by Ginny Aiken
Marge listened to my angry screams. She sat through the joke the law called a trial. She even stuffed me into her immaculate vintage VW Beetle, then dumped me back out at Tyler Colby's dojo.
Thanks to Tyler's no-nonsense approach to martial arts and Marge's use of her proverbial hobnailed boots, I crawled out of my pit of despair, inch by ugly inch. In time, Dad talked me into going back to school, but I couldn't see myself as a future accountant anymore. The neatness of numbers and equations had nothing to do with life. They sure didn't make it more logical.
After hours spent with Marge at her auction house's warehouse, I decided to check out interior design as a career. It held the promise of freedom in self-employment. I wanted to work for myself as soon as I could. Authority and power are now impossible to accept as blindly as I once did. They remind me how weak I was, how helpless, at the mercy of the merciless.
Design has an extra bonus for my battered psyche. It surrounds me with and helps me focus on beauty rather than on the random acts of ugliness that happen every day.
I turned off the shower and squeezed excess water from my hair. I twisted the whole long mess of it in a soft blue Egyptian cotton towel and wrapped myself in another.
Steam fogged the beveled mirror over the vanity. Good. After yesterday, not to mention Dutch's call, I didn't want to see my eyes. I didn't want to find the misery I'd seen there before.
Midas whined out in the hall. I'd taken too long for him. He wanted my company, and he wanted it now.
I hurried into my clothes. "I'm coming."
The wide-toothed comb snagged in my crazy, wavy brown hair a bunch of times, but eventually, I had the damp mess spread over my shoulders. I hoped it would dry fast; I held out no hope for neat or anything less than wild. I hurried to join my dog.
I rubbed his head. "You want one of those muffins too, don't you? Sorry."
Midas struck a defiant pose, feet squared beneath his silky furred chest, and woo-woo-wooed back.
"Tough. You can't have one. They're lousy for you. I'll give you a nice, big bowl of Eukanuba's best instead."
Downstairs I opened the metal bin of premium kibble and scooped Midas's breakfast into his dish. The Golden One was not amused. Powerful body braced before the food, Midas glared from the brown pellets to me and back again. His feathered tail whipped the air; his body broadcast displeasure.
"Hey, that's life. 'You can't always get what you want-"'
I caught myself. Terrific. Dutch's song from the auction. What did that say about me? After all, the guy wasn't all there.
How could he think I'd killed Marge? Even the police weren't that dumb. Detective Tsu of the feminine elegance and sharp gaze had said I was an important witness. After all, I did find Marge. Only a paranoid fruitcake would twirl that in his warped little brain and come up pointing fingers.
Dad came into the kitchen and shuffled canisters on the counters. "Have you seen my reading glasses? I had them when I did a crossword a little while ago, but I can't figure out where they went after that."
I grinned. Some things never change. "Check your shirt pocket."
'Aha!" He put on the half-moons and winked over the frames. "I knew you'd find them." At the back door, he added, "I'll be at the office, but if you need me, just call. I don't have anything so urgent on my schedule that I can't beg off. Sunday's sermon's written. This-" he gestured vaguely "-is going to be tough on you."
"And on you. Marge was a good friend to you and Mom for years."
"True, very true." He shook his head. "These last few have been rough, haven't they?"
Pain swelled in my throat.
"Faith, honey," Dad said, even though he knew how I felt. "The Lord will see us through."
Maybe you, but he hasn't done a thing for me. "I'll call if I need you."
Once he left I helped myself to a mug of Starbucks House Blend and a muffin. In spite of the scrumptious scents, I couldn't even nibble.
What would life be like without Marge?
If I hadn't had to take that second, horrible look at her lifeless body, I would probably be trying to assure myself that the whole horrible day had been a nightmare. But it had been too real. I couldn't question my memory.
Marge was dead.
Someone had hated her enough to kill her.
Or maybe that someone had resented her strength, her success. It doesn't matter why they did it. What matters is that Marge is gone.
I can't imagine hurting anyone or anything. Except maybe banana slugs and spiders. They gross me out. But the thought of violence, doing real, vicious harm, is beyond me. Even memories of my very own slimeball don't send me into a kill-crazy frenzy. And he did hurt me.
What makes people turn violent?
Before I could come up with any answer, the phone rang.
"Haley Farrell?"
"Yes. How may I help you?"
"Sam Harris here. Margaret Norwalk's attorney. By now I'm sure you've read the papers and must be wondering what's up."
I rapped my nails against the tabletop. 'Actually, Mr. Harris, I made it a point to avoid them. A rude and offensive phone call this morning informed me that you cozied up to the press last night. What did you think you'd gain by blabbing before poor Marge's body had the chance to get stiff?"
Harris cleared his throat. "This is a criminal matter, Ms. Farrell. I had to cooperate with the police."
Nice try, buddy. "Cops don't write newspapers. Since when does cooperation mean you spill clients' private matters to the whole wide world? Ever hear of attorney-client privilege?"
"Look. You may not like it, but it's done."
"Just like Marge is dead, and I don't like it. Is that it?"
Silence. Then, "I called to ask you to come to my office at your earliest convenience. I have Marge's will, and I need to give you a copy."
"Then it's true?"
"You're Marge Norwalk's heir."
Still disgusted by the ambulance chaser's unethical actions, I agreed to meet him that afternoon, then hung up.
What would it mean to be Marge's heir? The Farrell family has never had much money. True, the church pays its pastor an acceptable salary, and here in Wilmont the manse comes along as part of his compensation. But Marge had real money, a lot of it. Her business is successful, and she knew how to invest for the best return.
"Hey, Midas. Isn't that something? I'm going to have a savings account with a balance. Investments. Even an auction house. Imagine that."
My stomach lurched. 'And I don't know a thing about auctions. I'm just a brand-spanking-new interior designer. All I want is to make people's homes and offices look good. What am I going to do with Marge's stuff?"
By the time I left Sam Harris's office hours later, I'd worked up a killer headache and more questions than I'd had when I arrived. No answers though.
The only additional thing I'd learned was the size of Marge's healthy portfolio, hefty life-insurance policy, and humongous certificates of deposit. Oh, and her business was making a bundle too.
From what Harris led me to believe, as soon as probate was complete, I'd have access to all that money, even though Steve Norwalk threatened to contest the will. Something told me shady shysters knew how to write airtight wills ... something about the color of money.
Memories of yesterday's antiques returned on the drive home from downtown Seattle. It looked as though I'd soon have the seed money I'd wished for during the auction. Maybe I could rent a store for Decorating $ense. A showroom would be great, stocked with quality pieces, a mix of old and new. I'd set them up in roomlike groups so clients could draw ideas from the settings. Racks of fabric swatches would help, as would a section of wallpaper books, a separate room for salvaged architectural details, and even paint chips and assorted wood-finish samples. Marge would be so proud-
No, she wouldn't. Marge wasn't going to be around. Tears filled my eyes, and misery squeezed my heart.
For once, the legendary traffic snarls on 1-5 didn't faze me. I was too
absorbed in my own thoughts, and then I had to handle a tough condolence call from a friend. But when I finally reached my exit, I did manage a watery smile. The narrow streets of Wilmont, lined with old and not-so-old homes, were far more appealing than the bumper-to-bumper gleam on one of the country's most congested roadways.
Then I turned onto Puget Way. Warm fuzzies usually hit me at the first glimpse of home. But what I saw kicked the sick reality of yesterday's tragedy up to life again.
A Wilmont PD cruiser sat in the driveway behind Dad's car. I made out two heads in the front seat, one of which belonged to Detective Tsu.
I pasted on a pseudogrin to approach the official vehicle. "I assume you're waiting for me."
The front passenger-side door opened. The detective, today in a cream linen trousers suit, stepped out. I shook the cool hand she extended and couldn't stop the comparison between its softness and my own warm, sweaty, dishwater-and-paintthinner-rough mitt.
"As I said yesterday," Ms. Tsu said, "we have more questions for you."
"I didn't doubt it. Come in."
Ms. Tsu sat on the shabby-chic white-slip-covered sofa, and I took Mom's rocker. The little tape recorder came out of the detective's glam black purse, and she began.
"We have a list of everyone who attended the auction. But before I show it to you, I want you to name anyone you remember. On your own."
I felt we were about to play a tricky little game, one where someone somewhere had the odds stacked against me. I named Marge, Ozzie, Noreen, and Dutch, then ran down a list of the members of the missionary society. "Some of the ladies planned to bring their spouses, but I don't remember any besides Tom Stoker. I didn't pay much attention to the others. I was there on business."
Ms. Tsu wove her silver pen through the fingers of her right hand. "Tell me about your business."
"There's not a whole lot to tell. I quit my sales job at Rodgers and Faust three weeks ago and took out ads in the local newspapers and the two Seattle biggies to launch Decorating $ense last week. Noreen Daventry asked me to join her at the Gerrity auction. She wanted my professional opinion on a slew of things she liked and for me to look at the house. She's decided to buy it and have me design the decor."
The detective dipped her smooth-coiffed head to her left. "That must represent a substantial commission, right?"
"You bet. The Gerrity mansion's well known. Whoever brings it back will earn a good chunk of change. And besides the commission, that job will mean the best kind of publicity. Noreen-Ms. Daventry-entertains all the time. Once her guests check out the house, her designer'll get a bunch of referrals."
"So it's in your best interest for the sale to go through."
"Of course."
"What does the delay mean to you?"
What was she, stupid? But her dark eyes nixed that possibility. "It means I'm the owner of a sign over my mailbox. Without the sale, Noreen can't hire me. I'm unemployed."
Ms. Tsu cocked her head to the right. She scanned her notebook. "Hmm ... I have here that Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stoker hired you to redo their living and dining rooms. Why did you say you're unemployed?"
"I forgot. Gussie asked me right before Ozzie-Mr. Krieger-came and asked me to help him find Marge. You should be able to figure out how Gussie's rooms might have slipped my mind."
"But you still need Ms. Daventry's job, right?"
"Oh yeah."
"So the auctioneer's death doesn't benefit you."
"I never gave it a thought until this morning when...' The thought of the phone call riled my temper.
Detective Tsu's voice sliced through my rising anger. "When what, Ms. Farrell?"
Great. I'd practically waved a red flag at the cop. "Please call me Haley." Amiable coexistence would be good, but I didn't think it had a chance. "I've a feeling we're going to see a lot of each other for a while."
Ms. Tsu looked up, the corner of her rose-glossed lips tipped into the slightest smile. "I'm afraid you're right. But go on. What happened this morning?"
"Dutch Merrill called to land a couple of low blows. The guy's certifiable. He accused me of all kinds of outrageous things."
When I paused, Ms. Tsu asked, "What kind of things?"
"He accused me of-" my voice broke "-of killing Marge."
The detective didn't react. "Why would he do that?"
"He read this morning's paper. Marge's scumbag lawyer fed the details of her will to the Times."
"And those details are ... ?"
My patience was shot. "Don't treat me like an idiot, Ms. Tsu, and I won't underestimate you. You couldn't have missed the news, even if you hadn't already talked to Sam Harris. I'm Marge Norwalk's heir. Dutch thinks I killed her to get my hands on her money."
The silver pen danced on among the rose-tipped fingers. The sunlight pouring in through the front window sparkled off its shiny metal sides.
I stood and paced. Talk of Marge's death brought back the gut-wrenching misery of last night. Dutch's call just made me mad. The collision of emotions made me itch to go break some bricks, kick a punching bag, sweat out my pain while I strengthened my body. I couldn't stand to feel weak.
Helpless.
I faced the still-silent detective. "I didn't know Marge planned to leave me anything, much less everything. I thought Merrill was delusional when he called."
"You don't anymore, do you?"
I raised my arms in exasperation. "How could I? After the charming chat with Contractor Cheat, I got a call from Barrister Blither. I went into Seattle and was on my way back when I found you in my driveway. Mr. Harris gave me a copy of the will. It's all true."
"So now things have changed."
I pushed a bunch of hair behind my ear. In the presence of the Vogue model detective, I regretted not taking the time to try to corral my rowdy mane. "I'll say."
"A dead Marge benefits you more than a live Marge, wouldn't you also say?"
I stared down the detective's hazel eyes. "No, Detective Tsu, I would not say that. Marge means-meant-a lot more to me yesterday than her money does today. I can't believe anyone would think anything else. Especially you. Detectives are supposed to be rational, guided by evidence and facts. This was just the ranting of a paranoid maniac."
"Merrill?"
"Yes."
The detective's gaze didn't waver when she closed her notebook. "We haven't spoken with him since yesterday at the mansion."
My gut knotted up. "Does this mean that Wilmont's PD now operates on flights of fantasy?"
"Hardly. As you just said, we-I-operate on evidence and fact."
"Then you can't be serious. You can't think I killed Marge. You can't have any evidence, since I didn't do it."
Ms. Tsu clicked off her recorder. She stood, her posture perfect, her stance assured. She seemed taller than before, and her poise again impressed me.
"That's where I'm afraid you're wrong, Ms. Farrell. We have evidence that places you at the scene."
My heart thudded. I rolled my eyes. 'About four hundred people saw me there. Remember? I'm the one who found Marge."
"Yes, Ms. Farrell. That would account for your footprints. But how do you account for your fingerprints on the rock that crushed Marge Norwalk's skull?"
With the speed of a crashing gavel, blackness crushed me.
The next morning, when I walked into the dojo, Tyler wore his usual smile on his face and X-ray vision in his eyes. He reached out to hug me. "Hey there, girl. What brings you here during the day?"
"Unemployment."
"What do you mean? I thought you'd just opened your new business."
"I did. But a funny thing happened on my way to stardom and success. Those in the know call it murder one."
My sensei narrowed his intense dark eyes. "You're going to have to tell me more than that."
"Can we just not talk about it? I really need to kick something."
For a moment, I thought he'd refuse to let me get away with my dodge, but I wasn't ready to rehash the last two
days. Then his eyes took a trip over my whacked-out, griefstricken self.
"Okay. Take your time."
I'd have my moment of reckoning soon enough. I'd known I would, but even though I wished I didn't have to, at least Tyler would give me time and space to get myself together again.
Marge was the one who'd made sure I could in the recent past. Even though I felt rotten already, I knew the full reality of her death hadn't hit me yet. The coward in me wanted to run, but I knew I could only postpone that moment.
Time to sweat. This was the place to do it.
Tyler teaches his own mongrel mix of disciplines. For endurance and flexibility, he has his students learn Tai Chi; for strength, he favors Tae Kwan Do; for power, jujutsu; for selfdefense, down and dirty kickboxing.
I changed into a white gi, tied on my brown belt, and hurried to join the class about to start. I had no idea which discipline was on the menu, but I figured I'd take a serving of any of them. I hoped for kickboxing.
Two women in their late fifties told me we'd be doing Tai Chi. A seemingly easy and slow martial art, Tai Chi is a lot more complex than most observers think. To move in the purposeful, measured, controlled way of the discipline takes total concentration, muscle coordination, and balance. I've fallen flat on my face when my thoughts moseyed away from the exercise more times than I like to admit.
Disappointed, I staked out a spot in the last row. I really, really wanted to punch and bite and scream and kick.
From my corner, I saw the instructor's back. Tyler teaches evening sessions so he can handle the business end of the studio during daytime hours. He hires other black belts for those classes. This woman was small and slender, and if I weren't at a dojo, I might have thought of her as delicate and vulnerable. Here, I knew the white cotton gi hid the kind of power I needed to keep sane and continue to live day after day. Weakness is unthinkable.
The sensei turned. "We'll start with the usual Push the Mountain."
My stomach crashed to my toenails. I'd never given much credence to the existence of devils, demons, and other such tormentors, but at that moment something told me I was on my way to becoming a believer; they were having a field day with me.
