Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Thirteen

Margaret spends the remainder of the afternoon in her apartment, flitting from one cleaning project to the next. She empties the dishwasher and loads the overflowing heap from the sink into it. Holding her breath, she dumps the contents of the pot into the garbage disposal and turns it off when a clang rings around the kitchen. She sticks her hand into the disposal and retrieves a spoon. The pot full of water to soak, she tidies the kitchen and stops only to screen her phone calls until the apartment passes for presentable.

I'm honestly shocked by the boredom of Margaret's routine. If I weren't already dead, I'd probably die from the boredom, though it is slightly entertaining to watch a Bayshore Boulevard Bertwinkle cleaning her kitchen like a normal person. But still...how do real detectives manage?

The phone interrupts my thoughts. Margaret groans as she eyes the name flashing across the screen. Vanessa Bertwinkle.

There isn't a whole lot of love between Margaret and her stepmother. Maybe it's the fact that Vanessa is barely thirty or that she's provided Mr. Bertwinkle with two additional heirs. My guess is that Margaret sees too much of herself in Vanessa. Margaret often complains Vanessa is after her dad's wealth and social status. I don't see much of a difference between the two of them, if that's what Vanessa is up to. I've never met the lady, but I've seen her many times in the Society section of the Tampa Bay Times. She's always hosting charity events, so in my opinion, she's probably cut from a finer cloth than Margaret is.

Margaret clicks the phone and sighs. "What do you want, Vanessa?" Her tone is ice. She switches the phone to speaker and sets it on the table as she sponges crumbs off the table.

"It's Christmastime. Your father wants to see you on Christmas Day." Vanessa's tone is resigned.

"I'm spending the day with my mother. You remember her, right?"

"I asked her to join us also. She's going to Cozumel."

"Is that what she told you?" Margaret places her hands on her hip, the sponge leaving debris on her clothes.

"Please spend the day with us. It seems wrong for you to be alone on Christmas." Her voice is almost pleading.

Margaret bites her lip, seeming to deliberate. "If Dad truly wanted to see me, he'd give me access to my inheritance and he wouldn't have cut me off in the first place." She chucks the sponge onto the floor.

Static travels over the line. "He won't budge on this. He says he wants you to make your own living like he did, that he's spoiled you far too long."

Margaret's eyes narrow. "Two can play that game. It'll be over my dead body before I spend Christmas with him again." She hangs up the phone and curses as she reaches for the sponge. She stands there, lips downturned, staring at the phone like she hopes it will ring. After a good thirty seconds, she crumples onto the couch and sobs. Apparently, her mother really is going to Mexico and Margaret won't have anyone to spend the day with.

I feel badly for Margaret, but it seems like this is much of her own making. I don't understand why she's being so stubborn. At the very least, Margaret would receive a Christmas gift by spending the day with her father. My guess is that her financial dilemma could be totally resolved after the visit. Mr. Bertwinkle gives millions to charity. Surely he could give a couple thousand dollars to his daughter.

A couple minutes later, Vanessa calls back. Margaret wipes the tears from her cheeks but does not answer the phone. On the fifth ring, she stalks off to her bedroom and flings open her closet door. She steps into the walk-in closet and flicks the light. In front of her, evening gowns hang, organized by color. The McQueen from last night is wrapped in plastic. I immediately walk over to it and try it on ghost-style. But, alas, with no mirror, the satisfaction is fleeting.

Margaret turns to the left and rummages through her myriad red shirts. She settles on a burgundy cowl neck sweater, before turning around and grabbing a barely-there black leather mini-skirt. I roll my eyes as she removes the Givenchy Over-the-knee boots with the totally adorable multi-hued heels. The white heel with blue, red, and yellow swishes on it is gorgeous. Sigh. Of course she wouldn't miss an opportunity to wear them. With their price tag of more than $2200, I wouldn't either. I'd wear the boots morning, noon, and night, and probably in my sleep.

Which makes me wonder why she doesn't sell her own shoes. She could come up with the rest of her money if she'd just part with her Christian Louboutins and Jimmy Choos. Throw in her Guccis and Valentinos, and she might be able to feed a small country for a year. I had my own issues with spending money on clothes way out of my budget, but I always made my payments on time. I could probably give Margaret lessons on living on the cheap while pretending to be rich.

A rap pounds on the door. Puzzlement crosses Margaret's face. She sets her outfit onto her bed, as the knocking grows impatient. She peers through the eyehole and I step into the hall. A policeman, Benitez, according to his nametag, stands on the other side. He's tall, and he has russet skin and a scar that stretches across his chin. For some reason, the scar doesn't detract from his handsomeness. It really isn't fair that scars look sexy on men.

I stick my head through the door to see what Margaret's holdup is. She uncaps a lipstick from her purse, applies it, and smudges her lips together. With a saccharine smile on her face, she opens the door.

"Sorry to trouble you, Miss, but I'm sure you've already heard a suspicious death occurred in the building last night. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions," he stammers.

Margaret's eyes flash, but she quickly recovers. I'm not sure Benitez notices; he's too busy staring at Margaret's boobs that threaten to pop out of her too-tight V-neck.

"I need to get ready for a date, but I can give you a few minutes." She gestures for him to come inside, and again for him to sit at the table. "Would you like a drink?"

He declines, spends a few seconds studying the apartment, and then jumps into his questions. Margaret confirms her identity and says she was with Clive for most of the evening, that they only split up once they saw my body outside the building.

"Are you certain the two of you were together from ten o'clock to eleven thirty?"

Margaret inhales a deep breath and exhales slowly. "We were at a dinner party then went to Channelside afterward. We weren't with each other during bathroom breaks, but that's it. We saw the body on our way back here for a nightcap. Clive wanted to play street detective and I was a little tipsy, so I came home. Didn't make sense to hang around and gawk at her body." Her voice is a little shrill. "The officer who was here last night can verify my inebriation."

Benitez frowns. "And which officer would that be?"

"Blond hair, blue eyes, looks like Charlie Hunnam. I think his name is..."

"Smith," they say simultaneously, Benitez's voice full of disdain.

"Why isn't he here?" Margaret asks.

"I'm working the case now." He rises from his seat and fishes a card from his wallet. "If you have any information, please don't hesitate to call me, Miss Bertwinkle." His attention lingers on her after she takes the card from him and places it inside her purse.

She smiles. "Thank you, Officer Benitez. Stay safe tonight."

When Benitez leaves, Margaret rests against the door and breathes a sigh of relief. Relaxed, she returns to her bedroom and begins preparing for her date.

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Author's Note: Thank you so much for still being here. I'd love to hear your thoughts!

On a personal note, I'm hoping things are well on their way to being "back to normal," if such a thing exists. We have found a house. At this point, we're just waiting for our belongings to arrive so we can move in. And of course, then comes the rush of unpacking, trying to register my children for school, and shopping for school. Just a couple more weeks and life will be back to the new normal. Thanks again for your patience!