Dappled sunlight streamed through the leaves of the old willow tree that grew at the center of the park. The foliage gleamed in a thousand shades of green and gold in the early morning light, shining as a beacon of peace and calm in the bustling city that was New York.
So old was this willow, that the trunk was the circumference of an ancient Roman column, and the countless thick branches reached out in every direction, casting a vast circle of shadow across the grassy ground.
From one of these thick branches hung a rope.
And from this rope hung the body of Camilla Otis.
༺ ○ ༻
“Terrible, it's just terrible,” Gloria Davenport sighed. Sorrow shone in her eyes as she sipped from her wine glass.
“To be hanged and publicly displayed in such a hideous gray frock?” Penelope scoffed. “At least Darla was wrong about the black and white horizontal stripes, but yes, I agree. Terrible. This is the image of Camilla Otis that will be immortalized.”
“Oh, Penelope, you really are such a wicked thing!” Gloria scolded. “That's not what I meant at all! Though…you're not wrong, I suppose.”
She tilted her head and studied the deceased Camilla where her limp body still hung from the willow tree. Penelope Fitzgerald, Darla Vanderbilt, and Karen Dwindle mimicked her stance and expression, their wine glasses held gracefully by manicured fingers.
Yes, it was tragic. Both Camilla's death, and the fact that she would forever be remembered in the cheap, ill-fitting gray dress she'd been made to wear while incarcerated.
The four ladies had gathered in the park to pay their respects. (The wine was to help them cope, of course.) Gloria had telephoned the others. She'd found out about Camilla's fate through her husband Karl. Karl had found out because the police had called him, since he'd offered legal representation to Camilla. The whole morning had been a grotesque version of the children's game Messenger.
Now it was noon. The peaceful location of Camilla's untimely death had become a swarming, crowded crime scene. Yellow caution tape and stern police officers kept the looky-loos at bay. Forensics was making note of and photographing every square inch of the area. Officers Marlowe and Spade stood next to Camilla's hanging body like protective guardians, their faces grave and posture tense.
“I wonder if Weston knows,” Darla commented. “You would think he'd be here.”
“He knows,” Penelope stated. “I saw him this morning.”
“You did?” Darla asked, her eyebrows elevating in surprise. “Where?”
Penelope averted her eyes. “In passing.”
“I don't believe for an instant that Camilla took her own life,” Gloria declared. “Someone did this to her. Oh, so awful. She was still so young and beautiful. So much to live for.” She sipped her wine, pensive, then murmured to herself, “I never thought I'd outlive her.”
“Of course she didn't off herself,” Penelope declared. “She was far too selfish. No one loved Camilla Otis more than Camilla Otis.”
“Penelope, that is an absolutely disgraceful thing to say!” Darla exclaimed. “True, certainly, but given the circumstances, well… Just try to show a bit of decorum, will you?”
Penelope rolled her eyes, but sipped her wine in disgruntled silence.
Darla turned to Gloria. “So, Marcella has been arrested?”
“She has,” Gloria confirmed with a remorseful nod. “Karl told me. Apparently, Marcella was responsible for Karen Sterling's death.”
“My goodness,” Darla said. “I can't believe it.”
“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.
꧁༺ ○ ༻꧂
ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ!
ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ VOTE! ☆