𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝙾𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 | ONC 2024

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎

“I can,” Penelope offered. When the others glared at her, she held up her free hand in surrender. “Sorry.”

“What about Gigi?” Darla asked. “And Patricia? And Charlotte?”

Gloria shook her head. “Gigi and Patricia, and their husbands, are being investigated. For what, I don't know. But it sounds serious. And I couldn't get a hold of Charlotte. Her husband sounded quite concerned when I spoke with him over the telephone. He said when he woke up this morning, Charlotte was gone.”

“Gone? How odd,” Darla mused. “That's not like her at all.”

“You said something about the police wanting to speak to your husband?” Gloria prompted.

“Oh, yes,” Darla replied. She took a long pull from her wine glass in an effort to steady herself. “Something about playing poker at The Ritz Hotel. He wouldn't tell me anything more.”

“There's gambling at The Ritz?” Gloria asked, genuine surprise coloring her tone. “Gambling is illegal in New York.”

Darla grimaced and downed the rest of her wine. “I know. Hence the interest from the police, I'm sure. Before I go home, I really must stop at the bank. Something tells me our accounts might not be as healthy as they once were. And if that's the case, well, I may need to retain your husband's legal services.”

Gloria reached out and squeezed Darla's elbow. “I'll tell him to expect your call.”

“Thank you.”

Gloria turned to their silent companion, briefly admiring how lovely she looked in her new dress. “Karen, you work at The Ritz Hotel. Did you know there was gambling going on?”

“You do?” Darla asked with sudden interest. “You work there?”

Karen nodded. “I do. I work in housekeeping.”

“So, you are a maid,” Penelope accused.

“Yes, I am,” Karen said. She shrugged, unashamed. “It's a way to make ends meet. And as to the gambling, there is a room in the basement that management has deemed ‘off limits’ to employees. I thought they must be up to something a little untoward, bathtub gin perhaps, but I never would have guessed a gambling den!”

“My goodness,” Gloria remarked. “The secrets kept in this city.”

“When do you think they'll take Camilla down?” Darla asked the group at large. “I hate to see her swinging there. Lifeless and stiff.”

“Like the world's most macabre piñata,” Penelope said.

“Penelope!” Gloria, Darla, and Karen scolded in unison.

“Sorry.”

Gloria turned her head, her gaze settling on the hanging form of their late friend. “I don't know how much longer they'll leave her up there, but I intend to stay until they bring her down.”

“Then so will I,” Darla said.

“And I,” Karen added.

“Oh, why not?” Penelope said with a blasé shrug. “I have no pressing plans.”

“I brought a picnic blanket and some fruit and cheese to have with our wine,” Gloria said. “What do you say, ladies? Luncheon in the park? In honor of Camilla?”

She received three nods of concession.

As the four remaining members of the Gilded Grove Ladies' Book Club settled in for the strangest of picnics, the same thought dawned on each of them. That being: Camilla Otis would never again be able to lunch.

༺ ○ ༻

Mack D'Knife sauntered across the park, a Sunbucks cup of coffee in his hand. He nodded to the uniformed officer patrolling the edge of the crime scene and approached Marlowe and Spade where they stood beneath the willow tree.

“Hey ya, fellas,” he greeted his pair of past protégé. “You've been busy bees, haven't you?”

The looks he received for his attempt at pleasantries were stern and vexed.

“Out for a stroll in the park, Mack?” Spade asked in a humorless voice.

“Such a nice day and all,” Mack said. “Figured I'd get some fresh air.” He glanced up at the unmoving form of Camilla Otis. Her body had begun to enter rigor mortis and her once-beautiful face was an unnatural shade of blue. “Poor dame. Nobody deserves that fate. Such a shame we don't know who did it.”

“Is that a joke?” Marlowe demanded. “A woman fitting the description of Paola Castellano paid Camilla Otis' bail last night, and this morning Mrs. Otis was found here, hanging from this tree, with this pinned to her chest.”

He produced a clear evidence bag and handed it to Mack. Inside was a single sheet of paper. A handwritten note.

“L'inferno non ha furia pari a quella di una donna disprezzata,” Mack read aloud. “‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ in Italian. Well, how 'bout that? Real head-scratcher.”

“Head-scratcher?” Spade repeated, incredulous. “No, it isn't! It's practically a confession! Paola Castellano did this. She murdered Camilla Otis as revenge for the murder of her son!”

Mack smirked. “Good luck proving that, fellas. The Castellanos have more coppers and public officials in their pocket than you or I have pennies. That list includes the commissioner, Judge Loughran, and the District Attorney. There were no witnesses, right? Nah, of course there weren't. And you won't find any. Camilla Otis' killer will forever be a ‘mystery.’ Trust me on that.”

“That isn't right,” Marlowe seethed, shaking his head. “That isn't justice.”

“The justice system rarely results in justice,” Mack said. “Whole organization is rotten top to bottom. That's one of the reasons I quit.”

“So, what? We just let this go?” Spade asked. He glared up at the rope where it was tied around the branch. “We just close the case?”

“Yes and no,” Mack answered. “You play it smart. Keep your heads down, keep your eyes and ears open, and wait for someone to screw up. Takes time and patience. But it'll happen.”

“And in the meantime?” Marlowe posed.

“I recommend whiskey,” Mack said with a wink. “A good single malt can keep ya sane.”

Marlowe and Spade shared a look. There was some logic to that.

Shaded by the willow from the heat of the afternoon sun, the trio of men stared up at the empty husk that was once Camilla Otis, their expressions solemn.

“Damn shame,” Mack said.

“Damn shame,” Marlowe and Spade echoed in unison.

Camilla Otis said nothing. But in her silence there was regret.

꧁༺ ○ ༻꧂

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