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.

“Mrs. Montgomery?” a timid voice asked.

Marcella's eyes shifted in the mirror, noticing that Karen Dwindle now stood to her right. For pity's sake, what was she doing here? Couldn't a woman in mourning get drunk in peace?

Marcella pivoted on her barstool to take in the sight of her unwanted guest. “Miss Spindle,” she said, her tone full of haughty contempt. “Following me to a bar. And looking like a cyclone hit you on the way. How nice.”

Karen smoothed her mussed hair and adjusted the blue scarf that hung askew around her neck. “The wind kicked up. I suppose I do look a bit of a mess.”

“A bit?” Marcella scoffed. “Sure, ‘a bit.’ And while we're being generous, would you like to borrow a brush? Or a self-help book?”

“I, um…” Karen trailed off. She finished fiddling with the scarf (one of Gloria's, by the looks of it) and clasped her hands behind her back. “The other ladies were concerned about you, so I thought I'd come see how you're doing. You know, post-interrogation.”

“You came to check on me?” Marcella scoffed and exhaled smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Of course you did. You're so nice. Seriously, so sickeningly nice, and kind, and sweet.” She tossed her hair. “I don't know how you've managed to survive thus far in this world.”

“No one is perfectly nice all the time,” came the unexpected reply. Something in Karen's pale blue eyes hardened for a fraction of a second, but before Marcella could get a good look, it was gone, replaced by her habitual apologetic expression. “I didn't mean to bother you, Mrs. Montgomery. I just thought you might like to talk to someone without worrying about putting on airs.” She shrugged and gave Marcella a sheepish smile. “But I've overstepped. So, I'll go.”

“Wait,” Marcella commanded, snubbing out her cigarette. She patted the worn barstool next to hers. “Don't leave. I apologize. What I said was uncalled for. My instinct when I'm upset is to be cruel. A defense mechanism, I think, to call attention away from how I'm feeling.”

Karen slid onto the stool and bobbed her boney shoulders in another good-natured shrug. “I can understand that. If I had a social circle like yours, I'd be petrified of showing any vulnerability at all.”

“You can see it, can't you?” Marcella asked. She nodded slowly and polished off the last of the vodka in her glass. “We're all vultures. But we have to be, because the other option is to be the dead carcass on the side of the road.”

“That must be hard,” Karen acknowledged.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Marcella said. “Waking up every morning knowing you're one wrong move away from losing everything. It's so much harder for women, you know. We go from being our fathers' property to being our husbands' property. Nothing is ever really ours. Just pretty rentals we're allowed to use until we no longer have value. Until our shine rubs off. I thought I'd be spared that with Jefferson. He has so many years on me, I thought I'd never lose my ‘trophy’ status in his eyes. But I also thought he'd be dead by now, so that shows how much I know.”

“He does seem an odd choice of husband for someone as lovely and elegant as you,” Karen remarked, an apologetic look on her face. “And a little too old.”

“Too old? No, I went too young!” Marcella declared. “Let me tell you something: if your ambition is to become a filthy rich widow while you're still young and pretty enough to enjoy the money, go old. And I mean old, Karen. As in, if you don't have to ladle soup into his mouth while he lays in bed and moans that ‘everything hurts,’ you chose wrong. If he's still eating solid foods at your wedding, you went too young. Got it?”

Karen's eyes widened and she nodded in a jerky fashion. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” Marcella said. “Don't repeat my mistakes.”

The bartender appeared before her. “Another, ma'am?” he asked, pointing to her empty glass.

Not for the first time since entering the bar, Marcella appraised him. He was young and tall, with a mop of dark curly hair, and a friendly yet reserved way about him that Marcella could appreciate (especially given the events of the day). If not for her distraught state of mind, she may have considered this young man as a suitable replacement for Mario. But not today. Not as things stood now.

She sighed. “I shouldn't. Well, maybe vodka soda this time. Easy on the vodka.” She turned to her unlikely companion. “Anything for you, Karen?”

“Oh! Thank you, but no,” Karen replied. “I'm not much of a drinker.”

The bartender nodded once and began mixing Marcella's beverage.

“Cigarette?” Marcella offered, holding out her petite silver cigarette case.

Karen let out a nervous laugh. “Oh, gracious me. No, thank you. I don't smoke. I know, I know, I'm such a square.”

Marcella shrugged and lit a cigarette for herself. “Nothing wrong with that.”

The bartender set her drink before her, then gave her a polite half-smile before moving away to tend to other patrons.

“You must think me awful,” Marcella remarked, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Complaining that my husband is still alive.”

Karen shook her head, her pale blue eyes watchful. “I think you have heavy things on your mind that you don't often get to verbally purge. My ear is available, if you want it.”

Marcella sighed, equal parts grateful and miffed by Karen's offer. “Thank you,” she said. Turning her head, she looked Karen in the eye. “The police think I wrote a note to Camilla, telling her I… Well, telling her I knew about her affair. They said the note was what spurred her into action and caused her to shoot Mario Castellano. But I didn't. I know you have no reason to believe me, and probably don't, but I didn't know about their affair or write any note. I really didn't. I'm…dumbfounded, to be honest.”

“I believe you,” Karen said without hesitation.

“Really?” Marcella asked, her eyes widening. “Why?”

“Because writing that note doesn't benefit you,” Karen said simply. “It would only serve to make Mrs. Otis angry. Angry at Mario Castellano, and angry at you. So, why would you have written it? You're a survivor, and writing a note like that would have gone against your own survival. That's illogical.”

Marcella propped her elbow on the bartop and sipped her drink, her expression pensive. “My, my, Miss Dwindle. You seem to know me better than any of my ‘friends’ do. How terrifying. Consider me impressed.”

༺ ○ ༻

When Charlotte Ermantrude had told her fellow book club ladies that she was ‘going to comfort a friend who was having an especially bad day,’ she'd meant it. It was the truth.

A noble endeavor. Right? Sometimes friends needed comfort. Even those ‘friends’ with whom a respectable married woman had no business being friends.

If the book club ladies knew who Charlotte was going to ‘comfort,’ well, it was safe to say they wouldn't approve. Especially Camilla. But she was regrettably indisposed at the moment. And as there was no risk of Camilla's sudden return home, this was an opportune time for a visit.

Armed with a large vase of long-stemmed yellow roses, Charlotte made her way up the wide front walk of the Otis residence. It was a handsome, classic brick manor, second in size and luxury only to the Montgomery residence. Beautiful and intimidating, just like Camilla.

Giving her silky strawberry-blonde hair a quick pat down, Charlotte rang the bell at the massive front door. A few seconds passed in silence before the door opened and the youthful face of Camilla's maid nodded politely in greeting.

“Señora Ermantrude, what a nice surprise. Please come in,” the maid said. She was from El Salvador, and her rich voice boasted a melodic accent when she spoke. “Señora Otis is not here.”

“Oh, I know. I was so sorry to hear the news,” Charlotte sympathized as she stepped over the threshold. “The police came by Delmonico's and told us what happened. How are you holding up, Elena?”

“I am worried for Señora Otis,” Elena replied. She tried to smile, but the expression didn't quite reach her dark eyes. “I knew that boy was trouble. The Italian boy. I tried to tell her, but she was convinced he loved her. Real love. Poor woman. First betrayal, now jail.” She looked down at the hardwood floor and shook her head.

Charlotte nodded as she took in Elena's forlorn expression. A wave of fury washed over her as she recalled Gigi's obnoxious comment regarding Camilla's maid not being able to speak English. Such ignorance.

“I can't imagine how unsettling all this must be,” Charlotte conceded. She glanced around the wide, two-story foyer, noting how quiet the house was. “And how is…Mr. Otis feeling about these developments? Beside himself, I'm sure. Is he here?” she asked, trying to keep her voice nonchalant.

A tiny smile curled the corners of Elena's lips, and she gave Charlotte a knowing look. “I'm afraid not. Señor Otis is away on business. He has been informed of the situation, of course, and is on his way home, but he will not be back until nightfall.”

“Really?” Charlotte asked, her heart fluttering in her chest. “Not until late?”

“Quite late,” Elena reiterated.

“Pity,” Charlotte remarked. The flutter intensified.

“Would you like to put those in his study?” Elena asked, motioning to the yellow roses.

“Oh! His study? Oh, yes,” Charlotte said. “What an inspired idea.”

“Follow me,” Elena said.

Charlotte allowed Elena to escort her through the foyer, a large parlor, and down a wide hallway. She already knew the way to Mr. Otis' personal study, of course, but for the sake of appearances with the other members of the household staff, she pretended that she didn't.

At last, Elena ushered her through a set of varnished double doors, and Charlotte walked into the spacious, dimly lit room. Crossing the hardwood floor to the handsome editorial desk, she set the vase of roses on the surface. “Lovely, aren't they?” she murmured.

Elena shut and locked the doors behind her. “Beautiful,” she replied, her dark eyes sparkling. “You know yellow is my favorite color.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said, turning toward her. “Of course I do. That's why I chose them.”

All pretenses dropped, Charlotte strode back across the room, encircled her arms around Elena's waist, and pulled her into an ardent, passionate kiss.

Elena responded in kind, her lips moving against Charlotte's with familiar urgency. She wrapped her hand around the back of Charlotte's neck and a muted moan escaped her.

After several more seconds of amorous demonstration, the two women pulled apart in order to catch their breath.

“How long do you have?” Elena asked, her voice a whisper. The tip of her nose caressed Charlotte's cheek.

“Never long enough,” Charlotte sighed. “My husband will expect me home in an hour or so.”

“Well, then,” Elena said, a coy smile on her full lips as she began to unbutton Charlotte's silk blouse. “Let's not waste a minute.”

꧁༺ ○ ༻꧂

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