The Marsh Madness

“Right. I’ll hunt for photos of Chadwick with female associates. How old?”


“Somewhere in her late twenties, I think. She was supposed to be the assistant, Lisa Troy. And we really need to identify a tall man, around forty, give or take. Dark hair. Thin face. Cold eyes. Looks a bit like an iguana. That’s the man who introduced himself as Chadwick.”

“Got it.”

“The third person was the so-called butler, Thomas. He was large, but pear-shaped, dark hair too. His hair was dyed black. He had heavy, hairy hands and a couple of chins. Five-o’clock shadow, even at noon.”

“I’m on it.”

I left Lance to his hunt, knowing he’d do whatever was possible.


*

I WAS FULLY installed back in my garret and having a really hard time distracting myself. I was so down I barely remembered eating although usually every bite makes such a happy impression. But tonight, there was no escaping reminders of the crummy things piling up around me. “Somebody That I Used to Know” and “Rolling in the Deep” crept onto my random playlist, as if to taunt my heart. Usually a bit of music could lift my mood, but it only led to further wallowing. Dumped, again, by a cop, and by text, no less. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,” Mick would say. And I sure didn’t need to hear that right now. I’d finally let my walls down for Tyler, and I guess he didn’t like what he saw back there. I was hurt. And angry at both of us.

Tiff was unreachable. Usually, she’d be my go-to for this kind of thing. She was always able to find the right words or vintage wine to ease the pain. I didn’t really want to get into relationship stuff with Lance, because . . . well . . . just plain awkward. Pulling out my earbuds, I opted for a bit of mindless TV but found Law & Order, a Cops marathon, The Bachelor and The War of the Roses. Sometimes it’s like the universe is pointing and laughing. Why, I’d almost forgotten the dead flowers I’d received and their sickly scent. Who hated me enough to go to that effort? On the plus side, though, if I went to jail for murder, I’d probably be safe from the wacko who sent them. Off with the television.

Walter sighed heavily, sensing this was a rough time for me. He ground his soft, furry face into my side in a show of commiseration and support.

“Let’s go to bed with a book, Walter.” I helped him into my fluffy feather bed and cuddled up with another Marsh, as I’d already whipped through A Man Lay Dead. This time I picked Final Curtain, another setup in a grand house with a bit of theater and a large group of suspects who weren’t quite what they seemed. Sleep did not come quickly.


*

YOU CAN PICK your friends, they say, but you can’t pick your relatives. My relatives proved a challenge on a daily basis, but the good news was that the skills I learned from them came in handy this morning.

I didn’t have much from the Kelly gene pool, aside from what I like to think is a strategic mind. No ginger hair, no red cheeks, no fifth-generation-removed Irish blarney. But I did have the family knack with changing one’s appearance on occasions when being oneself might prove awkward, mostly if the police were watching. In this case, I figured they would be.

A second benefit of my relatives was wheels. My uncles maintain an ever-changing fleet of anonymous-looking older compact cars, Civics, Fiestas, Accords, that kind of thing. The cars were always in beige, burgundy or dulled silver. Never in what Tyler used to call “Arrest Me Red.” I knew the registrations would be in order as would the insurance. The vehicles would be part of the rolling stock of shell companies within shell companies within . . . well, you get the idea. I would be listed as an occasional driver on all of them. I’d needed these vehicles before, but I’d always hoped I’d never need one again.