Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 136, No. 5. Whole No. 831, November 2010

The Changelings: a Very Grim Fairytale (But for Our Times) by Carol Biederman

Carol Biederman is the author of a number of published short stories and of a volume of related tales entitled The Oldest Inhabitant (Trafford, 2006), in which the narrator, the first person buried in a California Gold Rush cemetery, uses his unique position to tell stories of the hardships of some of those buried after him. The kind of originality of concept displayed in Ms. Biederman’s book is also evident in her debut story for us. When she isn’t writing, she does Ghost Tours for tourists in the little Gold Rush town she calls home.

Once upon a time, about twenty-seven years ago, a wicked witch switched babies in the delivery room of a small hospital.

(Those among you who are of a pedestrian and pedantic turn of mind would argue she was simply a tired obstetrics nurse, having already worked a sixteen-hour shift with six babies born in that time, this being the nine-month mark of a massive and long power outage when people — unable to cook a meal or watch television — had nothing to do but add an extra blanket and retire to bed for whatever entertainment that might offer, and her mistake was merely due to her fatigue. However, those of us who find a grain of truth in all fairytales will stick with the theory of the wicked witch.)

It happened thus. The hospital, already a small institution, was in the process of remodeling one of its delivery rooms, hence, only one was available on this particular day.

(Any hospital administrator with a whit of foresight would have calculated the nine-month phenomenon, which has been documented in cities throughout the world for decades, and put off the remodeling project until the crucial date had passed.)

The two mothers in question, Margaret Miller and Anita Singleton, while in separate labor rooms, were rushed by attendants to Delivery at the same moment, very nearly colliding in the hallway outside the door. In the delivery room, their shared obstetrician, also stressed from an extremely trying day of births, wiped his arm across his sweating forehead, washed his hands yet another time, and held them up as the nurse (the aforementioned wicked witch) pulled on yet another set of plastic gloves for him and looked with dismay at the sight of two tiny heads crowning simultaneously.

(For the faint of heart, we will skip the subsequent details of the births and turn our minds to the much more pleasant picture of rosy, chubby babies.)

The wicked witch, with two newborns in her arms (and all thought of transfer of bodily fluids put aside), cleaned and dried the new infants, and carried them (in the opposite direction — and this is significant), both bald, red-faced, wrinkled, and screaming (forget the rosy, chubby picture), to their unrespective mothers and only then attached the plastic bracelets to their wrists (the wrong wrists, you will understand).

Thus it was in stone.

(Those of you with kind intentions may still put down to fatigue her failure to attach those bracelets the second the babies were born. But what about the merry little twinkle in the nurse’s beautiful green eyes? — her sole beautiful feature. However, we will say nothing more of the wicked witch. For now.)

Margaret Miller gathered her infant to her breast and whispered, “Natasha,” and so the child was named.

(Yes, a good Russian name for the child — Mr. Gorbachev having made Russian ancestry a fine and exotic thing — although this particular thread to Russian ancestry was thin, and unspooled through many generations and across many continents before it came to rest in the determined fist of Margaret Miller. A boy would have been Dimitri.)

Anita Singleton, too, gathered her infant to her breast, and whispered, “We’ll talk it over with Daddy when we see him.”

(And where are these fathers? you may well ask. Robert Miller, a CEO for a major food distributor, who spent as much time on the road as possible, was on the road. Johnny Singleton was in the fathers’ lounge, having — wisely — opted out of attending the actual birth due to a propensity for fainting.)

We will skip about six months in our story now (Anita and Johnny having agreed to name their — except not really theirs — little girl Holly), to a scene in the supermarket, where Johnny, running errands for Anita, happened upon Margaret and Natasha.

“She’s very beautiful,” Johnny said, stopping to admire the admittedly beautiful child in her carry seat. “I have one at home just about the same age.”

(Exactly the same age, if truth be known. But truth wasn’t known, was it?)

He reached out his finger to wriggle it in front of her sweet little face, a gesture that brought much giggling from his own (though not his own) Holly. Fast as lightning, Natasha’s tiny fist reached up and grabbed his finger, a grip surprisingly powerful. Margaret stepped in quickly to remove her daughter’s fingers from the strange man’s hand. But little Natasha (with a determination that would follow her through her years — as we shall, to our sorrow, see) clung. As Margaret pried each tiny finger loose, it snapped back in place. Finally, it was Johnny who gently removed the baby’s fingers. Natasha howled.

(Apparently she knew something no one else did. Smart little thing, don’t you think?)

Margaret pulled a baby wipe from her bag. When they got home, she gave Natasha a bath. Another incident occurred. (Insignificant except to those of us who watch such things.)

The babies were now about eighteen months old; walking, jabbering, and climbing. The two mothers met, each with a stroller, walking in opposite directions down the street of their small town. They stopped to admire the other’s child, although each individually thought hers the most beautiful. (A natural thing for a mother to think.)

Except for the hair. Anita commented on Natasha’s beautiful dark curls (she would never have said a word to a soul, not even Johnny, but she secretly wished her Holly had dark curly hair like her own) while Margaret stared wistfully at Holly’s silken blond hair and ran her fingers through her own blond hair.

(Those black curls! Natasha’s recessive genes, Margaret thought, harkening back to those far, far distant Russian ancestors. Oh, well.)

And then those two little girls did an amazing thing. With strollers parked side by side, but facing in opposite directions, and the two mothers openly expressing admiration for the other child (And why not? For were they not admiring their own flesh and blood?), Holly and Natasha stepped up onto their seats and tried to climb, each into the stroller of the other.

(Apparently they knew something no one else did. Smart little things, don’t you think?)

Quickly the two mothers reseated their children and continued on their way, Margaret to Sleek and Chic, a high-end dress shop, and Anita to Only Organic. The children leaned out of their strollers and watched the other disappear down the street. And wept.

We will now fast forward to the present day. But no. I lie. A bit of background before we do that. Both girls did well in school (having been born of remarkably bright parents, the mix-up not withstanding, and having been given every advantage in the world) from nursery school through preschool, on to kindergarten, elementary school, high school, and eventually college. (All private institutions, you will understand.)

Not that there weren’t a few bumps along the way. Natasha’s parent conferences, beginning with nursery school, made reference to “born leader,” and “must learn to share,” a teacher’s covert way of saying “bossy” and “grabby.” That, someplace around third grade, changed to “leadership qualities, but must learn to lead in a positive way.”

(Those teachers! Why can’t they just come out and say, “The kid’s a major pain in the ass?” Of course, that wouldn’t be good for the self-esteem… of the parents. But I digress.)

And — lest I forget — the beauty pageants! Under Margaret’s watchful eye, Natasha walked, pivoted, bowed, curtsied, sang her songs, recited little poems, made tiny speeches, and continually won second place. Until an unfortunate accident that occurred when the first-place winner was in the bathroom. (Nasty sprain!)

Natasha slipped into the winner’s crown effortlessly. (Perhaps slipped is an unfortunate choice of words.)

Then there was the incident in sixth grade, when Natasha’s science project looked like it would probably come in second, and the terrible crash and destruction of the entry that probably would have taken first place. (Probably. We’ll never know for sure, will we?)

Glass and strange liquids all over the floor. An eleven-year-old boy in tears. Margaret Miller was the first on her knees to help clean up the mess. “Such a shame!” she said. “Such a shame!”

Or how about the time Natasha tried out for cheerleading queen and didn’t make it? But, Voila! a place opened up when Queen fell down a flight of stairs (Nasty break!) and the pins all moved over one place. So to speak.

College? Well, Natasha’s grades weren’t quite sufficient for college, but Grandpa (from that far-off line of Russians and not really her grandfather) intervened, and Voila! all over again. A new wing for the science building at the state university.

(I name no names of places or institutions in the interests of protecting the innocent. Of whom, there seem to be few. So far.)

Yes, the wheels for Natasha were greased, to use a tired but true phrase. That is, those she did not grease for herself.

(We have not mentioned the girls weeping into their pillows as Natasha snatched first one and then the next and the next in a seemingly never-ending line of boyfriends. It was the conquest that challenged her, not the prize — although the sex was good. They were useless when she dropped them. Several took Holy Orders.)

But what of Holly? If you’re thinking Snow White and Rose Red (as any lover of fairytales might well be thinking), you would be quite wrong. Little Holly was no angel and had many time-outs in nursery school, one trip to the principal’s office while in elementary school, and a two-day suspension in her sophomore year for smoking pot in the girls’ bathroom. While in high school she was moderately popular with other girls, quite popular with the boys — with her long, straight blond hair and brown eyes (What a combination! Rather like Margaret Miller’s coloring, would you say?) — and never lacking for a date if she wanted one. But she rarely wanted one. It took someone quite special to take her away from her family on a weekend. Besides, she was determined to get into a major university (again we must offer anonymity) and she spent her time studying. Time well spent. She was selected valedictorian of her class, the only black mark on her record the two-day suspension. (We can forgive that.)

Both girls went on to college: Natasha (having vowed never to marry, since her rapacious sexual appetite could not be satisfied by one man, determined to be a career woman. Besides, she found other women’s men much more interesting. Her mother knew nothing of this vow and would have brought up the issue of the Russian genetic line had she known.) taking a law degree and going immediately into the prosecutor’s office where she planned to intern only long enough to gather the experience she needed for trial law, and Holly earning a master’s degree in Early Childhood Education and planning to work until she had children of her own.

And that brings us almost up to date. However, we should also mention here that the girls never attended the same school, in fact, never met (nor would they meet that fateful afternoon that we have not yet visited) except for the brief incident in the strollers. Perhaps if they had come to know one another, the disaster that ensued might never have. Ensued.

(However, this is a fairytale, and a grim one at that, and one has little control over a fairytale.)

And now we come to the heart of this story, and why I call it a tale of our times. Because murder is of our times (and ages past — and ages to come) and so is DNA. (Not part of a fairytale, you say. Say on. I care not a jot for your criticisms. Besides, we must move with the times and craft our craft to that end.)

Shortly after finishing her master’s degree, Holly married a young man she met in her credentials program. Having pleased her parents for nearly twenty-seven years, she did not please them with her choice. (Not exactly the Prince Charming they had hoped for.)

“It’s hard to put a finger on it,” Anita said while discussing the upcoming nuptials with Johnny. “He’s just a bit, too…” but she left the sentence unfinished, having nothing with which to finish it.

“Yes,” agreed Johnny. “I find him rather…” And then silence fell from his mouth as well.

And so, Holly and Steven were married. It was a glorious affair: a beautiful and radiant bride, a rather bewildered mother (who had still not gathered the necessary words. Would it have changed the course of things if she had?), a tight-lipped father (because he had found the word, actually a number of words — WOMANIZER, LECH, and CAD among them; old-fashioned but you get the point — and feared they might escape his lips were he to open them. This information having been gathered the evening of the bachelor party, he tried with all his heart to put the groom-to-be’s behavior down to drunken lewdness and not a predatory nature. However, the incident with the stripper’s nipples was difficult to attribute to mere drunkenness. Still, he and Anita had reserved the country club and hired the best caterer. Huge nonrefundable deposits!), a well-behaved groom, a slightly tipsy mother-of-the-groom, a beautiful ceremony, and a lavish reception.

One must congratulate the parents of Holly Singleton, now Mrs. Steven McGuire. Once the wedding was a fait accompli, they resigned themselves and made every effort to welcome Steven as their son and beloved family member. Picnics, backyard barbeques, concerts, theater parties (a sizable down payment on a 3 bd. 2 ba.).

All the gracious and wonderful things of Holly’s growing up, the Singletons extended to their new son-in-law. Anita found words to finish her sentence: “He’s just so… one of our family now,” and Johnny shoved CAD and WOMANIZER to the back of his mind. (Not out of his mind, mind you, just to the back. Or perhaps I should say, toward the back.)

On the day in question (and that seems such an innocuous statement, “the day in question” when it was anything but innocuous!), the family was to gather at Holly and Steve’s new home on a Tuesday evening for a housewarming/three-month anniversary ceremony with BARBEQUE BY STEVE.

(And here our story takes on the horrors of the average fairytale. Think about it for a moment: kids fattened for eating; a witch shoved into an oven [how traumatizing must that have been on the kids in later years!]; parents deliberately abandoning children; little men demanding the first-born [are we talking pedophile here?]; a father who touches his daughter [Uh-oh!] and she turns into a lump of solid metal; a wolf slaughtered in front of a little girl. HELLO?! What is a little murder compared to that?)

Steve was to come home immediately after his teachers’ meeting, which usually ended by four o’clock (Steve at this point in his career was teaching third grade while working on his administrative credential), to begin the preparations for THE BARBEQUE. Holly was to stop by the store on her way home for a few deli salads and beer.

However, the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft a-gley (to quote old Bobby) and when Holly arrived home, she found that Steve was not a-gley (although Steve had aft been a-gley — or often been astray, for those of you who speak no Burns), he was dead.

This was the scene as Holly walked in: ribs marinating on the counter (a tofu burger for Anita, the vegetarian), a bottle of Merlot breathing on the counter, and Steve (not breathing) on the floor, their best Santoku knife protruding from his chest. There was blood everywhere; a large Waterford crystal vase that had been a wedding gift lay in shards. Holly screamed and sank to her knees, cradling Steve’s head against her breast, her tears diluting the blood that still seeped from his wounds. A sharp sliver of Waterford crystal cut her knee. She did not notice.

And this was the scene that greeted (well, greeted is hardly the right word, is it?) Anita and Johnny Singleton when they arrived shortly after Holly (but not in time to provide the alibi that Holly might eventually need — but I get ahead of myself here) bearing a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a batch of chocolate chunk cookies. Anita screamed and ran to Holly (Sauv Blanc and cookies all over the floor), gathering Holly and Steve in her arms. She, too, cut herself badly on the broken crystal: she, too, did not notice. Johnny fainted (never did get over that little propensity), cracking his head (a nasty cut that would require stitches) on the edge of the granite countertop before sliding to the floor himself.

It was Anita who groped for the phone on the counter and dialed 911.

The scene had changed little when the police and paramedics arrived. The police called immediately for a forensics team and the rest you have probably watched on C.S.I. (Yellow tape all around the 3 bd. 2ba.!)

Now this tale, which heretofore has not been complicated enough, becomes more complicated. The blood, you know. (We are pleased that the forensics team did notice and take a sample of the smear of blood they found on the front doorframe of the house.)

Holly quickly became a PERSON of INTEREST (it’s usually the spouse) but until the various bloods (and so much blood from so many people!) could be sorted and identified by DNA, she would remain just that: a PoI. Also, there was the crumpled note the coroner found in Steve’s pocket.

(MOTIVE!!!!)

Once again I must back up a bit in my story, as you may well wonder how it is that “Stevie” was already involved with a woman when he was just newly married. (A truly decent man would at least wait more than three months, don’t you think? But Steve was not a truly decent man.) Actually, he and “R” had been lovers for about a year. And she minded not a speck when he got married. (And he didn’t seem to mind a speck, either. Oh, Johnny, if only you had spoken the words you found!) In fact, that made him even more exciting to her. Their relationship began when she subpoenaed him about a brawl in a saloon to which he had been a witness. (Well, you’ve known all along who it was, haven’t you?) to appear in court, and the rest, as they say, is history. (The “R”? Russkie, of course. Making the most out of nothing.)

We go now to the office of the district attorney. Entering our tale, Lara Schuller, one of a number of assistant district attorneys in this particular office. (Again, I name no names of places in the interest of protecting the innocent, of which, you have by now figured, there is probably one — and she is still a “person of interest.”)

Literally, enter, as she taps on the door of the D.A. and is instructed to “Come in.” The D.A. is a large, extremely handsome black man someplace in his mid fifties. His voice, deep and rich, seems to come from the very core of his being. His name is Hugh Mosley, and he is used to his assistant D.A.s entering his office and saying, “Hugh-ston, we have a problem.” It happens almost every day. Today Lara says, “Hugh, we have a problem.” His head snaps up. He knows real trouble when he hears it.

“Sit down,” he says.

Lara is a tall, slender, attractive woman in her early forties. She has beautiful auburn hair cut in a no-nonsense boyish style that suits her features well. Her makeup is reserved, as is her mode of dressing. She loves the challenge of a trial and aspires to nothing higher than her present job; she absolutely loves the work she does. (Or did, until this case came up and the reports flowed in.)

Lara begins her story, most of which we already know. (And from here, dear lover of fairytales, there will be no happy ending. But you realized that, didn’t you? Just one sad assistant district attorney laying out the sad facts of a sad case.)

“The blood on the doorframe,” she tells Hugh Mosley, “appears to have gotten there by someone with blood on his or her clothes leaving the scene, given the direction of the blood swipe.” She pauses. “Hugh, we ran the DNA. It’s Natasha Miller’s blood.”

“What the hell! Natasha Miller works here!”

“Yep!”

“You sure it isn’t the victim’s?”

“Oh, there’s some of that mixed in, but apparently whoever killed Steve McGuire — and I’m thinking Natasha Miller was at least at the scene, given the DNA — got cut in the process, maybe by the murder weapon or by the glass vase that Steve tried to use as a defensive weapon. Anyway, there are two bloods on the doorframe: one is Steve’s; one is Natasha’s.”

“Shit!” (Not the language of fairytales, but we must go with the times.)

“Since she works here, she was in the system, so when we ran the DNA, Bingo! who pops up but our Natasha. Which means we have the blood of five people at the scene of the crime.” She enumerates on her fingers: “Steve, the victim. Holly, the victim’s wife. Holly’s mother, Holly’s father. And that of Natasha Miller.”

(She leans forward, her hands clasped in “Here’s the church, here’s the steeple.” The steeple points at D.A. Mosley.)

“What was Natasha doing at that house?”

“I think she was having an affair with him. God knows, she’s tried every man in this office.”

Hugh Mosley has the grace to blush, a charming coloration to his already dark skin. (We wonder just how far she got with that. Not very, if we know Hugh Mosley.)

“There was a note in his pocket from somebody named ‘R,’ which doesn’t make sense with Natasha, but maybe it was a pet name.

(Well, we know, don’t we? Stevie didn’t show up for his assignation with “R” after his “tedious faculty meeting” and she got mad. Hell hath no fury… There’s much to be said for old adages.)

“Hugh, it gets really heavy here,” she says.

“Oh, right! It’s not heavy with a member of the D.A.’s staff at the scene of the crime?”

(Mosley has a penchant for sarcasm. Probably his one fault.)

“Not compared to what I have to tell you. Judy at the lab ran the DNA for us and she came to me with this information. Holly — the vic’s wife — her DNA doesn’t match the DNA of her parents.”

“Adopted,” Hugh Mosley says, sounding happy to have solved at least this issue on the spot.

“That’s what I thought,” Lara says. “So I mentioned adoption or natural child to the parents when I was talking to them — naturally they weren’t exactly pleased to be talking to me since I’m supposed to be prosecuting their daughter — can’t really blame them — and the mother got all huffy and said, ‘She’s our natural child!’ So, I checked the stats on Holly and traced her birth to the hospital where she was born.” Lara sits back in her chair and folds her arms. “Hugh, there were two babies delivered in the same delivery room on the same night at exactly the same time. The hospital was undergoing some renovation and space was limited, so two women ended up in one delivery room. One of the women was Anita Singleton, Holly’s mother, and the other was a Margaret Miller, Natasha’s mother.”

“Oh, shit,” Hugh Mosley says again. “Are you going where I think you’re going with this?”

Lara nods. “The blood we identified as Natasha’s is an offspring match for the blood of Holly’s parents. Hugh, those babies were switched in the delivery room.”

“Oh, Christ! That will be a strong charge to make,” Hugh says.

“I know. The doctor’s dead, but I tracked down the nurse who was on duty that night. She’s long retired.” Lara takes a minute to look at her notes. “Her name is Ida Shimblebone. Jeez! What a witch! (DID I TELL YOU?!! DID I TELL YOU?!!) “She lives in this tiny furnished apartment. The landlord, who seems to spend all his time in the garden, says she’s been there for ages.”

“And she said?” Hugh asks. His head is in his hands.

“She was on me like white on rice,” Lara says. “Screaming, yelling. I had no right to accuse her — her record with the hospital was spotless — how dare I? I think she doth protest too much. She practically pushed me out of her apartment and slammed the door behind me. (And did a merry little dance around the sad little apartment. But only we know that.) We will probably have to subpoena her.”

“And you think the Millers are Holly’s biological parents?”

Lara nods.

“Do I want to know why you think that?”

Lara shakes her head.

“Didn’t think so. Anything we can use in court?”

Lara shakes her head again. (A lot of head action going on here, but with good reason. Lara struck up a casual, on purpose, conversation with Natasha — Natasha having no knowledge of the DNA report — and found out that Natasha’s parents, who aren’t really her parents, but we’ve known that for a long time — have a date night every Friday night — every Friday that Robert isn’t on the road, that is — with margaritas at Pablo’s Mexican Restaurant followed by dinner at George’s Steak House. “They’re so predictable,” Natasha had said. “Thank God,” Lara had said — to herself. It was a simple matter of an exchange of money and two replacement glasses and Lara had two used margarita glasses to take to the lab. None of this does Hugh Mosley need to know.)

“Is any of this relevant to our case? We can let Holly off the hook and proceed with a case against Natasha — God! I hate to think of someone from our office involved! Shit!” He slams his fist on the desktop. “Ouch. Damn!” He is quiet for a moment, shaking his hand, and then he asks, “Does anyone need to know about the switched babies? I mean, after all this time, is it really relevant? It doesn’t have anything to do with who murdered Steve McGuire. Right? Am I right? Tell me I’m right.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t have anything to do with the switched babies.” Lara clears her throat and then continues. “However, when these women see the other young woman, the one that is biologically their daughter, they are going to know something is seriously wrong.”

The D.A. is doodling on a scrap of paper, apparently totally intrigued with his efforts.

“Natasha is a dead ringer for Anita Singleton, Hugh, and Holly looks an awful lot like Margaret Miller. And I don’t know how you would be able to keep them apart, what with a trial and all.”

(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.

Natasha’s days are spent in the prison law library, drafting her appeal. Her parents, who are really not her parents, never visit. They have completely washed their hands of her — after all, she is not their child — and try to ingratiate themselves with Holly. (There is that thread of Russian ancestry to consider, and Margaret is reluctant to let go of it.)

Holly is not interested. The Singletons gather round Holly. (The 3bd. 2ba. having been sold to a very strange man with voyeuristic tendencies who finds the idea of faint bloodstains on the hardwood reason enough to throw cocktail parties.)

Holly has (wisely) determined herself unfit to work in the field of early childhood education, given her bouts of extreme depression (depressed because her husband is dead? Because he was two-timing her? Shock from finding him with the Santoku sticking out of his chest? Because the parents she has loved all her life are really not her parents? All of the above? I, personally, would suggest counseling.), and wanders aimlessly around the Singleton home, weeping intermittently, while Anita makes quantities of chicken-noodle soup (although she will eat none herself) which Holly sips to please her mother (who is really not her mother and now they both know it).

Anita sobs softly into her pillow at night, thinking of the beautiful, lonely (murderous) girl with the wild dark curls (so like her own. — The picture’s been in the paper often.) and tries to summon the strength to plan a visit to the prison. Johnny just pats her on the back and says, “Shush, shush.”

(As usual, Johnny can’t find the appropriate words. Surely by now he must realize that had he spoken up after the bachelor party, instead of worrying about his huge nonrefundable deposits, probably none of this would have happened. The catastrophe of mum.)

And Lara and Beauty? They are house-sitting at Lara’s parents’ home while her parents, Frank and Tatiana Ivanoff Schuller, are visiting Tatiana’s family in St. Petersburg, Russia.

(There is just a bit of delicious irony in this, don’t you think?)