“You really shouldn't have gone to all the trouble,” Karen said, squeezing Gloria's hands in gratitude. “It's too much. But it's also the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. How can I ever repay you?”

She smiled down at the classy, gold and pink shopping bags from Bloomingdale's and Saks Fifth Avenue that Gloria had gifted her. It was so unexpected. And she was so very touched. Where would she wear such lovely attire? Did it matter? No. It was an incredibly thoughtful (and expensive) gift, and therefore she would simply allow her gratitude to overshadow practicality.

“I insist you never attempt to repay me,” Gloria told her. “I was happy to do it. Shopping is one of my favorite pastimes, after all, so I had a ball! Just promise me you'll retire the muddy brown frocks at least once a week and go somewhere in one of these ensembles. Even if it's just the market or the bookshop. Alright?”

Karen gave her a watery smile and bit her lip to silence a sob. “I promise.”

“Good,” Gloria said with a little wink. “Maybe you can start today and have lunch with me and Karl. Ah! Speaking of, here he is now!”

After breakfast at Gigi's, Gloria had rang Karen, insisting that Karen meet her at the police station. Gloria's husband, an attorney of some renown, was visiting Camilla Otis to offer his legal counsel.

Now, as he rounded the corner and joined them in the lobby, Karl Davenport donned a weary smile.

“You're wearing your Brave Face,” Gloria commented as she observed her husband. “Dare I ask?”

“Well, it's looking quite cut and dry,” Karl stated. “Shame, that. My greatest talent as a lawyer is sussing out loopholes and exploiting the absolute bollocks out of them. I'm sure there's something I can do for her, but there are several other people I'll need to confer with. Weston Otis in particular.”

“You'll come up with a way to defend her, dearest. I just know it!” Gloria declared. “But in the meantime, this is Karen Dwindle. The friend I told you about yesterday. You remember.” She motioned back and forth between them. “Karen, this is my husband, Karl.”

“How do you do, Miss Dwindle?” Karl said, taking her hand and squeezing it warmly. “It's a pleasure.”

“It certainly is,” Karen replied, her eyes large and starstruck. She glanced at Gloria. “He talks like a film star!”

“Doesn't he?” Gloria sighed, smitten. “He's from Cornwall. That's in England, of course. Attended Cambridge for his law degree. I often wonder how I got so lucky!”

“Darling, you are too kind,” Karl said with an affectionate smile. “So, Miss Dwindle, my wife says you're exceptionally bright. What is it you do?”

Karen giggled behind her hand. She could happily listen to Karl Davenport talk all day. “Oh, my job is quite dull, truth be told. I clean up other people's messes.”

“Ah! So, we're in the same line of work!” Karl exclaimed. He winked at his wife. “I like her already.”

“I'm glad to hear that, as I've invited her to join us for lunch,” Gloria said.

“Splendid idea!” Karl declared.

“Karen, why don't you pop into the ladies' room there and change while Karl and I pull the car around?” Gloria suggested.

“Yes, we'll be right out front for you,” Karl said. “Bright yellow Rolls Royce. The same shade as Gloria's hair. You can't miss it.”

Karen squealed in delight. “Sounds wonderful! Yes, I'll be along in a minute!”

As she hightailed it into the restroom with her bags, Karen heard Karl remark, “Police stations really should start having valet. Don't you agree, darling?”

༺ ○ ༻

“Enlightening, wasn't it?” Spade asked as he and Marlowe made their way up the stone steps of the police station.

“Our chat with Mack D'Knife?” Marlowe clarified. “Sure 'nuff. Real enlightening.”

A handsome couple was coming out the entrance as the two officers approached, and Marlowe held the door ajar as they passed through.

“Much appreciated, Officer,” the man said, tipping his head in thanks.

“Yes, thank you!” the blonde woman by his side chirped.

“My pleasure,” Marlowe responded. He watched the couple stroll down the steps and out into the sunshine, arm in arm.

“That was Gloria Davenport, wasn't it?” Spade asked as he and Marlowe walked into the building. “One of Camilla Otis' friends?”

“From Delmonico's Bistro yesterday,” Marlowe supplied, wagging a finger in recognition. “That was her, alright. Wonder what she was doing here?”

“Dunno,” Spade said.

Marlowe and Spade had no sooner taken a step into the lobby than a youthful, wide-eyed deputy appeared before them. “That was Gloria Davenport, yes sirs. And her husband, sirs. Karl Davenport. Big-wig attorney. Payne and Suffrin Law Firm,” he rattled off, glancing between them and his pocket-sized notepad several times. “Mr. Davenport came here to have a talk with Camilla Otis. That's alright, isn't it? She's allowed a visit from an attorney, isn't she? The manual says—”

“Calm down, Duffy,” Marlowe said, patting the slight deputy on his boney shoulder. The kid couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old, still living in his mother's house, and still wet behind the ears. “You followed protocol just fine. No sense getting your undies in a twist.”

“Yes, sirs,” Duffy yipped, his voice squeaking with adolescent nerves.

Marlowe and Spade strode through the lobby and past the front desk toward their office, Duffy in tow like a puppy that didn't want to be left behind.

“There's one other thing, sirs,” Duffy said, flipping to another page in his notepad.

“Yeah, what's that?” Spade asked.

“Weston Otis rang. While you were out,” came the reply.

Both Marlowe and Spade stopped in their tracks and spun around (in perfect synchronization, no less) to face the young deputy.

“That right?” Spade asked.

“You should have led with that, Duffy,” Marlowe scolded.

“Yes, sirs,” Duffy affirmed. “Sorry, sirs. Apparently, Mr. Otis arrived back in town late last night, and he rang to say he's available if you need to meet with him.”

Marlowe and Spade shared a look.

“He comin' down to the station to pay his wife's bail?” Marlowe asked.

“Uh, well,” Duffy hemmed, glancing down at his notepad, then quickly shifting his eyes to the side. “That would be a ‘no’.”

“No?” Spade repeated. “Just ‘no’? That's all he said?”

“Well, um, I may be paraphrasing just a little,” Duffy admitted, scrubbing his hand through his dishwater blonde hair.

“Duffy,” Marlowe chided, “everyone involved with Camilla Otis is a person of interest. Her husband especially. The shortest phrase could have a hundred underlying meanings. So, verbatim this time: what did Weston Otis say about paying his wife's bail?”

Duffy swallowed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, um, it isn't all that polite…” he hemmed.

“Duffy,” Marlowe warned.

“Right. Um.” Duffy consulted his notepad again. “He said, ‘The whore can rot’.”

Marlowe sniffed and looked at Spade. His partner bobbed his head in a grim nod.

“So, Mr. Otis will not be giving Mrs. Otis the benefit of the doubt,” Spade remarked.

“Just like Mack said,” Marlowe agreed. He rubbed his chin with the side of his index finger. “Seems that way.”

“Seems that way,” Spade echoed.

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm.”

At that moment, a familiar face rounded the corner from the back corridor and crossed the lobby. Marlowe and Spade stared at the newcomer, quizzical.

“Isn't that Miss Dwyer? From yesterday?” Spade observed.

“Sure 'nuff is,” Marlowe confirmed. “But it's not ‘Dwyer.’ It's Dawdle.”

“What? Nah!” Spade argued. “It's Duncall!”

“Nah! Duncaport, maybe?” Marlowe guessed.

“It's Dwindle,” Duffy interjected. “Miss Karen Dwindle. She was here speaking with Mr. and Mrs. Davenport.”

“Was she?” Spade asked, his eyebrows elevated. “Seems odd.”

“Miss Dwindle!” Marlowe called out.

The young woman skidded to a stop and wheeled around, a fancy shopping bag hanging from her arm. Marlowe noticed she was wearing a stylish lavender dress — quite the contrast from her shapeless brown frock of the previous day.

“Officer Marlowe! Officer Spade! Hello again!” Karen (apparently) Dwindle greeted them, a large smile on her wane face.

“Hello to you, too, Miss Dwindle,” Marlowe reciprocated with a nod. “And just what, pray tell, were you doing back by the holding cells?” He pointed to the corridor from which she'd come.

“Oh, I was hoping no one would notice,” Karen tittered, her cheeks turning pink. “I'm terribly embarrassed. I went into the ladies' room to change into this lovely dress Mrs. Davenport had bought for me, and when I came out, I got all turned around! I'm so bad with directions!”

“Huh,” Spade grunted. “Why were you changing?”

“They invited me to lunch,” Karen explained. “The Davenports. Such a lovely couple. And I'd hate to keep them waiting, so I must be off. Toodle-loo!” She wiggled her fingers and flounced to the door.

“Nice dress,” Duffy remarked offhand. “I love a dame in purple.”

“Keep it in your pants, Duffy,” Spade instructed.

Marlowe scoffed. “That's rich coming from you, Spade. C'mon. I think it's time we met the famous Weston Otis.”

༺ ○ ༻

Marcella Montgomery stared out the wide bay windows of the sitting-room at her backyard garden. It was vast, impeccably groomed, and bursting with color, her garden. It was also only hers by property rights. Never had she planted or watered a single bloom. And only once had she ever taken a shovel to the dirt.

The hangover that had resulted from her evening of booze at The Imp's Bottle had been easy enough to nurse away. No headache, no nausea, not even a sluggishness remained. Yet she found herself fretting. Fretting over Camilla, over Mario, and over the fact that she couldn't quite remember what she had disclosed to Karen Dwindle the evening prior, but she knew it had been much. And she had the distinct impression that it wasn't the first time. But when had they spoken before? About what? It wasn't like Marcella to have a candid heart-to-heart with anyone, let alone a working class waif like Karen.

Though Karen had been there when she'd needed a shoulder and an ear, and that had to count for something. Marcella almost felt bad for the impolite comments she'd made at Karen's expense during lunch at Delmonico's Bistro.

Marcella pressed her hand to the décolletage of her plum colored dress as her gaze swept over the row of rose bushes near the tall hedges. They were one of the highlights of her garden, those roses, and seeing them thrive undisturbed was always a comfort to Marcella. She let out a quiet sigh. From this vantage point, everything in her life looked picture perfect.

The sound of slow, uneven footfalls on the hardwood floors snatched Marcella from her reverie. Her body tensed and her breathing became shallow.

“Reflecting on your many wrongdoings?” Jefferson's gravelly voice asked from behind her. His tone sounded especially pernicious today, like he both resented her and enjoyed declaring as much.

Marcella whirled around, her hand on her hip. “My ‘wrongdoings’? Really?” she questioned back. She narrowed her eyes in disdain as she took in her husband's decrepit posture, shock of white hair, and burgundy silk robe (complete with his initials ‘JM’ embroidered in gaudy gold on the lapel). “And just what ‘wrongdoings’ do you suspect I'm guilty of?”

“Please, Marcella, don't insult me,” Jefferson tutted, as though she were a very dim child. “You're always slithering around. Like a serpent. Sneaking, and manipulating, and keeping secrets, and telling half truths. You are not the person you appear to be at all. She doesn't exist. She's just another dress you put on. We both know it.”

“Wasn't it my ability to put dresses on — and take them off — that inspired you to marry me?” Marcella shot back. “I'm your trophy, your window dressing, and your whore all wrapped up in one fundraiser-ready package. I've fulfilled my purpose to the letter. Don't act so ungrateful.”

Jefferson Montgomery sneered at her the way only a privileged rich old man can sneer. “I know you're hiding something. Many things, I'm sure. You're acting just like you did some months ago, when that Sterling woman died: odd.”

“Karen Sterling's death has nothing to do with anything,” Marcella snapped. “Of course I'm acting odd, Jefferson. My closest friend is in jail for murder. How would you like me to act? What would constitute ‘normal, appropriate behavior’ in your book? Hmm? Why don't you have your secretary send me a memo?”

“‘Closest friend’ my old, wrinkled ass,” Jefferson spat. “You loathe that woman!”

Marcella saddled him with her most lethal glare. “The line between love and loathing is paper thin. As you know. Darling.”

Jefferson scrutinized her for several agonizing seconds, his glare every bit as poisonous as her own. At last, he lifted and dropped one of his hunched shoulders in a jerky shrug. “Alright. Have it your way,” he said. “But tread with care, my dear. ‘Be sure your sin will find you out’.”

“Quoting the Bible at me, how quaint,” Marcella snarled. “Ever the sanctimonious old toad. Aren't you late for something? A suit fitting, perhaps? Or coffin fitting?”

He gave no answer. With a humph and a final parting sneer, Jefferson shuffled from the room.

Upon his departure, Marcella let out a whooshing breath of relief. Her old ogre of a husband knew nothing, yet his suspicions were uncomfortably astute.

She turned back to the window, her gaze once again roaming over her immaculate garden. Her exotic imported water lilies in the stone pond. Her prize-winning rose bushes. 

It was unfortunate, but Jefferson was right. She did need to tread with care. She knew her husband well, and now that he had a scorpion in his skivvies, he would never let his suspicions go. He would follow them.

And he knew just where to dig.

꧁༺ ○ ༻꧂

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