Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

“Margo had an awful lot of money and I mean a lot, over three million dollars, but it’s not mine.”

“I had no idea. I knew she came into some when her father died,” Gaylen said, “but I didn’t think it was anywhere near that much.”

“I don’t like the idea of spending any of it. By rights it belongs to Jasmine. However, it seems I don’t have much choice, at least in the short run, until I can start earning my own. I can’t exactly go to my old bank and make a withdrawal. I can’t get my car either. That’s a bummer, I really liked that car.”

“What kind of car?”

“Mustang.”

“You have a Porsche now, you’ll get over the Mustang. If you live to enjoy it.”

“It’s just a matter of time before the killer gets caught,” Maggie said. “I got a good look at him. I’ll tell the cops what he looks like, maybe I’ll find him in those mug books you were talking about. Once they get him, it’ll be smooth sailing.”

“I hope you’re right.” Gay got up, went to the window and looked out. “Oh shit.” She stepped back from the window. “It’s your significant other. And he’s walking like he’s got a hockey puck up his ass.” She laughed, “But then again he always walks that way.”

“My what?”

“Greg something or other. He’s like a fiance, but he hasn’t given you a ring yet. Too cheap.”

There was a knock on the door.

“What’s he like?”

“A regular asshole, just as bad as your ex. Worse maybe. He’s a right wing gun nut, who thinks sex outside of marriage is evil and abortion is murder.”

“Swell.”

“You want me to get rid of him.”

“No, I’ll handle it,” Maggie whispered. “You better get out of sight.”

Another knock.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s better this way. I know what to do.”

“Okay.” Gay stepped into the hall, went into Jasmine’s room.

Maggie opened the door. “Come in, Greg.”

“What did you do to your hair?”

“I felt like a change.” She closed the door after he came in.

“I kind of like it,” he said.

“We need to talk.” She sat in one of the rattan chairs, motioned for him to take the other.

“Uh oh, I don’t like the sound of that.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“What?” He jumped out of the chair. “How could you? We’ve been saving ourselves for marriage. We’ve never-”

“It was a kid at school. It didn’t mean anything. I could get an abortion if you want.”

“That’s murder.” He said it with murder in his eyes.

I’m sorry.” Maggie couldn’t believe her luck, it was going to be easier than she thought.

His eyes turned to slits. “You tramp.”

“It was only one time.”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“We could get married right away,” she said. “No one has to know.”

“What, me raise someone else’s kid? Not even for all your money.”

“You don’t mean it. Think about what you’re saying. We’d have lots of time for more children. All our lives.” She was out of her chair now.

“You ignorant slut.” He raised a hand.

“Better not,” she said.

“I’m gone.” He dropped the hand, went out, slammed the door after himself.

“Are you alright?” Gay said, coming out of Jasmine’s room.

“Fine.”

“Boy, you sure know how to end a relationship.” Gay shook her head. “We could get married right away,” she imitated Maggie. “No one has to know.” She laughed.

“I don’t think he was a nice man,” Maggie said.

“Really?” Gaylen smiled.

“Seems clothes weren’t the only thing Margo had bad taste in.” Then, “You think he’s gone for good?”

“He won’t be back. You said the A word like you were actually thinking about it.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen enough of his kind to know that would set him off.” She rubbed her tummy, faced Gay. “Well like it or not, a woman’s got a right to choose. And I choose to keep this child.”

“Good for you,” Gay said. Then, “What child?”

Maggie told her.

Maggie got up at 4:30, started the coffee. She sighed as she waited for the machine to do its magic. It was still too much to believe, one day she was Maggie Nesbitt, pregnant with no hope, the next she was Margo Kenyon with an eight-year-old daughter and a future for her unborn baby.

She went to the cupboard, got a cup. Then she decided to check on Jasmine. Peeking in her room, she saw the girl was sleeping the sleep of the just, but she’d thrown her covers off during the night. Eight, what a perfect age. Maggie had a perfect life when she was eight. The only problem she had then was boys and how icky they were. She entered the room, pulled the covers up over the child.

A lump welled up in her throat. Maggie willed the tears away. Margo was gone, she was here. She was going to have to do the best she could for herself and Jasmine. The child moaned in her sleep. A dream maybe. Maggie wondered if she could ever tell her the truth about her mother, the truth about herself. If she did, would the child hate her? Could she do anything but? Maggie backed out of the room. She didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Back in the kitchen, the coffee maker buzzed and she poured herself a cup. Black and strong. After a hot sip, she went bedroom and started in on the papers in the nightstand. She found a broker’s number, a list of stocks, an owner’s manual and insurance papers for a Porsche 911 Cabriolet. Also insured were a pair of diamond earrings, a diamond pendant, a pearl necklace and a Rolex. And she found a birth certificate. Same DOB as on the license. Parents Gilbert and Debra Murrant. How could that be?

She found the watch, the diamonds and pearls in a jewelry box on the bureau. A diamond solitaire, about half a carat, an elegant pearl necklace. Diamond earrings, about a quarter carat. She took out the Rolex, put it on, a part of Margo. Then she closed the box, sat down on the bed, took a sip of the coffee, warm now.

Margo had a lot of money, but still dunned the ex for child support, lived in a small condo and was starting college. She had inexpensive rattan furniture, Hawaiian prints and ordinary flatware in the kitchen. True, she had some jewelry, but it was simple, not showy. There was the car, but who wouldn’t splurge on a new car if they’d suddenly come into money?

Maggie flipped through Margo’s checkbook and found no really extravagant expenses. For the most part Margo had been pretty frugal.

Coffee cold now, Maggie went to the kitchen to warm it up.

Next, she went to the breakfast table with a fist full of canceled checks and started practicing Margo’s signature. It wasn’t hard, a flowery M followed by a K and a kind of squirrelly slash which dipped for the Y in Kenyon. Obviously Margo had been left handed as she was. After an hour, Maggie was convinced the signature would pass even the closest scrutiny. She had it down perfectly. Probably because they were twins.

That taken care of, she went through Margo’s notes for her creative writing class. The handwriting was remarkably like hers, a little more flourish on the loopy letters, the Ls and Ts above the line and the Ps and Ys below it. Maggie tended not to loop as much above and she didn’t loop at all below.

Finished, she scooped up the evidence of her work and dumped it in the trash under the sink.

“Mom?” It was Jasmine.

“Here.”

“What are you doing?” Jasmine was wearing flannel pajamas, white with pink and yellow flowers.

“Just sitting here thinking.” Maggie wanted to hug her, but would Margo have done that? She resisted the urge.

Jazz opened the refrigerator, pulled out the milk. She opened the carton, sniffed and made a face. “Yuck, sour. No Tony the Tiger today.”