr. Frank

  You should turn Shrinky into the AMA. She’s definitely bonzo. Why not look me up? I’d treat you for free. We could chat over dinner and drinks? Wear something slutty.

  Reply: To think I’d used a shrink playing with half a deck when I could’ve gone to you. My bad.

  Maria N.

  I can’t for the life of me think why the Irishman would keep the Littlest Heir’s blanket. Did he get it from you? I think your poor dad needed a break. Maybe fina
ncial management’s easier?

  Reply: It is easier because he’s always had someone manage his. Nope, makes no sense. I’m with you, Maria. I can’t, for the life of me, think why the Irishman owned baby bro’s blanket either. I’m blank but certain it’s not a good sign.

  Maria N.

  BTW, you’re a tender heart, Heiress. Sweet you’d keep Jesse Pinkman’s dish.

  Norma B.

  Maybe the Irishman spent more time in your house than you think while you were gone. Or searched the crime scene? I can’t believe Shrinky doesn’t get under your skin enough to prick your interest. God knows she gets under mine, just from reading about her here.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Isabel

  “Bun-wearing bugger’s a guy,” Jonathan said in my ear. “Was a guy, I should say. Preston Blair’s husband, Brendan Finney, if you can believe that.”

  I thought finally answering his call would be less annoying than hearing it ring. Not so. I didn’t have the wherewithal to feign surprise.

  “Okay, whatever,” I said. “Listen I’ve gotta—”

  “Whatever? Are you kidding? Expect a visit from a Detective Smiley. He’s already talked to me. He did say there’s no proof Brendan actually did any bugging or even broke in. Not from the photos anyway. Common sense dictates—”

  “Got other things going, if you must know. Some big, scary creeper tried to break in a few minutes ago.”

  “Again? You sure this time?

  “Definitely. I fell sleep. Heard a noise. Then a shadowy figure. Saw his outline, tried to pry open the window right here in my bedroom.” I’d tucked myself in early, phone by my pillow in case Sherman called.