Paola Castellano stalked down the winding staircase and across the foyer to the large, luxurious parlor, her comely face contorted into something terrifying. She hissed a series of curses in Italian as she walked. This lack of action was making her crazy. Castellanos did not sit on their thumbs when faced with trouble. They did something about it. They acted.

The family's portly housekeeper rounded the corner, joining Paola in the parlor. She was as unattractive as she was efficient, their housekeeper, and for that very combination of reasons Paola had kept her on for years. No sense having staff members her husband might want to bed behind her back.

“Signora,” the housekeeper said. “This arrived for you.”

“Arrived? For me?” Paola repeated. “What did?”

The housekeeper handed her a crisp white envelope. “This letter. It came via courier, not the regular post.”

“Hm. Yes. Grazie,” Paola thanked her.

“Signora,” the housekeeper said. She dipped her head, then retreated from the room.

Alone, Paola turned the envelope over and inspected the back. No stamps, nor any other markings from the post office. This had been delivered by a private messenger service. How odd. If the message was urgent, why had the sender not simply rang on the telephone?

The words For Signora Paola Castellano were written across the back of the envelope in beautiful, looping calligraphy. Paola didn't recognize the penmanship.

Curiosity piqued, she tore open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of stationery, folded into thirds. The header at the top of the stationery read: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐭𝐳 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥.

Her heart rate quickened, and she read the letter through narrowed eyes.

Dear Mrs. Castellano ~

Please forgive the oddity and blunt address of this correspondence.

I'm sure the actions of Camilla Otis are weighing heavily on your mind and causing you great distress.

It may interest you to know that her husband is refusing to pay her bail. Which means she will remain incarcerated, and out of reach, at the police station until her trial.

That is, unless her bail were to be satisfied by another party. The cost is significant for most, but pennies for a wealthy woman such as yourself.

Just something to consider.

Sincerely,
A Friend

Paola's breathing grew ragged and her free hand balled into a fist. If Camilla Otis was stuck in her holding cell until the trial, it meant she had around-the-clock police protection. She would be untouchable.

With an indignant huff, Paola recalled her husband's foreboding words from their argument the day of Mario's death: “You kill her inside the police station, Paola, and even my connections cannot save you. You want revenge? Fine. Get revenge. But don't be stupid about it.”

Don't be stupid? Very well, she wouldn't be stupid. She'd play the game. And it seemed this mysterious ‘friend’ was telling her exactly how to play it smart.

A cold smile curled the corners of Paola's lips, and she left the parlor in search of her driver. She needed to drop by one of her family's dry cleaning fronts to visit the hidden safe in the office. It was time to make a sizable withdrawal.

༺ ○ ༻

The relief Elena felt in disclosing the truth to Oficiales Marlowe and Spade couldn't be expressed in a simple word. Not an English word, anyway, and as English was Elena's second language, she had no desire to waste precious time searching for an accurate term to describe her current emotional state. There was too much to do.

Everything she'd told the pair of policemen had been factual. Happenings she had seen and heard with her own eyes and ears, information freely given to her by Señora Otis, things that could be proven with just a little bit of digging. Factual. Real. The truth.

Just not the whole truth.

There was one tiny scrap of information that Elena had omitted. A morsel. Irrelevant to the situation, the deceased, the cheaters, and Señora Otis' crime. That being, the money Señora Otis had set aside in secret for her great escape.

Earlier that day, while attempting to avoid Señor Otis and his temper, Elena had been in Señora Otis' dressing room, returning the dresses and skirts that had been recently dry cleaned to their rightful hangers in the expansive wardrobe, when she'd happened upon a handbag on the floor behind the shoe rack. The small bag was plain, sturdy, a very dull gray, and the type of accessory her employer wouldn't be caught dead carrying. On top of that, the bulk and weight suggested it was full. Curiosity got the better of her, and Elena opened the unattractive purse to see what was inside.

It was filled to the brim with money. Cash. A quick count revealed the total to be well over eight thousand dollars. Possibly as much as ten.

Elena had nearly fainted. The solution of all solutions — hidden at the bottom of a wardrobe. ¡Qué suerte!

After the policemen took their leave and she was certain Señor Otis was occupied with his latest paramour Penelope Fitzgerald, Elena snuck back into the parlor and picked up the telephone handset. She dialed a number from memory and waited as the line rang through.

A few agonizing seconds passed before she heard a familiar voice say, “Hello? Ermantrude residence.”

Elena gripped the handset tighter.

“Good evening, Señora Ermantrude,” she said into the mouthpiece, her delivery professional lest someone else was nearby or listening in. “This is Elena. Señora Otis' maid?”

“Elena, yes, hello,” Charlotte said. Her voice dropped to a whisper, but she sounded pleased. “How nice to hear from you.”

“Can you speak?”

“Yes. Yes, we can speak plainly. My husband is out. Is everything alright?”

Elena smiled against the receiver, joyful tears forming in her eyes. “Better than alright, mi amor,” she told Charlotte. “I've found something. Something wonderful. We can finally be together. And we can be free.”

༺ ○ ༻

“So, what do we do?” Spade was asking as he and Marlowe passed through the doors of the police station after their interview with Weston Otis. “He's a scumbag, but having an affair isn't illegal. Camilla Otis was having one, too. That's what started all of this.”

“We don't do anything,” Marlowe stated, running a hand across his forehead in exhaustion. “Not about this. We add the information to the report and move on to the next thing.”

“Which is what?”

“Wish I knew.”

“I hate feeling listless.”

“You and me both, partner.”

“Officers!” a youthful voice suddenly called out. “Officers Marlowe and Spade! Wait up, sirs!”

Spade rolled his eyes. “Lay off the coffee, Duffy,” he told the young deputy.

“Yes, sirs. Sorry, sirs,” Duffy chirped as he halted next to them. “But you're going to want to hear this, sirs.”

“What is it, Duffy?” Marlowe asked.

“It's Camilla Otis, sirs,” the deputy answered. “She's speaking. Saying more than the word ‘lawyer.’ She wants to talk, but she'll only speak to you two.”

All remnants of weariness vanished, and Marlowe and Spade turned to each other, ears perked and eyebrows raised.

“Finally!” Spade declared.

“She wants to talk about Mario Castellano?” Marlowe prompted, turning back to Duffy. “About her motive? Her reasons? Where she got that gun?”

“Uh, well… No,” Duffy said. “She didn't mention any of that. I don't think she wants to talk about herself at all.”

Spade threw up his hands. “Well, what then? What the hell does she want to talk about?”

“Marcella Montgomery,” Duffy replied, surprising them both. “Mrs. Otis says she has information about Marcella Montgomery. Critical information.”

༺ ○ ༻

The doorbell rang and an encore of three sharp knocks came in rapid succession.

Gigi Contini intercepted her housekeeper on the way to the door. She'd known it was only a matter of time before this visitor came calling.

“It's alright, Molly,” Gigi called out, holding up a hand. “Allow me. It's after seven. Why don't you retire for the night?”

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Contini,” the housekeeper responded. “Don't have to tell me twice, ma'am.” She made a show of removing her apron and marching in the opposite direction.

Gigi waited until she could no longer hear Molly's retreating footsteps, then pulled open the front door.

As anticipated, Antonio Castellano stood on the threshold. He tipped his head to her in his very genteel manner and removed the fedora from his head. “Mrs. Contini. Good evening.”

“Good evening, Mr. Castellano,” she replied. His feigned formality nearly caused her to laugh, but he was wise for it; walls had ears. “I'm afraid Guido isn't home at the moment.”

“It's not your husband I'm here to see, Mrs. Contini,” Antonio stated. “It's you.”

“Ah. Well. Please, come in,” Gigi said, holding the door open wide for him. “We can talk in my study.”

He followed her through the main floor of the sprawling manor to her study at a respectful three paces, and when they arrived at the door, she motioned for him to precede her into the room.

Once alone behind the locked door, Gigi turned to her guest, her eyes shining with remorse. “I had no idea Camilla would shoot Mario. I'm so sorry, Tony.”

To her surprise, Antonio merely shrugged. “I wanted my youngest son out of my life. Mario was nothing but an embarrassment to me. The product of an affair my wife thinks I don't know about. Although I would have preferred him to live and simply run off with his older, married lover, the result is the same.”

“Camilla was planning to leave town with him,” Gigi said. “Puerto Vallarta. She had all of her arrangements already set. Our plan was going perfectly. Then Camilla received a letter, supposedly from Marcella Montgomery, and everything changed in an instant.”

“A letter from Marcella Montgomery, hmmm?” Antonio mused. “And what did it read?”

“Marcella wouldn't comment on the content,” Gigi recalled from their chat outside the police station the previous day. “But she seemed quite haunted by the whole situation. And she swore up and down that she hadn't written the letter.”

Antonio leaned against the desk and adjusted the gold watch on his wrist. “Whether she wrote the letter or not, I have a feeling I know the gist,” he said.

“Do you?” Gigi asked. “How?”

“The private investigator I hired,” Antonio said simply. “He told me my son was sleeping with Marcella Montgomery, too.”

Gigi's knees nearly gave out on her, and she grabbed the edge of the desk for support. How had she not known about this? “No! Marcella and Mario?!”

“Yes. Oh, yes,” Antonio confirmed, thinking back to what Mack D'Knife had uncovered and divulged. “Mario had been shagging Marcella long before you introduced him to Camilla. They usually met at The Ritz Hotel. Hmm.” He paused as he recalled a tidbit from the past. “The letter I received that recommended I hire Mack D'Knife to tail Mario was written on stationery from The Ritz. Perhaps another guest saw them there together.”

“Yes, perhaps…” Gigi mused. She couldn't believe it. Marcella and Mario. She should have known. She should have guessed. Marcella's tone and expression while telling them Mario was the Italian man Camilla had shot was practically a confession of its own. She had known him. She had cared for him.

“Whatever the case, it changes nothing,” Antonio declared, interrupting Gigi's swirling thoughts. “Mario is gone, and my wife's attention is completely consumed by his departure. Just as we'd hoped.”

There was a change in his tone. Subtle, but unmistakable. Gigi glanced up to find him smiling at her. He had such a handsome smile. A smile his wife rarely saw.

“So…our plans will move forward?” she asked, her voice coy. She reached out her hand and he took it, smoothing the pad of his thumb over her knuckles. “We're leaving?”

“Sì, amore mio,” he confirmed in Italian. He pulled her closer with a gentle tug, and she settled in his arms. “I cannot wait to have you all to myself at last.”

“No more Guido, no more Paola, no more putting on airs for that ridiculous book club…” Gigi mused. She placed her hand on Antonio's cheek and sighed in content. “Just you, and me, and a vineyard in Tuscany.”

“And all the wine and love-making we could ever desire,” Antonio added. Caressing the back of her neck, he coaxed her closer and the pair shared a long, hungry kiss. As they broke apart, he peppered her cheek and temple with a myriad of softer kisses. “Soon, amore mio. Very, very soon.”

꧁༺ ○ ༻꧂

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