The Marsh Madness

Changing my hair was the easiest thing to prepare for my bit of reconnaissance. People can gauge your age by your build, posture, ways of moving. It’s very hard to disguise. But hair color makes a huge difference. My favorite bright red wig was familiar to many in the police department after last fall, but it wasn’t the only game in town. I searched for and found an amazing little short and tightly curled honey blond number. It added at least fifteen years to my age and subtracted any cool factor whatsoever. Excellent. Next, I hunted for a pair of glasses in the jumbled glasses section. Mixed in with the vintage and collectible frames was a pair of horn-rimmed specs with clear glass lenses. All I needed was a severe suit and a briefcase and I’d be in business.

Upstairs in my old closet I found the perfect suit, a charcoal worsted vintage jacket and skirt, bought for a funeral a few years back, but too somber for anything else. My plan was perfect. Under my swirly cape, I had on a crisp white blouse, which looked exceptionally uptight under the suit. Back in the shop, I topped it all off with some supersized pearls—necklace and clip-on earrings—and a black leather briefcase. I was going to cover the KRR monogram using a washable black marker but decided not to. Usually, I’d wonder who KRR had been, that he had a gold monogram, but no time for fanciful imaginings today. Today, I would make use of it.

In front of the shop mirror, I thickened up my eyebrows and added an unflattering shade of coral lipstick, and I was ready to go.

In the apartment, I left the lights on and turned on the television set.

Next I found the newly added recess behind the kitchen cupboard and fished out a burner phone. I left my iPhone on the kitchen table and pocketed the burner. I didn’t have a plan for it, but I was well aware that it’s often advisable to make an untraceable call. That’s part of being careful and planning to avoid trouble.

I trotted upstairs again to check myself in the only decent full-length mirror. I turned and twirled. The shoes were wrong, but I had no choice. I would have to do.

Walter looked at me with worry in his huge googly eyes.

“Don’t worry, Walter,” I said. “You’ll be taken care of. Too bad you don’t have Cobain for company, but it can’t be helped.”

Back in the kitchen with the bare wall as a backdrop, I managed an excellent selfie with my iPhone and uploaded the image. With Uncle Mick’s first-rate equipment, printer and lamination machine, I soon had myself a driver’s license and a very good ID tag for a well-known firm of auditors: Jackson and Dogherty.

I thought I looked like everyone’s stereotype of an auditor. Stereotypes are our friends when we need disguises. I’d learned that from the best.

I took ten more minutes to look up a few phrases used by auditors, memorized ten of them and was ready to depart. First, I needed to give Walter the few little treats he expects if I am leaving without him. We definitely didn’t want to have any separation anxiety.

I tossed the treats, and Walter scampered after them. My departure was no longer a concern.

Kathryn Risley Rolland was on her way, with her monogrammed leather briefcase and a plan.

Minutes later I was out the back door heading for my ride of the day. To my surprise, I found a shiny black Infiniti parked in Uncle Mick’s spare garage two doors down. I could have taken the dreary old Civic or that washed out Mazda6, but this looked so much better. It was about three years old and exactly the kind of car Kathryn Risley Rolland would drive. I hoped that my uncles didn’t have big plans for it that day and made a phone call from the burner to check.

With all systems go, I slipped behind the wheel and exited. Without an apparent glance and with chin held high, I drove past my Saab, which was patiently parked in front of Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques. I didn’t acknowledge the officer in the unmarked police car, who was obviously tasked with keeping an eye on me.





CHAPTER NINE