𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝙾𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 | ONC 2024

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚒𝚟𝚎

Marcella stared into the depths of her third glass of vodka, a lit cigarette perched between two slender fingers.

Jefferson hated it when she drank (anything other than the wine he personally selected). He hated it more when she smoked. Said it looked ‘common.’ She'd all-but quit, hiding away a few precious cigarettes for especially stressful days. Anything to keep him off her back and out of her business. When she appeared to ‘behave,’ he tended to leave her alone.

But to hell with him. This wasn't his house and he wasn't here. And this certainly qualified as one of those especially stressful days.

Marcella gazed around the cramped, modest watering hole, trying to look anywhere but at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The scattered handful of other patrons gave her curious sideways glances, but none approached. None spoke to her. Her expensive attire, poised posture, and the scowl on her face were plenty to keep them at bay.

The Imp's Bottle, this pub was called. The dreary interior was in desperate need of a remodel (and higher quality booze), and because of that Marcella knew she was at no risk of the Book Club ladies or her decrepit husband finding her here.

Marcella took a long pull from her glass and grimaced. The vodka here was cheap, and she knew why. It was awful. But potent. She was already feeling the effects, and she welcomed the haze that crept along the edges of her conscious thoughts. Those officers had certainly put her through the wringer. They hadn't brought up the damning past indiscretion she'd feared they would, but it'd seemed as though they'd enjoyed causing her distress. Then again, they thought she'd already known about Camilla and Mario. They thought she had written that note.

Well, she hadn't. She hadn't known, and she hadn't written it. So, who had? Someone who knew her secrets, that was obvious. Someone who knew about her affair, The Ritz, her schedule, and Camilla's affair with the same man. Someone who had seen her penmanship and knew how to mimic it down to the detail.

Who the hell was this person? Or people? Why was he (or she, or they) doing this? To what end? Was she being followed? Officers Marlowe and Spade had mentioned a private investigator being one of the witnesses to Mario's death. Had that P.I. been there tailing Mario? If so, who had hired him?

Too many questions. And too many of the possible answers pointed to the other members of the Book Club. Marcella's ‘friends.’ But they weren't friends, were they? Not really. And every single one of them had suspicious habits.

Penelope took her verbal assaults far past the point of high-society-savage to downright cruel. Gigi and Patricia were too secretive, about every goddamn thing. Charlotte was always asking after Camilla's schedule, particularly in reference to when her husband would be home. Darla was a lush. Gloria was so damn nice all the time.

Marcella let out a sigh of dismay.

Mario was dead. Dead. She'd never see him again. Never hear his delicious accent speak her name or feel his strong arms around her body. She'd never again delight in the thrill of meeting him at The Ritz, or ravaging him on the sofa in the wee hours of the morning while Jefferson was dead to the world upstairs. He took more naps than a toddler, Jefferson. That was one of the many reasons why being with Mario made her feel so alive. But he was gone. Forever.

Camilla Otis had murdered him. Jealous, bitter, always-second-best Camilla.

Marcella took a drag off her cigarette and exhaled the smoke forcefully through her nostrils. The action made her reflection in the mirror behind the bar look like an angry dragon. She was angry. With Camilla and (had he still been alive) with Mario. What in this world had possessed Mario to start sleeping with Camilla? What had he wanted in a woman that Marcella hadn't willingly given him? More frequent love-making? More gifts? A bigger allowance? She couldn't ask him, so she'd never know. All she could do was speculate wildly postmortem. It was insulting.