(It’s all nature vs. nurture, isn’t it?)
“It’s all nature versus nurture, isn’t it?” Lara says. (A rhetorical question if I ever heard one.)
“Huh?”
“I mean, Anita Singleton gives birth to a murderer but raises a beautiful, intelligent, good citizen. Whereas Margaret Miller gives birth to this good citizen but raises a murderer. Be an interesting study for some psychology student.”
Hugh Mosley looks up from his art work. “I need to think about this, Lara. Come in tomorrow morning and we’ll hash it out then.”
“Sure. In the meantime, I’m going to depose the wicked witch. (Good luck!) Just in case we need her information.”
“Who?”
“The obstetrics nurse.”
“Whatever,” Mosley says. He has returned to his doodles.
And so our tale continues. Lara Schuller returns to the rented and furnished apartment of the wicked witch. The landlord is still in the garden and she wonders if he ever leaves to sleep. She has to admit the garden is a work of art.
“I’m back,” she tells him.
He looks up from the plant he is tending. “So I see,” he says. “You here to see Ida again?”
Lara nods.
“Haven’t seen her out of her apartment since the day you were here. Not that she ever comes out much. Days at a time, I don’t see her.”
“I’ll just go knock,” Lara says and turns to walk up the steps to the second-level walkway. The landlord watches her, his lips pursed.
There is no answer to Lara’s knock. (Well, there wouldn’t be, would there?)
She leans over the low balcony and calls down to the landlord. “She’s not in, apparently,” she says.
He frowns and stands his shovel against the fence. “I’ll be right up,” he says.
“Not a young woman,” he tells Lara, this man who will never see seventy-five again. “She could have fallen.” He knocks, a perfunctory gesture, and puts his key in the lock. “Ida,” he calls. “Ida.” Hesitantly, Lara follows the landlord as he steps into the small entryway and closes the door firmly behind them. She’s not squeamish, but neither is she wanting to see what they are both expecting.
(However, they would be wrong.)
The apartment is empty except for the furnishings that came with the apartment when Ida Shimblebone rented it. A brief survey tells them both that Ms. Shimblebone is not in the apartment, nor are any of her clothes or other personal objects.
“My God!” The landlord exclaims. “It’s like she never lived here. There’s nothing!” He turns to Lara. “But I never saw her leave. And I would have.”
(Does the man never sleep?)
“Maybe at night, while you were asleep?” she offers.
“My son takes the night duty,” the landlord tells her. “There is always somebody on watch here.”
Lara finds that just a bit cloying, but says nothing.
The landlord wanders about the tiny place, shaking his head. The bed is a headboard and bare mattress, the medicine cabinet is empty, as is the refrigerator. Lara opens the dresser drawers, but they yield nothing. Drawers in the kitchen, except for those holding minimal utensils, are also empty. The shelves hold only a few plates, cups, and bowls. One pot and one frying pan are in the oven drawer. Lara is reminded of the time her parents took her camping and they stayed in a “furnished” cabin. “The bare necessities,” her father sang.
“I just can’t believe it,” the landlord says. “She was a model tenant. Always on time with the rent, almost never asking for anything.” He runs his finger over a small table that sits beside the one comfortable chair in the apartment, then checks his finger for dust. It is clean. “Oh, once her refrigerator went out and we had to replace that, but nothing else except the occasional plumbing issue. She almost never went anyplace. Had her groceries delivered. I called a cab for her a few times when she went to the doctor or dentist.”
“Any guests?”
“Never saw a one except the time you came. Your visit sort of surprised me.”
He looks at her questioningly, as though to draw from her the reason for her two visits.
Lara is having none of it. “What a lonely life,” she muses, feeling some compassion for the woman.
The landlord just shrugs, as though the thought of loneliness has never occurred to him. “Well, she watched a lot of television,” he says. “Speaking of which, the television is gone. That was hers. Television sets are not part of our ‘furnished apartments.’” He massages his chin. “How did she get it out? She would have needed help. She couldn’t have carried it by herself.” Again he shakes his head. “It’s like she never was here at all.”
Silently, Lara agrees.
(Well, what did they expect? This is a fairytale. These things happen.)
They are standing by the stripped bed and the landlord is still shaking his head, when Lara feels something rub against her leg. She yelps.
A large and very beautiful (and black, need I mention that?) cat is standing, looking up at her.
“Oh, my gawd!” Lara exclaims. She stoops and lifts the cat in her arms. “Hello, Beauty,” she says. She turns to the landlord. “See, she did have one friend. Would you look at those eyes!” She nuzzles the cat.
The landlord shudders. “Where did that thing come from. PUT IT OUT!”
“It’s been in the apartment all this time.” Lara says. “She left her cat behind.”
“We DO NOT allow pets in the apartments. NO EXCEPTIONS! Ms. Shimblebone DID NOT HAVE A CAT. I would have known. I have a nose for such things.” Again he shudders. “Filthy, FILTHY! Put it OUTSIDE!”
“I won’t,” Lara says. “Ms. Shimblebone went off and left this beautiful animal. I’ll take it to the Humane Society and see if it’s chipped. (We know it’s not chipped, don’t we? Of course it wouldn’t be.) If it isn’t, I’ll just keep it. Were you hiding under the bed, Beauty?” she asks. Again, she nuzzles her face in the shiny fur.
“STOP THAT!” the landlord shouts. “How can you STAND such a creature?”
But Lara has left the apartment, the cat in her arms, leaving the landlord still shuddering.
The cat purrs with contentment. There is a twinkle in her beautiful green eyes.
Lara gives up her plans to depose the wicked witch.
And so, my friends, as I said before, there is no happy ending to this story. (Well, maybe one small one: Beauty and Lara.) But none of the main participants will be living happily ever after. Eventually, Hugh Mosley calls both families in, but separately, and explains the findings of the DNA testing. Natasha is charged on a count of Murder One. A sample of her handwriting, taken from the application forms she filled out when she entered the employ of the district attorney (although any scrap of paper from her desk would have shown as much — however, fruit of the poisoned tree, and all that), matched the handwriting on the note found in Steve McGuire’s pocket. That, her blood on the doorframe, and an alibi that is so full of holes it is laughable, are enough for Mosley to go ahead with the charge. She pleads “Not Guilty” and serves as her own counsel. (Did the girl learn nothing in law school?!)
The judge instructs the jury on lesser-included and the jury returns a verdict of Guilty of Second Degree Murder. “Passion of the moment,” is how they explain their decision. Lara is disappointed. She tried so hard to convince the jury that the act of picking up the knife showed premeditation. The jury didn’t buy it.