The Divorcee Murder Club

Cuarenta Y Uno ~ 41

                It feels like light-years since I was last in Golden Gate Park, and now I’m here again, in the passenger seat of Jackson’s truck, giving directions to the Abramovitz mansion. I wanted to come here alone, but given the situation with Alma, I couldn’t say no when he demanded to come.

When we arrive at the mansion, I’m surprised at how easy it is to get inside. For the entire drive, I ran through scenarios and explanations to get us past the gate, but now that we’re here, it only takes a few minutes for their security guard to alert the Sisters about our presence. 

We stand in awkward silence, and the guard must think we have selective vision because he begins picking his nose as if we can’t see that he’s knuckle deep in his right nostril. 

Finally, the gate slides open, and we’re allowed to pass.

However, it all feels too easy. And I should have planned our approach better instead of getting a wild hair up my ass to storm their castle. I’m still riled up from Alma being taken, Angie getting shot, and my fallout with Mindy. 

As we enter the mansion, the subtly of Jackson’s steps are as soft as an elephant stomping through the Congo while we follow behind a servant dressed in the stereotypical black garb with a white apron. She leads us through the foyer and down the stairs into the abyss I didn’t get to see last time. When we reach the bottom level, everything is bathed in dim chandelier light and paneled in maple wainscoting, but it’s clear this is some sitting room with its heavy velvet drapes and overstuffed chairs. 

The servant turns to us, a finger up to her lips, telling us to remain quiet, then proceeds to a partially open door to our left.

This is weird.

She slips behind the door, and my curious ass sneaks up to it, needing to know what's behind it. 

Augusta sits on the edge of a bed and spoon-feeds a man lying down with machines connected to him that beep and tick. It must be her father, given how Jocelyn said he’s paralyzed, and Sammy Blue Eyes alluded to making him that way. The servant bends and whispers, and Augusta’s hand pauses from sliding more food into her father's mouth, then her gaze snaps to the woman, a look of contempt in her eyes.

“Finish with him!” She demands, rising from the bed and storming over to the door. I leap back when she swings it open, then presses her hand against my sternum, walking me backward until I bump into Jackson. “You are not allowed down here! Go back upstairs, and wait in the sitting room. Am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Go!” she stabs her finger toward the stairs.

So we do as we’re told and wait within the crisp white walls of the sitting room, where wood logs flicker and snap in the brick fireplace. After a few minutes, we hear pleas and sobbing from the servant, and when we peak into the foyer, two guards have her by the arms as they escort her to the door with Augusta trailing behind them. Another guard opens the massive front door, and they toss her ass out, then slam the heavy wood shut. Augusta dusts her hands as if she personally threw the woman out. 

“Have Vivien begin interviews to replace Sarah,” she says to the guards. “I shouldn’t have to say this, but no one, and I mean no one, is allowed downstairs unless they are family or work for me. Am I understood?”

The guards agree, so Augusta turns and heads up the stairs. Not toward us in the sitting room. 

Ok… 

Guess we have more waiting to do.

So now we sit here like a couple of chumps, warming the cushions and waiting for the royal pain in my ass to grace us with her presence. But time is of the essence, and I’m not the only one eating their underwear with anxiety. Alma’s ex, Gino, has sunk his fangs into people I love, and he needs to pay for fucking with us.