Miss Marple's Novels & Stories

MARRIED TO MR RIGHT(MMR) * * * #01 "There all done" The makeup artist Brian had told to make me up said to me. I felt the tears coming out from the corner of my eyes. "don't you want to see how it looks?" she asked again but this time placing the mirror in front of me. I took it from her and threw it on the floor making it smash into a million pieces. My life is being ruined and I can't seem to do anything about it. I can't believe I'm getting married to this arrogant bastard.

Surprisingly, my soul floated midair. I didn't disappear right away. I watched Healer Petra Holmes gasp the moment the scalpel dove into my skin, and only one kidney was found. "Why does she only have one kidney?" she boomed. "This is ridiculous! How could they make her donate her kidney when she only has one? This is murder!" Just then, her assistant panicked and yelled, "Healer Petra, the patient's stopped breathing. What's going on?"

And her grandfather had once told her: “Stay out of the woods, Clara. Your blood remembers what your mind has forgotten.” Now, she sat at a library microfilm station, staring at a name scrawled in old patient records: Patient #1223 — Marla Moss. Her great-aunt. Diagnosed: Dissociative psychosis. Referred by: Dr. Halloway. Last seen: WildWood Grounds, 1946. Missing. Never found. Clara swallowed the scream rising in her throat.

I adjusted my grey pantsuit; I was definitely dressed to kill; I even let my hair down to frame my oval-shaped face beautifully. Confidently, I entered the building and smiled at the receptionist, but she had an angry scowl. She looked awfully familiar, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember her. “Good morning, I'm River Harper. I have an interview for 10 am, which is a few minutes from now.” The nasty woman rolled her eyes and muttered,” Of course.”

"Already done." Walsh looked at Mara. "Show us everything, in the order you remember it." Mara looked at the bed frame, dressing table, bookshelves, chair, window, and the plant on the sill, still growing. "Yes. From the beginning." It took four hours. Mara moved through the room methodically. A second loose panel in the wardrobe held a folded photograph, not of Lily but of the Danish clinic's exterior, with a date written on the back three years before Lily was born, showing the clinic operational before it claimed to have closed.

He adjusted the cuffs of his charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled once, and stepped inside. Mara sat on the edge of the exam table, legs crossed at the ankle, wearing a simple black sweater and dark jeans. No makeup. Her dark hair was twisted up loosely, strands escaping to frame a face that looked like it had been carved by someone who understood both fatigue and quiet strength. Her hazel eyes, flecked with green, met his without deference or flirtation. "Dr. Tom," she said. Her voice was low, slightly rough, like she'd been holding tension for too long. "Thank you for seeing me so late."

Adrian glanced at the doorway where Stephanie had disappeared. "No…let her. At least someone in this room is getting what they want." Seraphina almost smiled…almost. The detective finally appeared. A tired-looking woman most likely in her forties with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense expression. DETECTIVE MARQUEZ. She'd been assigned to the case after Adrian made several very loud, very angry, very expensive phone calls. "Mr. Vale. Ms. Cole." She sat down across from them, a thick file folder in her hands. "I have the results from the fingerprint analysis and the background check."

she jabbed a finger toward the darkened screen, “is my company. My people. My blood on those charts you were dissecting like corpses.” A junior analyst dropped his pen. It clattered across the polished mahogany and rolled off the edge, the sound absurdly loud. Someone else shifted uncomfortably, the leather creaking. Mara turned to face the entire room, chin lifted, shoulders squared beneath her tailored black blazer. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly, not a strand out of place, yet she looked like she had just walked off a battlefield.

Like the performance took something vital with it and left us hollowed out, echoing. I find myself walking toward the kitchen instead, drawn by instinct I don’t want to examine. Mara sits at the island counter, still in her interview outfit minus the jewelry she’d been wearing. A wine bottle stands open beside her elbow—my Bordeaux, the 2009 I’d been saving. No glass. She’s drinking straight from it while methodically working through a bar of expensive dark chocolate, breaking off precise squares and letting them melt on her tongue. Her shoulders are rigid, spine straight even in solitude.

He stumbles once, catches himself on a child’s chair, and looks sick when the chair tips over. Mara rights it before we move on. No one comments. The maintenance cupboard is waist-high and painted with smiling fish. Three of the fish have missing eyes. A fourth has been scratched open around the mouth. Sarah wedges the muzzle of her pistol under the latch. “Don’t shoot it,” Mara whispers. “I wasn’t going to shoot a fish cupboard.” “There are pressure threads.” Sarah stops. A beat passes. “I hate this place.” Mara reaches past her, presses the fish in the wrong order, and the cupboard clicks open.