by Amy Andersen
Cascades of jasmine draped over the garden walls, making the air heady with their sweet, complex fragrance. Mrs. Sullivan giggled as Marion took in a big breath of the flowers’ scent. “Lovely, aren’t they? My husband gave me this garden when we were first married. He was such a generous man.”
She directed them to stop by a small fountain and Glenn and Marion settled onto a little garden bench. Marion had been anxious to talk to her all night and leaned forward in anticipation. “What will you tell Owen and Noah?”
“That my money will evaporate into thin air when I die,” Camille said, all her genteel manners gone. “As you suggested, Marion, I told them I’m changing my will first thing in the morning with Mr. Gerheart. And I’m leaving my entire inheritance to a lovely group I found—Recovery Care. They help victims of automobile accidents with their bills, any home care they might need, everything. I am surprised they believed me,” she said, smiling.
Marion and Glenn looked at each other and then at her.
“Well, now that everything’s sorted,” Marion said, looking at both Glenn and Camille, “I can put the final part of my plan into place.”
Chapter 9
Mrs. Sullivan, exhausted and happy, snuggled down into her bed. Wendy peeked in the door and smiled at her. “How’s the birthday girl?”
“Fine, thank you, Wendy. Why don’t you turn in for the night? You must be exhausted.” With a respectful nod, Wendy slipped out and closed the door behind her. The room fell quiet and Camille Sullivan was left with only her thoughts.
Her mind drifted back to the day she met Noah, back when she was staying in that lovely little resort and had seen the tall, graceful Argentinian folding towels. When she’d learned he was a dancer as well, she’d run to buy tickets and his performance had taken her breath away. She could easily recall the way his long, muscled form had flown through the air as if gravity didn’t affect him. He’d always had a smile for her at every practice, even when the other, jealous dancers shot her evil looks as she was awarded solos they felt should have gone to someone prettier or simply younger.
Being a dancer up until her early forties had not been an easy task. She had loved it though, and to this day she missed the horrible pains it used to give her, the calluses, the smelly shoes. It had all attested to her constant work and love of ballet.
She could also easily remember the day that Noah relayed the sad story of his dead wife and son to her. He had been so convincing. Camille wasn’t sure what his intention had been, but she did know that despite a big and disturbing lie, he had always been true to her. He was her friend and lover and had stood by her through some tough times. How could she push him away? She saw no reason to be all alone.
It had always amused her to get questions about the nature of her relationship with Noah. It was no one’s business who she shared a bed with, or who had her trust. “Let the people gossip,” she thought, smirking to herself. “We all need friends. No matter how much money you have, it can’t kiss you or make you laugh.”
Slowly, slowly her eyelids grew heavier and the dark shapes in her room blurred together into a single black backdrop for sleep. Her head fell to the side and within a few minutes, she was in a deep sleep, completely dead to the world.
Had Mrs. Sullivan opened her eyes a moment later, she would have seen her bedroom door opening again, revealing a small, slight figure standing and waiting. It was someone short, someone who had been very patient up until that point, but who was done waiting. It was time to get this right and make sure Camille Sullivan never woke up.
The form moved forward into the moonlight but not so much that any part of its face was revealed. All it illuminated was a small plastic syringe with nothing inside—nothing except a small bubble of air. It might have seemed insignificant at first glance, but that bubble was destined for great things.
All the visitor had to do was gently inject that little empty space into one of Mrs. Sullivan’s veins. Then that emptiness would travel to her brain, heart or lungs and let its empty blackness spread, taking her life quietly and quickly and pulling her down into the nothingness with it. She’d just had a couple of accidents, a sudden heart failure or stroke wouldn’t really be a shock; it happened all the time to people who had suffered serious injury.
The stranger moved forward quietly, her small bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. Silky strands of expensive carpeting came up between the dangerous visitor’s toes as the person teetered on them, making sure the victim was truly asleep. Camille snored lightly and the stranger took a deep breath; it was time.
The needle lifted to just above the sleeping woman’s neck. The bubble wouldn’t have far to travel, just a bit up or down one of the major arteries. Slowly, the needle descended and was about to touch the old woman’s extended neck when the stranger’s arm was grabbed from behind.
“Stop right there. You are under arrest,” a man’s voice hissed. “Please come with me.”
As quietly as possible, the captain led the small stranger out of the room and through the door. Behind them, the syringe lay helplessly on Mrs. Sullivan’s chest. As Carter announced the rights of the offender, all his perp could think about was what would have happened if that syringe had found its victim just a few days sooner.
In the morning, Camille awoke to find a small, unused syringe lying next to her on her bed. She went cold at the sight of it and quickly found a small handkerchief to pick it up. She held it in the morning light and looked at it closely. Empty, it looked almost harmless. But Camille Sullivan knew, perhaps more than anyone, that appearances were the last thing a lady could trust.
Chapter 10
“Marion, you are the best …” Glenn waited for a moment, a sneaky smile on his face. “You’re everything detective Chippingville could hope for.” She blushed a little at the praise as she unlocked Silver Shears. The two of them were going to uninstall the chairs her clients used to sit in back when she actually cut hair, and take them to storage. She couldn’t bear to sell them; there was still a small chance she could be a stylist again. She’d also turned down the money Camille had offered her for the cut. Marion marveled for a second at just how bad she was at making any cash these days.
“Well, a big part of it was luck,” she countered, stepping into her place. “It was all thanks to that long, blonde hair on Owen’s shoulder. As soon as I saw it, I knew; he and Wendy were together. It explains why she was so endlessly focused on family. As soon as you confirmed they had already gotten married, everything made sense. Anything Owen inherited was also hers, the house included.”
“What did Carter say? Did he get a confession out of her?”
“He did,” she said, nodding. “She admitted the whole plan was hers alone. Owen had no idea what she was up to. Poor guy. He thought he’d married the sweet, innocent girl who took care of his mom. Not an aspiring killer.”
Glenn sat down in one of the chairs and started spinning around like a little boy. “Can you imagine,” he asked, still spinning, “being secretly married for over a year? It doesn’t seem possible.”
“Not much surprises me anymore,” Marion said.
“No?” Glenn pulled her into his lap as he swept around and the two of them rode the last few rotations of the chair together, Marion cuddled up into Glenn’s chest and inhaled his aftershave. He used an old-fashioned scent that sailors used to wear when they were on shore and looking for someone to have a little fun with before returning to the sea. Marion could picture Glenn as a young sailor; climbing the rigging, shouting orders at his crew, the wind in his face and hair.
“Hey,” Glenn nudged her, bringing her back to earth. “Where did you go just now?”
“I was just thinking how glad I am that I had you there to help me.” She looked up at him and gave him a smile. “We make quite a team. But Glenn, I have to know—where did you learn to pick locks so well?” She looked up into his eyes. “You were never a thief or anything like that, were you?”
>
Glen sighed and hung his head for a moment. “Listen,” he whispered, “I have something I need to confess …”
Oh no. Marion sat up straight and stared straight at him. Confess? What could he have done? “Okay.” Her breath came a little faster than she would have liked, but she convinced herself that she was getting it under control. “Whatever it is, it will be okay. Just tell me.”
“It’s about the lock-picking,” Glenn squeezed his eyes shut and pinched covered them with his hand. “This isn’t easy to admit, but I think you should know.”
“Oh my god, Glenn! Just tell me. I can’t stand this.”
He put his hand down to reveal his amused smile and the twinkle in his eye. “I have a magician uncle who works in Vegas. He taught me everything I know about picking locks.”
Marion’s mouth fell open and she stared at him in silence for a moment. Glenn let out a small laugh and then stopped himself. “Are you mad?”
“Furious!” She playfully pummeled his chest with her small fists and he feigned injury, bucking in the chair with pretend pain. “How dare you? I really thought you’d done something terrible.”
“Being related to a magician isn’t terrible? I thought it was!” He laughed and pulled her in for a hug.
“It’s a forgivable sin,” she said, relaxing into his arms. They sat together, Glenn holding Marion and Marion loving the feel of his body so close to hers for a moment longer. A little sigh of contentment escaped her as she sat there. She was thrilled their investigation was over, but heartbroken that her career as a stylist was over too.
The ringing of a bell snapped her out of the moment and she jumped up to see two well-dressed ladies standing by the door.
“Hello! Can I help you?”
“Yes.” The first stepped forward and looked around with a little confusion. “I hope we’re in the right place. We’re looking for the stylist Marion Fox. The one who styled Mrs. Sullivan for her birthday party. I believe that’s you, isn’t it dear?”
“Yes.” She stepped forward to shake their hands. “Please, excuse the mess. I’m just uh… remodeling. But I have some openings today. Would you both like a cut?”
The second woman piped up. “I really need a cut and highlight. And is there any chance you could give me a deep conditioning treatment afterwards? Conditioning always helps the color last a little longer.”
“Oh, I’d like one of those, too.” The first woman looked over her shoulder at the sound of the phone ringing. “We’ll just go have a seat and you can start when you’re ready.” They walked over to the waiting chairs and pulled out their large, expensive phones. The salon phone kept ringing and Glenn ran over to pick it up.
“Silver Shears, how can we help you? Yes, you’d like an appointment for today at five p.m.?” He looked to Marion for confirmation as she quickly cleaned her workstation. She gave him a thumbs-up and waved over her first client. “Sure, it looks like we can fit you in. Uh, please don’t be late, we’re filling up today. Thanks.”
“I’ll have to teach you how to talk on the phone, Glenn.” Marion whirled a smock over her new client and then faced her in the mirror. “You’re supposed to write their name down and then get their phone number in case they don’t show.” The phone rang again and she raised her eyebrows at him. “Go ahead, try again. Be polite.” She turned to her customer. “So, what would you like today?”
Glenn fielded calls for the rest of the morning and Marion made sure her two new customers got everything they wanted. By the time they left, she was fully booked for the rest of the week and the two ladies looked like classic Hollywood movie stars. They even bought several of Marion’s organic shampoos and conditioners so that they could walk out with their hands full of carrier bags just like real stars.
Finally, Glenn had to go. “Will you be alright without me?”
Marion looked at her full waiting area and the woman waiting in the chair for the next cut while two more sat under the dryers. She nodded at him and smiled. “I’m better than okay,” she said, blinking away tears of happiness. “I’m back in business.”
The End
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Thanks,
Amy
