Of the six members of the Gilded Grove Ladies' Book Club who were not currently sequestered inside the police station, three were gathered in front of the boxy, utilitarian building, watching and waiting. Patricia Kent and Gigi Contini paced back and forth in front of the wide stone steps, expressions of anxiety on their lovely, fine-featured faces. Gloria Davenport stood nearby, a dreamy smile on her face and a glass of white wine in her hand, as though this were a Sunday picnic in the park rather than a situation of unsettling oddity.

And Karen Dwindle. Despite not being a member of the Book Club, Karen was also present. When Darla Vanderbilt, Penelope Fitzgerald, and Charlotte Ermantrude had said they couldn't attend the impromptu gathering at the police station (Darla and Penelope because their husbands were expecting them home, and Charlotte because she had to go “comfort a friend who was having an especially bad day”), Gloria had invited Karen to come along. Karen had readily agreed.

“This is ridiculous,” Patricia announced, glaring at the boxy building through narrowed eyes. The sole of her stylish high heel tapped rapidly against the pavement. “They have no right to hold Marcella in there! What on earth is taking so long?”

“I haven't the faintest idea,” Gigi said as she continued to pace. “Those officers certainly have some nerve! Marcella wasn't placed under arrest — Camilla was! We are entitled to some answers!”

Gloria sipped her wine and glanced at Karen over the rim of her glass. “My goodness! Isn't this just all terribly exciting?”

“You're not worried about Marcella?” Karen asked.

“Oh, well, I suppose I don't like the idea of her being stuck in there,” Gloria replied, tapping her chin in consideration. “But as Gigi said, those officers didn't arrest her. They'll have to release her, once they're done with their questions. Then, perhaps, we'll learn something extra delicious! I can't wait!”

Gloria's optimism felt a bit out of place to Karen, but she did admire how the lovely woman always seemed able to see the bright side.

“Ridiculous,” Patricia muttered again. “This is just ridiculous.”

“Agreed,” Gigi huffed.

The pair of ladies continued to pace, their high heels click-click-clicking across the pavement.

Gloria shrugged amicably. “The wheels of justice turn slowly. That's what my husband always says. He's an attorney,” she said. Smiling at Karen, she appraised the lackluster, brown ensemble worn by her newest acquaintance. “You know, Karen dear, those earthy browns aren't your color. They wash you out most mercilessly. Your complexion demands blues, greens, purples... Something vibrant.”

Karen blushed and glanced down at the ground. “Money's a little tight. I can't afford a new dress.”

“Who said anything about a dress?” Gloria inquired, her eyebrows bouncing playfully. “The right accessory can change your whole look!”

“Well, I have…” Karen dug through her pocket, “three dollars and two bits.”

“Oh, pish-posh!” Gloria tutted, waving a hand in a carefree gesture. “Hold this.”

She handed Karen her wine glass and began to dig through her handbag. After a moment's search, she pulled out a beautiful, delicate blue scarf decorated with embroidered roses. With a flourish, she draped the garment around the collar of Karen's drab dress and secured it with an intricate knot. She then pulled the brown clip from Karen's hair, allowing the thin curls to fall about her shoulders.

“Hmmm…” Gloria mused, tapping her chin again. She took back her wine glass and raised it at Karen. “Much better. It's like I'm truly seeing your eyes for the first time, and they're lovely. So blue! Yes, you need cool colors, Karen. Cool colors in pastels. I'll make a beauty out of you yet! Just wait!”

Karen blinked in surprise and gingerly touched the handsome scarf. The luxurious silky material felt cool and smooth between her fingertips. She'd never owned anything so fine. And Gloria probably had dozens of them.

“I don't know what to say,” Karen murmured. “Thank you.”

“It's my pleasure!” Gloria said. “You can't very well camp out in front of a police station looking like Oliver Twist's mother! Someone will think you're here to abandon an unwanted infant! You could do with a little couture, Karen. Nice people deserve nice things.”

Patricia snorted at Gloria's remark, but paused in her pacing and gave Karen a look of begrudging approval. “Well, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, as they say. But it's a vast improvement. You're almost pretty, Karen.”

“Oh? Um, thank you?” Karen said, taken aback.

“We'll go dress shopping one of these days,” Gloria promised with a covert wink. “My treat!”

At that moment, the door to the police station swung open, and Marcella Montgomery emerged. Straightening her crescent hat in an absent-minded manner, she walked down the stone steps and out into the sunshine. Some of the sway had left her hips, and her face appeared pinched and troubled.

“Marcella!” Patricia and Gigi shrieked, pouncing at their club president. They pulled her into a dramatic embrace.

“Are you alright?” Gloria asked, her eyes wide with concern. She gave Marcella's forearm a reassuring squeeze. “They had you in there for quite some time. Did they tell you why they thought you were involved with Camilla's...indiscretion?”

“There was a note,” Marcella replied, her words coming out trance-like. “A note to Camilla. The police found it in her handbag when they arrested her. They thought I wrote it.”

“Well? Did you?” Patricia inquired.

“No,” Marcella said. Her eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “No, I didn't. I don't know who did.”

“What else did those police officers ask you?” Patricia demanded.

“Did you see Camilla?” Gigi questioned.

“Did they say anything about Camilla's gun?” Patricia asked.

“Or the Italian man she shot?” Gigi piled on.

Marcella stared at them, her jaw slackened and eyes wide. She shook her head slowly back and forth, at a complete loss for words.

Karen studied Marcella's beautiful face in interest, noting the utter lack of her perpetual confidence. Marcella looked haunted. Stunned. In a trance. Like she'd suffered a great shock. And Karen supposed she had. They all had, on this sunny, unassuming June day.

“I… No,” Marcella answered, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “I didn't see Camilla. She's in a holding cell, apparently. And I don't think they know where she got the gun. They asked me about it, but I didn't know she had one.” She shook her head again and looked at each of the ladies in turn. “Did you know? Did she say anything to any of you?”

“About owning a gun? Certainly not!” Gloria cried. “You know me, I wouldn't have been able to keep that to myself for an instant!”

“Nor would I,” Gigi stated. “She never said a word to me.”

“And of course I knew nothing about that!” Patricia snapped. “Why would I? Guns are so pedestrian! Not fit for ladies!”

“She's only asking, Patricia,” Gloria soothed. “No need to be defensive.”

“Forget the gun,” Gigi instructed, holding up a hand. “The Italian man she shot, her ‘lover’: who was he? Did they tell you that?”

“Yes,” Marcella said. She took a shaky breath. “Yes, they told me.”

“Well?” Gigi demanded. “What's his name?”

Marcella swallowed. “Mario Castellano.”

“What?!” Gigi exclaimed, clutching her pearls. “Mario Castellano? You're certain?”

Marcella pressed her lips into a grim line. “Oh, believe me, I'm certain.”

“What's wrong, Gigi?” Gloria asked. “Do you know him?”

“Know him? Mario Castellano?” Gigi asked back, patting her décolletage in a nervous manner. “No! No, of course not. How would I? No. It's just, Castellano… You ladies have heard that name, haven't you?”

Gloria, Patricia, and Karen shook their heads. Marcella looked away.

“No, never,” Gloria said, her excited smile making a return appearance. “Should we have?”

“Perhaps. The Castellano family is,” Gigi lowered her voice to a whisper, “mob affiliated.”

“No!” Gloria and Patricia exclaimed.

“Yes! Oh, yes,” Gigi confirmed. Her head bobbed with such aggression that Karen feared her neck might snap. “It's the truth! All very hush-hush, of course. The Castellano family hides their illegal activities behind a chain of dry cleaning establishments and tailor shops. But it's true.”

“How in heaven's name did Camilla begin an affair with a man involved in the Italian mob?” Gloria cried, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “How did they even meet?”

Gigi's eyes turned hard and she crossed her arms. “Why are you asking me?” she snapped. “How do you imagine I would know such a thing?”

“I think Gloria meant the question in rhetoric,” Karen said in an attempt to ease the mounting tension.

Marcella expelled a sudden huff. “I need a drink,” she declared.

“Would you like some of my wine?” Gloria offered, holding out her glass.

“No. Something stronger,” Marcella said. She waved Gloria's hand away. “Spirits. I'm going to a bar.”

Patricia, Gloria, and Gigi exchanged aghast stares of disbelief.

“A bar?” Patricia gasped.

“Like a working-class man?” Gloria questioned.

“You have every bottle of spirits, booze, and wine known to man at your house!” Gigi scoffed. “Why go somewhere subpar and pay for it?”

“My house is the last place I want to be right now,” Marcella stated. “No, I can't go home. Not yet. I'm going to a bar. Alone. I'm sorry, ladies. It's been…a day. And I need to clear my head.”

Without a backwards glance, Marcella strode away, her high heels clicking briskly against the sidewalk.

Patricia, Gloria, and Gigi stared after her, their expressions bewildered.

“We can't just let her go…can we?” Gloria asked. “She shouldn't be alone right now.”

“I'll go after her,” Karen volunteered.

Three jaws dropped.

“You?” Patricia blurted. “What makes you think you're qualified?”

Karen shook her head. “It's not about being qualified, it's about being accessible,” she explained. “Marcella obviously has something heavy weighing on her mind. Something she feels she can't share. You're her peers — she must save face in front of you. But me?” She smiled and shrugged. “I'm no one. There's no way she could feel embarrassed or intimidated speaking to me. Let me talk to her.”

“Yes, alright,” Patricia said slowly. Her expression was wary, but she nodded. “That does make some sense. And I need to get home.”

“Home. Yes. Me, too!” Gigi agreed, her tone suggesting she'd just remembered something urgent. “I'll ring you ladies later.”

“Go on, Karen,” Gloria cheered her on. “I'm sure you're the one to help Marcella. You're so clever. And keep the scarf. It looks so lovely on you, I couldn't possibly take it back.”

“Thank you, Gloria,” Karen said with a smile. “I'll have her feeling better in two shakes of a lamb's tail!”

The ladies dispersed, and Karen trotted down the sidewalk in the direction Marcella had gone.

As she approached the street, Karen noticed an elegantly dressed woman standing beside a sleek, expensive car. By appearance, the woman was fifty-something, with stunning features, olive skin, and very hard eyes. She glared up at the police station as though its existence caused her great personal offense.

Who was she? And what had happened to make her so angry?

Karen approached the woman with caution. “Hello,” she called out, trying to keep her voice light and friendly. “Is everything alright?”

The stylish woman turned her glare on Karen, and Karen nearly stumbled backward.

“No,” the woman growled. Her voice was as hard as her eyes. “No, everything is not ‘alright’.”

Karen noted that her spoken words carried a distinct accent. An Italian accent, if she wasn't mistaken. “May I ask what's troubling you?” Karen inquired.

“Troubling me? Ha!” the woman scoffed. She muttered a string of Italian words that Karen suspected were mostly curses. “What's troubling me is that my son was murdered this morning. And the puttana who killed him is in that building.”

༺ ○ ༻

Officers Marlowe and Spade watched from their office window as Marcella Montgomery walked out of the station and down the wide stone steps to where her devoted group of lemmings awaited her. Embraces were given, sympathetic expressions and gestures made, inaudible words of comfort spoken.

“What do you make of her?” Marlowe asked, his gaze firmly anchored to the couture-clad ladies outside.

“I think she's ambitious, manipulative, and she's got the rest of those wealthy dames eating out of the palm of her hand,” Spade stated. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his uniform slacks and shrugged his broad shoulders. “She could've been a film star with those acting chops. Easy on the eyes, too.”

Marlowe turned away from the window and smirked at his long-time friend. “What I mean is, do you believe her?” he rephrased. He smoothed a hand over his coarse black hair and shook his head. “Do you buy her whole routine?”

“Routine?” Spade repeated. “You mean the song and dance she put on for us about her ignorance of the situation?”

“Yeah,” Marlowe said. He took a seat at his desk and leaned back in his chair. “That whole thing. She didn't write the note; she didn't know about her loverboy plugging Camilla Otis. You buy it?”

Spade rubbed his chin with the side of his index finger. “Well, like I said, she's an actress. Damn good one, too, putting on a performance all day, every day for that ancient husband of hers. However…”

“However?” Marlowe prompted.

“However, something about her reaction did seem off,” Spade allowed. “She looked genuinely shocked when she read that note. Spooked, even.”

“Yeah,” Marlowe agreed. “I thought so, too. When she read the note and when I mentioned that Castellano and Mrs. Otis were seeing each other. The evidence suggests otherwise, but my gut tells me her shock was real. I don't think she knew about them. She looked kind of…”

“Hurt?” Spade offered. “Scorned? Betrayed?”

“All of the above,” Marlowe said. “I know some women can fake those emotions and turn on the waterworks whenever they want something — you remember my ex-wife — but, well, I'm not so sure what we saw was fake.”

“I hate not being sure,” Spade grunted.

“Same,” Marlowe concurred. “But if Mrs. Montgomery didn't write that note, who did? We've got other samples of her penmanship. It's a match. And the stationery is from her rendezvous hotel of choice: the Ritz.”

“Ya got me,” Spade said. “It's a real head-scratcher, alright.”

“Real head-scratcher,” Marlowe echoed. He clicked his teeth. “Yep, sure 'nuff is. So, for the time being, let's focus on Camilla Otis: the man she shot, and the revolver she used to shoot him.”

“We should talk to Mack,” Spade said, wagging his finger at Marlowe. “He was there. Might've seen more than he told us. He's a P.I. now, sure, but he used to be a cop. Bet he'd be willing to give us his professional opinion.”

“Mack D'Knife, huh?” Marlowe asked, considering. He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “You think he was there tailing someone? Or just getting a cup of Joe, like he said in his statement? 12th Street is known for its coffee shops.”

Spade chuckled. “With Mack it's hard to say. Seems like he's always tailing someone. But he won't discuss his clients, or his marks. ‘Bad for business,’ he says. You know him, though. Fella's private as all get out, but he's got integrity.”

“Alright.” Marlowe bobbed his head in a decisive nod. “Yeah, let's stop by his office tomorrow morning. Can't hurt. And I could really use a decent cup of coffee.”

꧁༺ ○ ༻꧂

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