The interrogation room was dank, cold, windowless, and quite frankly the ugliest room Marcella Montgomery had ever seen. Four gray walls, a cheap faux wooden table, and a very hard, very uncomfortable chair. A chair not fit for servants. Yet here she sat, in her Bloomingdale's spring dress and matching crescent hat, her bum tingling due to the unrelenting hard surface upon which it perched. Her skin crawled at the very thought of this chair's past occupants, but what could she do? Until Officers Marlowe and Spade returned and presented their ridiculous ‘evidence’ and asked their ridiculous questions, she was stuck.

What would her husband say if he knew she'd been brought in for questioning by the police? And for something as tawdry as a murder, no less! She shuddered to think. Jefferson Montgomery was not a forgiving man.

As the seconds ticked by, Marcella huffed in impatience. Why on earth were the police under the impression that she'd had anything to do with Camilla Otis murdering her lover? Camilla had lovers behind her husband's back all the time. (Nearly all the Book Club ladies did.) When she tired of one, she threw him back to sea and fished for another. Always the same routine. So, what had possessed her to shoot this one? And again, why did the police think Marcella was somehow involved?

Marcella smoothed the pad of her thumb across each of her manicured red fingernails. A nervous habit. She must stop it.

There had been a moment, one horrible moment, when she'd first come through the door of Delmonico's and noticed the two dashing police officers, that Marcella had thought they were there for another reason. A very different reason. A sinister reason that had nothing to do with Camilla Otis, some pretty boy likely ten years her junior, or a hidden revolver. In that moment, Marcella's heart had dropped into her stomach. But then, it turned out she had nearly fainted for nothing.

No one knew about that. And no one ever would. It was safely buried in the past.

Marcella sighed loudly and shifted on the uncomfortable chair. The cheeks of her bum had long since gone numb. What in the hell was taking those officers so long? Where did they have to go to retrieve their so-called ‘evidence’? China?

Just as the dank smell and the silence were beginning to become too much, the door burst open and Officers Marlowe and Spade marched through, practiced smiles on their inconveniently handsome faces. Marlowe carried a thin, red file folder in his hand.

“Mrs. Montgomery, sorry to keep you waiting,” Officer Marlowe announced, his jovial tone of voice suggesting that he wasn't sorry in the least. He actually sounded rather pleased with himself — a fact that irked Marcella to no end. “Thanks for your patience.”

“I wasn't aware I had any say in the matter,” Marcella clapped back, crossing her arms.

“Comfortable?” Officer Spade asked. His smirk told her he already knew the answer. “Can we get you some water? Coffee? A doughnut?”

“How about a cushion for this wretched chair?” Marcella snipped. “Was it made specifically for discomfort? It's not fit for a Vietnamese beggar!”

“Spade, do we have any chair cushions available?” Officer Marlowe asked, turning to his partner with an exaggerated expression of inquisition.

“Fresh out,” Officer Spade replied, snapping his fingers in mock dismay. He turned to Marcella. “Ain't that just the luck. Apologies, Your Majesty.”

“Your lack of professionalism is unrefined and not the least bit charming,” Marcella informed them. “Now, can we get on with this farce? I do have other places to be today.”

Marlowe and Spade shared a look. They didn't quite smirk at each other, but the gleam in their eyes spoke volumes. These two men clearly went way back. Perhaps they'd been stationed together during the war. Their erect posture, athletic physiques, and comfort in their uniforms screamed ‘ex-soldier.’ Marcella could tell at a glance that they'd both served.

“Oh, I'm sure,” Officer Marlowe said. He slapped the file down on the surface of the worn table and sat on the chair opposite Marcella. “Sure are a busy-bee, aren't you, Mrs. Montgomery? With your clubs, and your parties, and your dress fittings…”

“I'm sure spending your husband's money takes up a great deal of your time,” Officer Spade piled on. “Must be tough.”

“I beg your pardon?” Marcella demanded, her voice shrill. Really! The audacity of these two! “Don't you dare make assumptions about my relationship with my husband!”

Officer Marlowe held up a pacifying hand. “You're right. Apologies, Mrs. Montgomery. I just couldn't help but notice that you are…” he opened the file and glanced at the top-most sheet of paper within, “...thirty-nine years old, while your husband is seventy-three.” He looked up at her, eyebrows elevated.

Officer Spade let out a piercing whistle. “Hooo-weeee! That's some May-December romance, right there! How'd you two crazy kids meet?”

A sneer took up residence on Marcella's full red lips. “We met at a fundraising event for the art gallery in Harbrook. I was the host, Jefferson was the big donor of the evening. We hit it off. Now, if you're quite finished judging me, I thought we were here to discuss Camilla.”

“Ah, yes. Miss Otis,” Spade conceded.

“Mrs. Otis,” Marcella corrected him.

“Right. Missus,” Marlowe chuckled. He and Spade shared another look. “How long have you known Camilla Otis, Mrs. Montgomery?”

“For years,” Marcella said with a dismissive gesture. “We both grew up in high society families. We're the same age. Had a similar education. Attended many of the same events. And we got married within a year of each other. She stood up in my wedding, and I in hers. We're friends.”

“Right, sure. Friends,” Marlowe mused, consulting the file again. “I think you just mispronounced the word ‘rivals’.”

Marcella sniffed and looked away. “I'm not going to dignify that with a response.”

Marlowe smirked, as if to say she just had. But in contrast to his smug expression, he said, “Sorry 'bout that, I overstepped. Let me try again. Both you and Camilla Otis got married to very wealthy men that are older than your fathers. Mrs. Otis' husband is…sixty-eight.”

“That's correct,” Marcella confirmed, her voice flat.

“Your husband's older, though,” Officer Spade pointed out. “And wealthier. And old money, which is considered more prestigious than new money. Isn't that right?”

Marcella gritted her teeth. “Yes,” she seethed. “Her husband is in elevators, mine is in gold. What of it?”

“So, your husband will probably be first to kick the bucket,” Marlowe surmised, tapping his cleft chin. “And leave you a bigger inheritance when he dies.”

“What an absolutely macabre thing to say!” Marcella exclaimed.

“You and Mrs. Otis both live in Gilded Grove, that right?” Spade asked, ignoring her outburst. “Echelon Hill?”

Marcella began grinding her teeth again. “Echelon Hill, yes,” she growled.

“Ooh, practically royalty up there! The crème de la crème!” Marlowe proclaimed in an exaggerated French accent. He grinned at Spade, then returned his gaze to his detainee. “Just curious: who has the bigger mansion, you or Mrs. Otis? You, right?”

The sound of her teeth grinding rumbled in Marcella's ears. “Me. Yes.”

“And you're both in that fancy book club,” Spade continued.

“Yes, that's right,” Marcella snapped. She shifted in her seat. What were they getting at? “Both of us.”

“But you're the president, while Mrs. Otis is the vice president, correct?” Marlowe pressed.

“Yes! I'm the president! So what?”

“So, it seems like Mrs. Otis has a few reasons to be jealous of you,” Marlowe said with a shrug.

“Same upbringing, same neighborhood, same social circle, same club…” Spade noted. He bobbed his head slowly side to side as he listed the similarities between the two women, transparently working up to some big reveal. “You and Mrs. Otis have just about everything in common, don't you?”

Marcella clenched her teeth again. “Just about.”

“Including lovers?” Officer Marlowe asked.

“What?” Marcella blanched, honestly surprised for the first time since they'd come into the room. Lovers in common? Her and Camilla? What on earth were they talking about? She shook her head, vehement. “No. That's ridiculous. We share many things, but never that.”

“Ahh, possessive over your playboys, are you?” Spade goaded her.

Something inside Marcella snapped. She had heard all she was going to hear from this offensive excuse for a comedy duo. “Alright, Abbott and Costello! That's enough! How dare you?” she exploded, slapping the tabletop with a sharp smack of her palm. “You're questioning my integrity when it's Camilla who has shot someone? Where the hell do you get off? You know nothing about my private life, do you hear me? Nothing!”

The pair of officers were unmoved. They stared at her, faces impassive, then shared another of their vexing little looks.

“Speaking of your private life, are you acquainted with a young Italian gentleman by the name of Mario Castellano, Mrs. Montgomery?” Officer Marlowe asked.

For the second time that day, Marcella's heart dropped into her stomach. How? How did they know that name? In connection with her? No one in this world should be able to connect her to Mario!

“We've met,” she replied, her voice coming out hoarse.

The pair of officers nodded to each other.

“Uh-huh, ‘met’,” Marlowe repeated. “You met often, didn't you?”

“We…well…” Marcella shook her head. “Define ‘often’.”

“Twice a week for the past six months,” Spade stated. “That's ‘often’ in this case.”

“That's… Ridiculous!”

“Oh?” Marlowe questioned, his dark eyebrows elevated. “So, you're saying you never met Mario Castellano at the Ritz Hotel on Lover's Lane for a little horizontal tango behind your geriatric husband's back?”

Marcella sputtered a few unintelligible syllables. The Ritz? On Lover's Lane? Twice a week for six months? How? How, how, how? How could they know? No one knew! Particularly not Jefferson Montgomery! And if he found out…

Oh, God.

He would divorce her. He would write her out of his will. All these years of suffering, for nothing.

Marcella swallowed, her throat suddenly dry and raw. “Fine,” she relented. They knew. Somehow. It seemed more damning to deny it. “Fine. Yes. Mario and I are lovers. Yes, we meet at the Ritz. And not that it's any of your business, but this isn't some sordid little dalliance. I genuinely care about that young man. He's exciting. He's passionate. He makes me feel alive.”

“Well, he is Italian,” Spade offered with a comprehensive shrug.

“And twenty-three years old,” Marlowe added.

“So what?” Marcella cried. “He's younger than me, I'm younger than my husband, we're all younger than Jesus Christ! What does age have to do with anything? And what does any of this have to do with Camilla?”

Marlowe smirked at her. “Are you telling me that you didn't know Mario Castellano was also engaged in an affair with Camilla Otis?”

The floor seemed to drop out from beneath Marcella's feet. Her stomach lurched violently. “What?” she whispered.

“Mario. He was two-timing ya with your best gal-pal,” Spade said. “Camilla Otis. But thanks to your little note, neither of you will have to put up with his cheating ways ever again.”

With her jaw hanging slack, Marcella gaped at them and made a helpless motion with her hands. “What do you mean? What note?”

Marlowe pulled a crisp, off-white sheet of stationery from the red file folder and set it on the table in front of her. “Now, don't tell me you forgot about this.”

Marcella picked up the stationery. It had been delicately folded into thirds and she opened it with shaking hands. The classy script of the letterhead read, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐭𝐳 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥. Below, in handwriting that was identical to hers, were the words:

Mario is mine.
We've been carrying on for six months now. Far longer than your fling. He's been stringing you along, using you for your money, but that ends today. He's not coming back.
He never loved you, and you were too big a fool to notice.
I win again, Camilla.
Don't I always?

Marcella Montgomery

Officer Spade made a tsk-tsk sound. “Looks like Camilla Otis had one more reason to be jealous of you.”

At a complete loss, Marcella dropped the stationery on the table and stared up at the two policemen in shock. “I— No, I— I didn't write this. I didn't know about them. If I had—”

“You would have shot him?” Spade supplied.

“What? No! I would have left him!” Marcella argued. Her breath caught in her throat as a sudden and horrible realization dawned on her. “Wait. Wait just a minute. Mario is the man Camilla shot?”

“Yep. Shot him dead,” Spade said. “Through the heart.”

“Oh, my god!” Marcella gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, no!”

Marlowe pulled his notepad from the breast pocket of his uniform and flipped through the pages. “Oh, yes. According to Mrs. Otis' maid, Mr. Castellano snuck out bright and early this morning, and that note, signed by you, was left in the postbox. After she read it, Mrs. Otis stuffed it in her handbag along with a small revolver, got in her car, and sped away from the house like a Formula One racer.” He scrutinized Marcella for a few loaded seconds. “Did you know Mrs. Otis owned a gun?”

“No. No, I didn't,” Marcella insisted, shaking her head in disbelief. “Why would I know something like that?”

“Well, because you're ‘friends’?” Spade offered, his expression smug. “Of course, friends don't steal other friends' lovers and then shoot them, do they Marlowe?”

“No, Spade. No, they do not.”

Marcella couldn't breathe. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. So, this was why Mario hadn't picked up when she rang him from Delmonico's? Because he was dead? She'd thought he'd just overslept! “Camilla really shot him? She shot Mario?”

Marlowe flipped to another page in the notepad. “Yep. On 12th Street. There were eight witnesses, including an old coworker of ours who now freelances as a private investigator.” He glanced down, skimming the page. “According to him, right before she shot Mr. Castellano, Mrs. Otis shouted, ‘You asked for this, you cheating bastard! And that bitch Marcella is next!’”

“Boy,” Spade said, shaking his head at Marcella in faux sympathy. “With friends like yours, who needs enemies?”

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