Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Eleven

I'm not sure I'll ever become accustomed to walking through walls. Twelve hours ago, the wall was a hindrance, and walking through it, a super power that would be handy for a bank robber or a paparazzo. Now? Gosh, I don't even know how to describe it. It's like the wall wobbles and parts for me, almost the same way that gelatin parts for a fork. There isn't anything magical about it; it just happens. I do wonder, though, if a day will come and I will go back to bonking my head as I try to walk through a wall. Thankfully, that isn't the case this time.

On the other side of Margaret's coral door, a soft glow of light filters through the living room window and shines into the kitchen. I step out of the ray as a yellow veil forms around me. The veil begins to dissipate, and I look around the kitchen.

A pot is on the stove, trails of red streaking its sides and splattered on the stovetop. A few spots mark the ceramic tiles on the backsplash and the floor. In the dim light, the mess resembles blood or at the very least, a recipe for murder. I peer inside the pot. Chili, by the looks of it, probably emptied from the pan more than a day ago.

Dishes clutter the countertops and almost spill out of the sink. Clearly Margaret needs to fire the cleaning lady. Or hire one.

I hear Margaret tossing and I start toward her bedroom. As I round the corner, a check stamped with "Insufficient Funds" catches my eye.

Margaret's cell phone rings. Thuds sound as she scrambles out of bed. I reach it before she opens the door. It's Adampoo.

Margaret is clad in an inky blue Stella McCartney silk chemise. Its cutout sides reveal her curves. Disheveled hair and mascara raccooning her eyes save her from my total envy.

"We need to talk. Away from her," Margaret says with no proper greeting.

I move closer to her, hoping to hear Adam's end of the conversation. It's mumbo-jumbo. Why can't I ever catch a break?

Margaret presses her lips into a line. "I don't care if she's torn up about her bitch friend. You'll meet with me or else."

I try not to be annoyed at her name-calling. We haven't always hated each other. But I concentrate on her threat. And laugh. It reminds me of something my sister would have said to me when we were blackmailing each other in middle school. It's equally as juvenile coming from Margaret. The Bayshore Boulevard Bertwinkles surely should be able to come up with something better. She could easily say that she'll see to it that he never does business in Florida again, that she'll find a way to see him chained to an anchor at the bottom of the harbor, and she has the power to make it stick.

"You find a way to ditch her for a few minutes. If you aren't in the courtyard at Channelside at one o'clock, I'll call the police."

Her eyes narrow as she listens to him. "Make it happen. One o'clock. No excuses." She hangs up the phone, walks over to the check, and lets out a sigh.

After pouring coke into a glass, she sits on her couch and wraps up in a blanket. She flips through her cell phone's pages until she arrives at the phone icon and clicks it. Ten missed calls await her. She stares at it, seeming to deliberate whether to listen, then turns it to speaker and scrolls through the messages.

"Hey, Beautiful, it's Clive. Just wanted to apologize. Are we still on for tonight? Surely we won't face the problems we had last night. I'd like to make it up to you. Give me a jingle." His voice seems sincere.

Margaret rolls her eyes. She responds with a text. "C U 2nite."

Blech. Why can't she write it out? Or better yet, just return his call? I want to know a little more about their problems. Sounds like it could be more than a dead body getting in their way.

"We are trying to reach Margaret Bertwinkle. Please call Hillsboro Collections at 800-555-6181 by Monday, noon Eastern. This is our last...." Margaret gulps and clicks out of the call.

She takes a few minutes, seeming to be in deep thought, before she looks at the phone again. She settles on a message that she received in the middle of the night from an unidentified caller.

"Hi, I'm calling about the shoes you advertised on Greg's List. I'm offering $300, but I need'em by noon. Are they really Manolo Blahniks?"

Omigod! I can't believe Margaret is trying to sell my shoes, my Preciouses. I punch her. Of course, my fist goes through her and we both shiver, though mine is more of the "I can't believe I just touched that" variety.

Still.

Why can't she sell her own shoes? Is she trying to get rid of the evidence?

A tear rolls down my cheek as I consider what will become of my shoes. They should have gone to Lanie. Or my sister. They should not have been stolen off my dead body, only to end up on Greg's List, with Margaret pocketing the money.

Margaret listens on speakerphone to a handful of other messages, all about the shoes, but the first is the best offer. She returns the call and takes a deep breath.

A woman answers, with children screaming in the background. Margaret and she exchange pleasantries.

"The shoes are in perfect condition?" the woman asks.

Margaret pulls the Blahniks from under the couch. She fingers the loose heel. "Absolutely perfect. Worn only once."

A rustling of papers on the other end. "Why you selling 'em?"

"I don't need them anymore. I bought them for a wedding. The bride and I don't share the same taste in shoes."

"Expensive for a wedding. Gosh."

"She was a total bridezilla." Margaret laughs. "I'm heading to Channelside in a bit. Will 11:30 work for you?"

They agree to meet in the courtyard and then they hang up.

Margaret rummages through a drawer in her desk. She removes the tiny tube of super glue and secures the heel onto the shoe. Satisfied that the shoe is in perfect condition, she sets it on the table and looks for an empty shoebox.

The shoes snug in the box and shower water running, I opt to leave as Margaret undresses. I've got to find a way to make Channelside happen without being cocooned. I don't want to miss her meeting with Adam. 

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Author's Note: Wow! So we're learning a little bit about Margaret. What do you think? I don't know why, but she's one of my favorite characters. I never know what I'm going to get from her. 

As always, thank you for reading (and voting...and commenting) I truly appreciate you!

Whew! I have movers coming in on Monday. I anticipate that the next three weeks will be incredibly busy for me, with packing, moving those 900 miles, finding a house, unpacking, and getting the kids registered for school. I *hope* to keep updating, but if I don't, please know that things should settle for me in another four weeks. I hope. I'm nervous about this move.

Thanks again!