Carter
She really is beautiful. Just like a movie star. She holds a cocktail glass and begins pacing in front of the mural. Her gaze keeps darting to the doors, like she’s expecting someone.
Curiosity crackles through him. He musters all his energy to remain quiet and to appear as though he’s deeply focused on his notes. He writes in his book that the man wears a pink jacket and tinted glasses like fighter pilots wear in movies.
The man stops beside the woman, close, almost touching her but not quite.
She goes very still but does not turn to him. She faces the painting and sips her drink.
“I said we’d talk at the bar,” he says quietly.
“We do this on my terms,” she almost whispers. She appears irritated as well as nervous. Carter’s curiosity tips into full-throated excitement.
The man tilts his head, as though studying the painting.
“The Fates measure our time on earth from the moment we are born, do you know that?” His voice is husky and deep.
And he speaks with a foreign accent Carter can’t place.
“Mere mortals cannot change what they decree.” He faces the woman. “Do you believe in fate, Arrabella?”
Arrabella.
Carter scratches her name in his notebook:
Arabella.
It fits her, he thinks. Fancy, important, and a little unusual. He’s not sure exactly how to spell it, though.
“I don’t appreciate this pressure,” she says quietly. Her accent is definitely English. “What have you got for me that’s so important it couldn’t be done over the phone?”
“Our subject is not who she says she is.”
She stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“The name she’s using is not the one she was given at birth. She changed it legally. After standing trial for murder.”
“What?”
Carter freezes, barely breathing.
“The trial was in Liverpool,” the man says. “She was charged with killing Peter ‘Paz’ Doyle, a demolition worker, local football club man with ties to hooliganism and organized crime. She was, however, acquitted.”
“There were other suspects?” Arrabella asks.
“None. Law enforcement looked no further.”
“That means they believe it was her—that she really did it. Killed a man. She just wasn’t convicted.”
“Good lawyers,” he says.
Arrabella mutters, “Fuck. Well, fuck me.” She darts another glance toward the deck doors, as though fearing someone might come. “What was her connection to this Paz Doyle?”
“Wife.”
Her jaw drops. “Seriously? She killed her husband? Jeezus. How—how exactly did he die?”
“Heart failure. Postmortem found toxic levels of digitalis, but no proof she administered it. Her defense team raised enough reasonable doubt to sway the jury. They argued Paz Doyle was steeped in gambling debt, and he had ties to organized crime through his football club.”
“Like Angus.”
“Who?”
“Nothing. Just . . . someone else whose heart stopped when that woman appeared on scene. Also had digitalis in his system. But he had a heart condition, so the pathologist called it consistent with his medication.”
“Paz Doyle was a wife beater,” he says. “He apparently severely assaulted her on several occasions. She filed complaints. Cops did nothing.”
Carter writes in his book:
Paz Doyle. Wife beater. Football. Crime gang. Poisoned with digitalis? Who’s Angus?
“What about her clients—her elderly patients?” Arrabella asks.
“All expected deaths, if that’s what you mean. Therefore no autopsies. If she hastened their demise—no evidence of it.”
“Yet,” Arrabella says. “I want you to speak to their families. Ask if they suspect anything.”
“You really want to put them through that?”
“Of course. What was her original name?”
“Helen Doyle.”
An elderly gentleman shuffles in through the deck doors. He moves slowly toward the elevators and presses a button. He waits.
Arrabella’s eyes flash to the old man. She swears softly. They all wait in silence for the elevator car to arrive and ferry the gent away.
Carter’s heart gallops. He feels as though he’s dropped into a Hardy Boys or a Willard Price adventure novel.
Or a Sherlock Holmes movie. He’s finally got a real live murder mystery!
With a man in a pink suit and an orchid, and a pale lady with red lipstick and hair like fire.
He cannot contain himself. He’s so excited he needs to pee.
The urge is suddenly so fiercely urgent he thinks he might wet his pants.
He knows the washroom is down the hall. But he’d need to get past Arrabella and the man. And now he’s fearful that if they notice him, they might realize what he heard.
But he can’t wait. He just can’t.
He reaches for the strap of his little yellow backpack, and clutching his notebook under his arm, he scoots off the bench and hurtles behind Arrabella and the man, aiming for the corridor that leads to the bathroom.
The man spins about as Carter races past and cuts around the corner.
He’s so busy looking over his shoulder that he slams full force into a woman who was standing behind the corner.
He hits her so hard he takes her out at the knees, and they both go flailing and crumpling down to the carpet in front of a vending machine.
“Jesus Holy Mary Mother of Christ almighty,” the woman exclaims.
Carter scrambles up, hopping from foot to foot. “I-I’m sorry. I gotta pee.”
His backpack and notebook and loose papers are scattered across the carpet.
The man rounds the corner. He stops and glares at Carter.
Hot wetness begins to trickle down the inside of his thigh.
“Everything okay, son?”
He swallows. The woman has scooted behind the vending machine, out of sight of the man in the pink suit. Only Carter can see her from his vantage point. Her eyes are round with fear behind her thick lenses. She raises a finger to her lips.
“I—I just tripped,” Carter stammers. “I need to pee.” His voice comes out small.
The man stoops, picks up a few papers, glances at one. “What’s this?”
“Just a map. Of the suites on my deck.”
“Why?”
“For homework,” Carter lies. His eyes fill with tears as more pee trickles down his leg.
The man smiles faintly, hands the papers back to Carter, and strolls away.
When Carter looks again, the woman in the navy dress is gone, too.
He bolts to the toilet. Tears flood down his cheeks as finally he relieves himself. He hasn’t peed himself since a big dog attacked him at a neighborhood park when he was just six years old.
Zipping up his shorts, he realizes that the woman he crashed into is the weird assistant. Did she also hear what Arrabella and the man said? About the murder of Paz Doyle?
Suddenly it all feels too much and he just wants his mom.