𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝙾𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 | ONC 2024

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗

The insistent ringing of the doorbell and the assertive knocks assaulted Marcella's ears. She flung open the door in irritation and glared at those who dared to disturb her evening peace. “It's 9:00 at night. Do you mind?” she demanded.

On her doorstep stood Officers Marlowe and Spade. They gazed back at her, unmoved.

“Not at all,” Spade said with a shrug.

“What the hell are you doing here? And so late in the evening?” Marcella questioned. “Honestly, are you making house calls now?”

“Sure, if you want to look at it that way,” Marlowe said. He held up his hand, presenting a short form legal document. “We have a warrant, Mrs. Montgomery.”

“A warrant?” Marcella echoed, affronted. “For what? You are not searching my house!”

“Not your house, no,” Marlowe agreed. “Though we can if we deem it necessary. We're here to search your garden.”

“My— My garden?” Marcella stammered, her face turning an unflattering shade of gray. “Why— Um, whatever for?”

“Got a tip,” Spade said by way of explanation. “Now, please step aside, ma'am.”

He and Marlowe pushed past Marcella, followed by five other uniformed officers. The entire posse marched toward the back of the house, then out into the large, sprawling garden.

“Marcella!” Jefferson barked from the second story landing. “I'm trying to sleep! Just what in the blazes is going on down there?”

“Nothing, Jefferson!” Marcella called back, her voice coming out pinched and frightened. “Nothing at all! Go back to bed!”

“You better not be inviting men into my house late at night for group fornication, you minx!”

“I haven't! For pity's sake, you old troll, go to bed!”

Securing her silky robe more snugly around her translucent lace dressing gown, Marcella dashed after the officers. As she joined Marlowe and Spade on her fieldstone patio, she was horrified to see that the quintet of other officers were digging up her rose bushes.

She yanked on Marlowe's arm, demanding his attention. “What is the meaning of this?” she cried. “And why are your uniformed thugs destroying my prize-winning roses?”

Marlowe pulled his arm away. “Careful, ma'am,” he warned. “You don't want to add assaulting an officer to your rap sheet.”

“Rap sheet?!” Marcella parroted. “I don't have one of those, thank you very much! What the hell are you talking about?”

“We received information that former Gilded Grove Ladies' Book Club president Karen Sterling may not have died of natural causes,” Spade informed her. “She may have had help. From you. And a significant dose of morphine.”

The world spun and Marcella reeled. She took Officer Marlowe's arm again in an effort to remain upright. “That's...” she began, her voice no more than a whisper. “That's simply not true. No, no one could claim that. Karen Sterling was old and very ill. She drifted off to sleep and never woke up.”

“Yeah. And you were in the room with her when that happened,” Marlowe said, once again dislodging his arm from Marcella's grip. “Strange coincidence, isn't it? No autopsy was done because the Sterling family didn't request it, but we contacted the nurse assigned to Mrs. Sterling during the last couple of weeks of her life, and she told us she had a syringe and a vial of morphine vanish from her medical bag.”

“The nurse?” Marcella blanched. “That's who accused me?”

“Nah,” Marlowe said.

“Then who? Who said I may have killed Karen Sterling?”