Alysse Aallyn

Blog

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    I had to ask

    The ultimate question.

    “Did he kill the real Franny?”

    Were we a survivor chain of

    The lot, the disconnected, the

    Threatened?

    Her eyes slid back and forth

    As she repeated her question;

    “Did anyone follow you?”

    I wasn’t aware of anyone

    But in our day and age

    Of advanced surveillance

    Was it possible to reassure?

    “No. No hiding stalkers

    On your tiny island.”

    It worked.

    For the first time she relaxed

    And smiled. But still she

    Whispered as if we could be

    Overheard.

    “I’m sorry for putting you 

    In that position but I knew

    You wouldn’t let him hurt you.

    You were always different

    Born yourself –

    I’m not myself yet but

    I’m trying to be.”

    She began to swing us

    Her thin legs in white gauze reached out

    Pumping us higher.

    “You didn’t answer my question”

    I insisted, “The real Franny

    Is dead. Who killed her?”

     “Verne killed them,” she confided.

    As our swing vaulted heavenwards.

    “My friends were

    “Hiding me from Verne but

    “I still had to work. He stalked me – he

    Broke in – stabbed Franny and Jane.”

    “But missed you?” I prompted. ”Because

    You were in the broom closet?”

    “No,” she said, “He found me

    Covered me with their blood – said

    I was the cause of

    Everything, I was the one who

     Made  it happen.

    He threatened to kill me too

    But slowly. I knew he planned

    To torture me to death.

     I could never get away.”

    “Why not tell the police?”

    Her eyes were so big, pale blue shading

    Into gray – same color as the ocean.

    “They’d lock me up –

    He knows too much about me.

    I tried everything I could think

    To get away but nothing worked

    Till this.” She held my hand

    Me – feeling like the 

    Older sister.

    “Remember the fable I used to

    Read to you – the dog that dropped the bone

    Because he saw a second one?

    That’s my gambit –

    I felt sure that you would recognize.”

    She held my wrists enlaced in

     Skinny fingers.

    “Verne was always telling me

    I was ruined, that I’d spoiled myself

    And destroyed our future.

      I convinced him you were me

    Unscarred – the way I was

    Before he met me –

    Better than I ever was – me without

    The things he hated.”

     I recoiled, disgusted, trying not

    To show it. That bastard! Hating

    Her feeble resistance.

    She smiled the old one-sided smile.

    “I was right too. You were too smart

    To fall for him. 

    “You were born so confident! 

    So good in school! Your brain

    Seemed always working right –

    Reading my schoolbooks

    Helping ME to do my homework!”

    It was funny, listening

    To this different recollection

    Of our years together, so distinct

    From my modest memories. 

    At the very moment I was

    Iconizing her, she was

    Idealizing me.

    The swing slowed. My sister

    Looked away – that far off glance

    That was the skill she’d mastered –

    Disassociation –

    Floating above the rest of us –

    In her inner world of safety.

    I heard my voice –

    “But I’m so plain.”

    “You’re wrong about that, –

    More beautiful than I ever was –

    I think I’ve learned what real beauty is –

    It’s wildness – untamed – and

    Those who want to capture it

    Are killing their desire.”

    My sister, the guru 

    Clutched at me again – fearful

    She could lose me as I’d lost

    Her. She knew the world

    Was full of melting women

    Simulacra who seem

    To be but aren’t –

    Shadow people enlisted

    Replacing those who

    Never came to be.

    I recoiled in horror at 

    The degradation

    So closely missed.

    “And then you found me,”

    She breathed, scaring me

    With confidence in my miracles. 

    “This island’s pictures

    Were the only ones I ever sent 

    To you; I thought 

    That you’d remember.”

    “I almost didn’t! 

    Answer one for me. Did you steal

    Diamonds from Kruptupian?”

    “His broker was cheating him.

    When I gave him the evidence, 

    He sold my ring

    Giving me the cash to get away

    Without informing.

    I’ve been taking yoga teacher training.

    I’m going to give Franny Vallea the 

    Flourishing life she

    Din’t have, without

     Family, without chances.

    All she ever wanted was enough money

    To be safe, to have peace, quiet

    And a lock on the door.”

     “Mirabel, you must let me 

    Tell Mom and Dad. They don’t

    Deserve this silence.”

    She turned mulish. Resistant.

    More stubborn than I’d ever be.

    “Mirabel is dead. It’s better for everyone.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Quite a trudge – hundreds of steps –

    And I was alone. Maybe these

    Holiday-makers were all just too old.

    But with every step

    I felt increasing peace –

    Then came a sign:

    “SSSSHHH! MEDITATION IN SESSION!”

    Tamed my labored breathing –

    Climbed the last few steps

    Silently. One teacher – a very old man –

    In perfect lotus position –

    Eyes closed –

    Orchestrated six students – 

    Their backs to me –

    All wearing white.

    Like a cult?

    I studied them thoughtfully.

    No hair like Mirabel’s –

    A couple of blondes and one boy  –

    Very close-cropped, maybe chemo?

    My gaze increasingly

    Fixed on him;  felt

    I must be hallucinating.

    Weren’t those Mirabel’s ears?

    The hair just coming in

    Was silvery – the tiny ear studs –

    Silver, not diamonds.

    I inched my way around – one student

    Opened her eyes – gave me

    The harsh look my inquisitiveness

    Warranted. But I persisted – the skinny

    Silent student lost in meditation

    Was my sister!  No other jewelry, no makeup, 

    Just cheap gauze clothing, dirty bony bare feet

    And that scarred lip.

    Looks like the joke was on Mirabel –

    Bald, at her thinnest – that

    Magnified her true self so

    Hugely no one –

    No one who loved her –

    Could ever mistake her.

    Tears sprang to my eyes. I closed them and

    Backed against the stone white-washed wall

    Trying to mentally connect with her.

    What was she thinking

    Right at this minute?

    Maybe nothing.

    I’d meditated – a couple of times and

    Found it annoying. I like my own brain

    And don’t want to escape it.

    I launched an experiment – she forced me

    To come all this way to find her –

    Now I will make her

    Feel my presence. That project quenched 

    My tears as anger always does;

    Focused everything I had

     On her. She was strong;

    I’ll say that for her

    It took a long time to reach her:

    Deep in her dream place –

    Mouth slightly open – 

    One tiny tear sliding down from her eye.

    That’s when I touched her!  I could feel it. 

    She stirred.

    Eyes opened. My sister Mirabel took a

    Long, long look into me.

    Chapter 19 – Killer Signature

    “Mirabel?”

    I mouthed her name. She ducked her head,

    Bowed deeply forward, then rose

    To her feet. A ripple ran through

    The group and the leader opened one eye

    In displeasure.

    My sister grabbed my arm

    And began dragging me downstairs.

    “My name here is Franny.” 

    She whispered.

    Franny? That name set up echoes.

    Had she stolen a murder victim’s

    Identity?

    I refused to unleash her;

    Knew she was meditating for a

    Superpower of

    Invisibility;

    Miraging at will.

    At the base of the lighthouse steps 

    We burst out; 

    Into the strong sunlight.

     “I thought you were dead,”

    I gasped. “You left me with HIM!”

    She pulled me into a swing

    Beneath a shady awning

    Two sisters swinging

    Side by side –

    Both of them crying.

     “I’m so glad you found me,”

    She said, “Did they follow you?”

     “How could you leave me

    With HIM,” I raged at her.

     “I knew you could handle him,”

    She insisted with equal ferocity,

    “You’d never fall

    For any of his tricks.

    And wasn’t I right?

    Look, here you are.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 18 – Dream Island

    Isla Ensueno is a resort –

    Luckily Derek’s air miles included the

    Pink stucco hotel.

    “No one by that name,” the desk clerk told me so 

    Patiently. What kind of avatar name would 

    Mirabel choose?  He wouldn’t stand for

    Guessing so I tried describing her –

    But the clerk shook his head.

    Well, I couldn’t leave until tomorrow

    Might as well check in and prowl.

    It’s a very small island.

    My thoughts were uncomfortable –

    That oh-so familiar feeling –

    Dinned into me by every adult I’ve ever met

    That I’m probably doing

     Everything wrong.

    My “great idea” seemed feeble now

    Typical teen impulsiveness.

    This wasn’t far enough away – Florida!

    How could Mirabel feel safe here?

    Smart money said she’d flee

    Ocean-wards – the Maldives or Malta or 

    Some such place – with a whole new

    Passport and some new man in tow

    Whose identity she could hide behind.

    That’s if she wanted to create

    A new persona. But what if –

    This is what I gambled on –

    She wanted instead to uncover 

    The old persona – the person

    Who had always been there?

    It was the only explanation

    For involving me –

    Other than simply feeding me

    To her monster.

    I had one single chance –

    And possibly I’d blown it.

    Dream Island was authentically gorgeous –

     Mirabel hadn’t lied 

     But in the eight years since

    Her photo shoot hadn’t its splendor 

    Diminished, wasn’t it becoming

    Just the tiniest bit shabby? 

    Some people – myself for example

    Like things whose edge has been

    Taken off.  As I circumnavigated 

    The island’s walking trail 

    A certain peace overtook me

    That could have been

    Maturity.

    Was this what it felt like

    Having nothing left to prove?

    If you can enjoy the moment –

    Filling yourself with it and

    It with yourself –

    Then you’ve arrived.

    Questions bubbled. 

    What do you do

    When your game has gone horribly wrong?

    You start over.

    Even if my guess was off

    There was still that intriguing 

    Probability: what if Mirabel evolved

    Until her only desire was having a self

    Worthy of presentation to the magnificent

    Universe this island represented?

    Even at fourteen I understood nostalgia –

    Viewing the confident know-it-all 

    My eleven-year-old incarnation 

    With the purest envy.

    What if Mirabel re-set the game – 

    Made different choices

    Stopped pleasing others by

    Contorting her body into

    Simulacra and challenged the world

    To accept her real being?

    The younger self I knew – hopeful – 

    Gorgeous – naïve, impatient –

    Wasn’t in the Maldives!

    As I walked I systematically

    Searched every nook;

    Old trees shading the privacy of

    Lovers: I broke into – peering under

    Awnings, stared right through

    Sunglasses: but Mirabel 

    Wasn’t there.

    The trail wound around a sand beach cove 

    And right up to the lighthouse; 

    I was unprepared; requiring

     Binoculars, sunscreen and a

    Really big hat;

    Sea breezes made me shiver

    In just cami and jeans – 

    Something put me 

    In the mood to climb the lighthouse.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 17 – Grievous Bodily Harm

    Verne’s voice: cruel, whispering,

    Insistent, filling up

    An answering machine with abortive calls

    Never answered. “Mirabel?

    Don’t think you’ll escape me.

    You’ve begun a game

    You can’t win”

    My teeth began to chatter.

    Derek’s eyes bugged.

    It went on and on – filled the cassette –

    Verne threatening that he’d find her and

    The longer she made him wait

    The sorrier he’d make her.

    Did she want her family

    MUDERED?

    Did she want her friends

    MURDERED?

    Because he had nothing left to lose.

    Sometimes he attempted different ploys;

    He loved her –

    They were made for each other –

    She knew that

    It had never been good with

    Anyone but her.

    Didn’t she want to be Lady Verne?

    Wasn’t every bad thing

    That had ever happened to either of them

    All her fault?

    She owed him.

    He’d would find her

    Wherever she was hiding,

    He could smell her out.

    He knew her friends were lying and

    One of them would succumb – eventually.

    “Call me, Mirabel.

    You better call me.”

    Derek and I looked at each other

    Pale as ghosts. 

    “He did it,” said Derek, finally.

    “He must have.  He

    Has everything – motive, means

    Most of all, he has the 

    Personality – the – what do they call it?

    The killer signature.

    Even a past record for

    ‘Grievous bodily harm’.”

    “Don’t jump to conclusions,”

    I defended weakly, not wanting to have

    Roomed with a killer. Not wanting my sister to have

    Thrown me at a murderer.

    Derek scoffed.

    “We’ve got to take this to the police.”

    Derek was supposedly the expert –

    But even I could see the holes.

    “It isn’t proof of anything,”

    I argued. 

    “So he threatened an ex-girlfriend!

    Do you know how many guys do that?”

    “No,” said Derek. “Do YOU?”

    “Yes,” I spluttered. “I read Teen Vogue.

    It happens all the freakin’ time.”

    “Well,” said Derek, red-faced,

    “You caught me. I’m embarrassed

    For my gender.”

    God, he was adorable.

    I made my case,

    “If the police came calling

    Would be to search for Mirabel HARDER.”

    “OH, GOD,” sighed Derek,

    “I gave him the name of my dad’s P.I.! I’ve got to

    Call him!” I sprang back so fast

    Derek’s phone clattered to the ground

    Between us. “Don’t call Verne!”

    “I’m not calling Verne!

    I’m callin the P.I.! Hello, Angie? This

    Is Derek Lowther. Can I speak to Ed?

    It’s an emergency.

    O.K., I guess I can tell you,”

    He grumbled. “I gave Ed’s name

    To somebody I just met

    Who’s looking for his missing girl. But then I found out

    He’s a dangerous kind of guy.

    Oh, he doesn’t?  Well, what if he asks

    For a referral? OK. 

    He hasn’t called? Well, thanks.

    I’m better.”

    Disconnected.

    “She says he never takes cases like that

    And would only recommend

    Police. She says –“

    He gulped – “Most people –

    Searching for a past lover –

    Have nothing good in mind.”

    And I had been helping him!

    But what else could I do when

    Mirabel dumped me, too.

    I leafed slowly through Mirabel’s

    Portfolio.

    There was a picture that I recognized –

    Mirabel sent it to the family –

    Bikini’d Mirabel on a sun-beaten

    Grey-weathered viewing deck

    Posing beneath an osprey nest.

    “She talked about this place,”

    I recalled. “She called it Dream Island.

    She said she wished

    She could just live there forever.”

    I grabbed Derek by the arm.

    “I know where that is,”

    Eureka. Hard to explain

    Those moments of insight

    Where everything just comes together.

    “She’d be stupid to return

    To any place she’d ever been.”

    There’s Derek, arguing for the sake of

    Arguing. “The smart thing

    Is to light out for somewhere you’ve never

    Been before.” I batted that one

    Off easily.  “Then what’s the point? If you’ve

    Been miserable, what you want is 

    Guaranteed happiness.”

    “Unless you’re shallow,” said Derek.

    “Then you need guaranteed variety.

    Guaranteed newness.”

    What an awful thing to say.

    The question was, is Mirabel that bad?

    I refused to believe it.

    “She’s my sister,” I one-upped,

    “I hope I know her better than you.”

    He could have told me

    I didn’t know her at all

    And been right, but he backed down

    Immediately. Maybe he saw

    In my face the high stakes I felt in

    Rescuing the sister who made me

    Happy face pancakes all those years ago.

    “It’s like a password hack.”

    Now he argued for my side,

    Bless him. “Depends how well 

    You know the person.”

    My phone rang. I jumped a mile.

    “Oh, Jeez, it’s Verne!

    What should I tell him?”

    “Don’t pick up! We better get

    Our stories straight.”

    But I picked up. Bravest thing

    I ever did. “Oh, hi, Verne

    Did you find something?

    Well, Derek’s talking to a neighbor

    Who used to be a cop. 

    Sure – when we find something –

    Ok. Catch you later.”

    Derek stared at me awestruck.

    “That was incredible! Have you studied acting?”

    “Hell no,” I told him

    “I’ve studied LYING. Can’t get through

    Teenage life without it.”

    Most lies are cover-ups where your quarry

    Is already suspicious. That never works.

    Smart lies strikes first –

    Bold, believable

    (Because part of it is truth)

    And straight out of nowhere.

    “What were you thinking? Maybe you

    Spooked him?’

    “I was hoping to spook him. I wanted a way

    To hint what we learned from your PI’s

    Receptionist.  I mean,

    WE NEED TO STOP HELPING HIM.”

    “But what good is that?” Derek argued,

    “If he finds Mirabel first?”

    “He won’t,” I said.  “I know where to go

    And I don’t want him following me.”

    Do you have a spare phone?”

    “Sure,” said Derek,

    “Brand new trac phone in my dad’s office

    Still in the packaging. And

    Plenty of air miles burning holes in my pocket.

    Do you need a passport?”

    “It’s only Florida. Isla Ensueno.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    We examined the boxes content.

     “Let’s separate in two piles,” Derek proposed;

    “Hopeless and intriguing.”

    But which was which?

    Everything seemed hopeless: ridiculous clothes,

    Shoes with broken heels, endless piles of

    old magazines.  Souvenir of

    Great Britain? – a Union Jack sleepshirt.

    Cosmetics and grubby makeup kits,

    Hairbrushes, scrunchies,

    An ancient red plastic boombox,

    Terrible Advice Books 

    (“The Power of You”)

    costume jewelry of improbable value –

    Even her jewelry box I recalled

    From childhood days.

    All just junk Dominica could

    Have thrown away!

    Why wasn’t Mirabel more literate?

    Dyslexia?  Hadn’t that word

    Been bruited undefined 

    To the insatiable ears of

    An eight-year-old –

    I heard parents always looking for

    Excuses. I thought about what I would 

    Have left – same thing Derek might –

    Notebooks of scribblings

    Journals and diaries –

    “Notes to self” – cherished cards

    Day planners and calendars?

    The only exciting thing: a professional portfolio

    Stamped MONFORT COLLEGE OF MODELING.

    I opened the portfolio, scared and thrilled

    Here’s the Mirabel I would recognize.

    But all the photos seemed outdated –

    Shlocky, overly made-up and

    Inhumanly posed.

    This girl should demand

    Her money back.

    But maybe there was no “money” –

    Goblin gold melts away when you reach for it.

    What is a “model” after all but 

    A blank screen embracing

     Frenzied searchers for the 

    “Other.” Well, she’d been

    “Othered” here –

    One particularly traumatic

    Mirabel in whiteface

    With the cruel thorn-like silver

    Piercings through her lip – 

    Rendered speechless –

    Her life a cage around her

    Nude starved body. 

    Derek saw my reaction and put his arms

    Around me.

    “Well, that settles it,” I said,

    “That was really Mirabel. I saw that lip.”

    To suggest anything else –

    That there could be 

    Cadres of desperate girls

    Scarred and marked and rendered mute

    Thrown away into the dumpster? 

    No wonder

    Mirabel declared the fashion world 

    “Shit!” One precious picture 

    Evoked the “Murble” I remembered –

    Filled my eyes with tears –

    There she was

    Pony-tailed Mirabel in Daisy Dukes,

    Washing the side of a fake car.

    Youthful, hopeful, tender, memories came surging up –

    Mirabel filling the kiddie pool so I could play,

    Decorating my pancakes with Picasso faces,

    Gelling my hair into crazy shapes.

    If you ran these pictures backwards

    They recorded tragedy:  the slow dawn

    Of knowledge as she realized she was in

    Bad hands; turns out beauty 

    Isn’t enough. Answering the question;

    It had been my real sister who

    Threw me at Lord Verne so that she could 

    Get away. Derek dropped the fake nipple 

    He’d been studying. 

    “I’m sorry. I didn’t know 

    She was that kind of model.” 

    I blazed at him: “Everyone’s that kind!

    It’s a job!” Derek spluttered.

    “The human body’s beautiful.”

    I cornered him:

     “Will you get naked so I can inspect you?”

    His face reddened.  Suddenly he

    Was fifteen years old. “Not unless you do too.”

    “I won’t. You’d have to be the only

    Nude person in the room.”

    He huffed, and puffed, “Point taken.”

    And to his everlasting credit

    Hugged me again, but tenderly.

    No further explanations required.

     “Sorry,” I mumbled.

    “Don’t apologize,” he said.

    “It’s all horrible.”

    Bad moment over.

    “Hey, look at this.”

    He’d clicked open the boombox.

    “There’s a home-made cassette.”

    It was an answering machine cassette.

    I recognized it – Dad still used that kind.

    It explained the ancient boombox.

    “Let’s press play.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 16 – The Escort Murders

    “I remember those murders now” says Derek

    As the taxi struggled against downtown traffic.

    “The Escort Murders!  It was talk of the news for months

    Year before last. “

    I’d never heard of it.

    Escorts! Was Mirabel an “escort” or

    Only a “friend?” “Escort” did have a

    “Porn scout” feel. Did I really want to know

    About Mirabel’s life if

    This is what I found?

    Disquiet shading to

    Repugnance. “I remember

    Nothing about any survivor,”

    Derek went on, completely

    Oblivious to my mood.

    He wasn’t perfect. Or maybe he was –

    Too “perfect” ever to worry about

    Mirabel selling herself. I pushed:

    “”But they arrested someone?

    Someone confessed?”

    “Yes. Some sixteen year old kid 

    From that same building

    Said he crawled in the window like

    Spiderman. They gave him a plea deal and

     They never went to trial because

    Experts say that it’s impossible. He must

     Be bragging.”

    “Who’d confess to a crime

    They didn’t commit?” I asked

    But hollowly, because I already knew

    The answer. Haven’t you ever

    Heard word come out of your mouth

    That amaze you – words

    You deliberately feed the thirsty person

    Standing at your side?

    We toted the boxes

    Up to his chicly forlorn eyrie,

    But he couldn’t let it go.

    On his laptop he summoned 

    Sheaves of bloody newsprint.

    I reeled – nonconversant, I admit, with

    CAPITALIZED TABLOID MURDER.

    I avoid true crime, finding that

    Getting through high school is grisly enough.

    “Crime’s an acquired taste,” admitted Derek.

    “I advise you not to acquire it.

    You can’t unsee some things.”

    Truly helpful and caring or

    Stuffy and condescending?

    I regarded him with freshened

    Disapproval. 

    “Didn’t I invite you on this case?” I chastised.

    “This is my sister’s case.”

    He was suitably repentant.

    “Mysteries without murder are a parlor game,”

    He defended, “But when they bring out the knives

    Everyone’s at risk.”

    Too true. I shivered. Couldn’t feel safe

    Until both me and the boxes 

    Were quadruple-locked behind Derek’s guarded,

    Security-cammed, barricaded front door.

    I made him show me that the only other entry

    Into the apartment (in the kitchen) was

    Barred & sealed.

    I studied the news reports. They didn’t mention

    Mirabel or her broom closet.

    Could it be an urban myth?

    “Do you think Mirabel was really there?”

    I whispered as if we weren’t

    Alone. “But what could she hear

    Locked in the broom closet?”

    “Screams?” suggested Derek.

    “Maybe a name? If they 

    Knew who attacked them?”

    I posed the ultimate puzzle.

    “But why take a year and a half to run away?”

    “If the killer didn’t know she knew –“

    That sent a stab right through me.

    I didn’t want to play this game

    It struck too close to home. It was

    The first good reason I’d heard since my arrival

    For Mirabel dropping out without a word.

    “The alternative theory –“

    Then he stopped. Too late.

    From his expression

    I knew what he was thinking.

    “They got her,” I said as cold as

    I could muster. “Ugh. I hope not.”

    “So now we have another mystery to solve,” 

    Said Derek. “This one 

    With knives. Find the killer – and maybe

    Find Mirabel. Or give her reason

    To come home.”

    Both of us turned to stare 

    At the dusty boxes just brought in.

    I tried not to elevate my hopes.

    Derek was thinking the same thought.

     “What can be valuable if she abandoned them?”

    But I had the answer.

    “She couldn’t return – if

    The place was crawling with police.”

    Derek was comfortable

    Playing devil’s advocate.

    “What if the real Mirabel WAS killed that night?

    And the person you met was an impostor?”

    “Verne would have to be in on it,” I spoke

    Before I thought;

    Antithesis was obvious. 

    “He could have done it. That gives him motive

    For proving Mirabel’s alive.”

    We both needed cups and cups

    Of good hot sugared tea –

    Orange, cardamom

     And cinnamon.

    “If we’re listing suspects,” Derek braved.

    “Maybe we need a murder board.”

    A murder board?

    Didn’t he move too fast for me?

    I struggled with my memory of Mirabel’s eyes –

    Pleading underneath her teasing.

    “I think that was really Mirabel.”

    “Oh well, there’s always confirmation bias.”

    Derek sipped. “People hating to admit they’re wrong.”

    Obnoxious know-it-all!

    I felt the pressure to one-up him.

    “We’re forgetting something,” I suggested.

    “Mirabel could have done the murders herself.”

    I’d shocked him. I was appalled

    By my hypothesis but proud of its result.

    He was silenced.

    “Still, kill her own roommates?” I queried.

    “What could be her motive?” 

    “These are roommates we’re talking about!”

    Derek knew about roommates; he’d been

    To boarding school.

    “They made her stay in the broom closet!

    Who needs a reason?”

    Derek plays to win.

    “They were helping her by hiding her, so

    Occam’s razor says

    Whatever she was hiding from

    Came and got her.” 

    I tried envisioning Kruptupian and

    His minions. Derek sighed.

     “What if it was your sister,” I started

    To demand, then recalled how

    Annoying Sierra could be.

    He followed my thought and burst out laughing.

    Proved his devotion to the game. “It’s hard

    Physical labor knifing someone.”

    “TWO PEOPLE,” I corrected.

    Perhaps that meant two killers.

    We spread the boxes out on newspaper.

    My hopes WERE high.

    Whoever it was I’d seen last Friday

    Already a life-time ago – now

    The real Mirabel was ready to 

    Jump out at me.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Was Mirabel just about breaking rules? Or

    Breaking herself against them?

    “Different people have different sets of rules,”

    I suggested.  “She was looking for a different world.”

    “Still looking,” suggested Derek.

    “Probably for a world where 

    You don’t have to lie all the time.

    “She lied to your parents and -”

    “She lied to me and she lied to Verne.

    She said bridegrooms 

    Get in the way.”

    “Wow. And you were with her

    So briefly!”

     “Maybe we’re all impostors,” I suggested,

    “Until we find out who we really are.”

    “Trying to get “it” right without knowing what “it” is.”

    I could really talk to this guy!

    What a relief.

    He googled. “Impostor syndrome.”

    We played dueling phones.

    “No,” I corrected. “I substitute 

    Capgras delusion.

    Thinking everyone’s a fraud.”

    “Neva vu, I call it. When the familiar suddenly

    Seems so unfamiliar.

    What’s that phrase?

    Fake it till you make it?

    Doesn’t that make everyone a fraud?”

     “Adults think kids are easy to fool.”

    “Some teens believe anybody,”

    Derek agreed. “Look at the stuff they post!

    Not me. I’m always ready

    For the universe to turn

    Upside down and inside out.”

    I considered it.

    Maybe I was too. “It makes life more

    Interesting. Trying to see through

    Reality to the reality beneath.”

     “They’re lucky you’re not a snarky Goth.”

    Relaxing guy!

    “Who says I’m not a snarky Goth?”

    Now we both laughed.

    I gave him the Brooklyn address –

    No luck there – far away from traffic cams.

    Spa camera was on the fritz.

    “We need people who knew her when,”

    Derek suggested. Providing an

    Interesting hour

    Of online search.

      Mirabel’s most recent address 

    Was an apartment

    Building on the Upper East Side. 

    We looked at each other.

    “Well, it’s something,”  I said.

    And Derek said,

    “Wanna go see?”

    Chapter 15 – Stage Set

     “Are you here about the rental?”

    One eye peered out at us across a solid-looking

    Door-chain. My voice was raw from unsuccessfully 

    interviewing all the other tenants about Mirabel 

    So Derek swept into the breach.

    “Didn’t Mirabel Marshott live here?”

    The eye rolled, then closed.

    “Who wants to know?”

    “I’m her sister,” I said, but

     Helplessly.

    Just another bust I assumed – yet possibly 

    My breaking voice produced

    Some good; next sound a gasp followed by 

    Unlocking. “You’re the answer to a prayer,” 

    She said. Crazy! “Come in. Hurry.” 

    Reached out an arm to yank us inside.

    We were in a tiny 20th floor apartment

    on the Upper East Side –

    I’m telling you, SMALL – entirely empty. There was

    A highly-polished floor and a fantastic view 

    Of other people’s balconies and terraces.

    “Her stuff’s in the storage bin,” said the girl.

    “We have to make this fast.”

    She was a tiny Filipina with literally POUNDS of 

    Makeup. Any age between twenty and eighty.

    Artily dressed – expensively – I surmised –

    In flowing hand-painted chiffon. Checked her Rolex;

    Opened her Day Planner, plucked out a sticky note,

    wrote BACK IN 5 MINS and slapped it on the door.

    She pulled us outside and carefully locked 

    All three locks. “We don’t want them 

    Finding out about Mirabel,”

    She hissed as she frog-marched us to elevators.

    “She’s a deal killer.”

    Derek and I were both too stunned to speak.

    Me of the short game, found my words first.

    “Who’s them?” I asked.

    “Oh, you know,” she whispered, punching the button

    “Anybody who knows the case.

    People fear the killers could

    Come back. If you’re savvy enough

    To afford this apartment you know

     The guy who confessed couldn’t 

    Have done it. So the killers are still out there.”

    Derek was the first to address

    This fray.

    He was more familiar

    With the wayward ways

    Of Manhattan tenantry.

    “Mirabel stayed here unofficially?”

    “Right,” said our hostess, seemingly irritated

    By the elevator’s slowness.

    “She was in the broom closet. It has no windows!

    Six kinds of illegal.

    I mean, she wasn’t actually here that often.

    Probably used it as a mail drop – or

    Stayed with boyfriends while avoiding

    Other boyfriends. You know how that goes.”

    We didn’t. She looked me up and down 

    Realizing far too late –

    She was giving too much away. 

    “I heard your dad was terribly strict.”

    She pursed her lips.

    I wanted to defend my poor dad –

    After all, if you have a lot of boyfriends and

    Play them off against each other

    Won’t you find – eventually –

    One who’s “terribly strict”?

    But I cared too much what Derek thought.

    I muted. Elevator arrived. We rushed inside.

    “She was there that night?” prompted Derek.

    “When the – killing – happened?”

    “MAYBE,” breathed our Latinx, so excited to be a

    Bad news bear she vibrated physically.

    “Stabbed to death in their beds. – Franny and Jane.

    Mirabel just took off – I mean who wouldn’t? So the cops 

    Maybe even the murderers – never knew she was there.

    Now we have to sell the place –

    I’m Dominica –  Jane’s sister.”

    Uncomfortably long elevator ride

    To the basement. Finally she said,

    “You know, you look like her. Here we are.”

    A bump along the basement floor.

    “Mirabel kept her stuff in bins. 

    Here, you’ll need one of these.”

    She slid a trolley at us.

    I gathered courage.
    “Did you know Lord Verne?”

    “We all heard plenty

    About the titled ex-.

    Violent and threatening. But

    I thought he was in Europe?”

     “5106, 5107 – here we are.”

    She unlocked a storage unit. Three boxes piled

    In the center of the floor. Marked MM.

    Our helper watched us load them.

    “Thank God you’re getting these out of here –

    We didn’t know how to contact her.

    I’ve got to get back. Interest

    Has been heavy.”

    “How do you explain the murders?”

    “When you need real estate

    You’re not scared of death. Just

    Don’t say how – they don’t want

    To know.” She nodded fiercely

    “Unbelievable I know – but that’s New York.

    Your door’s is that way.”

    We both stared at her departing back,

    And clattering heels.

    “Wow,” said Derek, “Plenty to chew on.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    I would have yelled at Derek 

    For manhandling me if I hadn’t needed it

    So much. Was this the way

    Mirabel had felt, impressed by Verne?

    Climbing into crowded trains was a skill 

    I didn’t have. We could sit 

    This time. “I wonder if that guy’s

    An Epstein flier,” Derek mused aloud.

    “I wondered the same thing!

    But I don’t know if he

    Could get along with ANYBODY

    Long enough. The way he clutched at

    Mirabel; do those guys care

    About anything that much?”

    Derek seriously considered

    This ill-expressed idea.

    “It’s a club like any club,” he said.

    “They’re posing for each other.”

    Hard to argue with.

    Hadn’t Verne and Mirabel

    Been posing for ME?

    “I had the most awful dream,”

    I tentatively began.

    “You believe in dreams?” I almost hit him.

    Our first quarrel!

    “People know things subconsciously before

    They know them consciously.” I was

    Quoting my drama prof, but

    It sounds legit.

    He was amenable. “So explicate

    This dream.” I expanded.

    “A ruined house – Downtown Abbey on the skids. 

    Shattered.

    Sad and… threatening with a lot of

    Broken stuff.” I found I couldn’t

    Express the horned man.

    Derek tried to locate the dream’s

    Progenitor.

    “Was it something he said?”

    “He said Mirabel tried to live there and

    Didn’t like it.”

    “Intriguing,” murmured Derek. “Let’s research

    this guy when we get home.”

    Chapter 14 – A Ruined Manor

    Derek’s family place was a

    Penthouse atop the

    Museum Mesko.  Mostly glass.

    In the “reserved” elevator

    Derek grilled me:

    “What do YOU think happened? You

    Think she ran away

    And left you holding – HIM?”

    Unsure of speech when hurtling so fast

    I breathed relief when the door bonged.

    “I haven’t told you the worst part.”

    “What’s that?”

    “Our dresses for the wedding

    Are the same. It’s

    THE SAME DRESS.”

    He didn’t get it.

    “That’s worse than having

    Fourteen year olds?”

    “Yes, because SHE DID IT.”

    Should I tell him Mirabel was some kind of

    Flesh scout? He would never understand

    Why I still sought her.

     “You were her replacement.

    Good that you got out of there.”

    Through his folks’ dark foyer, 

    With the Tiffany lamps and stacks of mail

    He led me to a long living room

    With at least six sofas and the most

    Fabulous view. Enough modern art to

    Give anybody nightmares.

    But the city laid out

    Beneath the clouds was

    “Ravishing.”

    “Want something to eat?”

    Why was I always hungry?

    Was it hunger really or

    Existential despair?

    Existential despair can make a person

    Fat. The microwave pinged.

    “I can’t believe you didn’t Google this guy.”

    I can’t believe I didn’t either.

    Why didn’t I? Derek was good

    At pointing out the logic of

    The illogical world I’d just escaped.

    Was this decompression something I shared

    With Mirabel?

    He levered out a plate of nachos,

    Adding sour cream and guacamole.

    I WAS hungry!

    “I think I need a bib.”

    He added piles of napkins.

    I dumped nachos into my despair.

    “Coffee? Tea? The wine’s

    Locked up.”

    “Coffee’s fine.”

    On their home computer

    I googled while he buttled.

    The news was bad.

    “His house looks like my dream!”

    Valerian Hall, Verne’s “ancestral home.”

    “There’s even a lake with folly.”

    “Swear you didn’t look before?”

    Derek was persnickety.

    “Don’t you think sometimes

    You absorb things from the air?

    By osmosis?”

    He politely considered the question,

    Working his logic

    Around this idea. “Remote viewing?”

    “Peer Loses Bid to Break Entail.”

    Screamed headlines as I scrolled.

    Down, down, down.

    “Looks like he couldn’t pry more money out.”

    Derek typed – my research not

    Enough for him.

    “Says here he can’t go back because

    There’s a warrant out for his arrest,”

    “Look at the site!” I argued. “How could Royal Gossip

    Know anything of value?”

    “I admit you can’t trust exclamation points,”

    Derek concurred. 

    “But it is a reason to avoid police.

    Whatever it is, 

    “Can’t be enough to extradite.”

     “I need a bathroom.”

    To throw up?

    I rose abruptly, headed down the hall.

    “There’s a close one off the kitchen.”

    Around the corner from the wall of refrigerators.

    I checked myself in a tiny bathroom mirror.

    Hollow-eyed, a girl who sorely needs a tan.

    Completely different from my

    Made-up, Russian hooker, Mirabel self.

    “I found what he’s in trouble for,” said Derek

    When I got returned. GBH.”

    “Party drug?”

    “Grievous bodily harm. He attacked someone.”

    “A woman?”

    “No. Some man in a pub.”

    I couldn’t picture it.

    Verne seemed more irritable than physical.

    But then I recalled how he was about Ravi.

    “So Verne’s on the run it sounds like.”

    “It’s a new idea,” I agreed.

    Derek moved effortlessly from coffee to seltzer.

    The boy was a sponge.

    “This is more fun than a video game.

    Maybe I’ll transition to “criminal justice”.”

    “What are your parents pushing?”

    “Wealth Management.  Fundraising.”

    He made a disgusted face. “Tax Avoidance. 

    Dull, dull, dull. Studying rule breakers, though

     You don’t find that interesting?”

    Did I?

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 13 – Why Women Want to Escape Lord Verne

    I know I did. Did this mean that I

    Could finally consider myself

    Grown up? Wouldn’t my teachers 

    Be surprised. Verne inveighed against Kruptupian

    The whole way back

    And I didn’t stop him.

    I imagined myself floating above him

    And looking down on him

    Pityingly. Wondered if Mirabel

    Ever had done that.

    At the Fifth Avenue apartments

    Someone claiming to be Derek Lowther

    Was pacing back and forth,

    Eyed by the suspicious doorman.

    He was over six feet tall, very skinny with

    Explosively curly brown hair, 

    Big soulful green eyes and perfect skin.

    I almost threw myself into this strange man’s arms

    And kissed him.

    “You’re not Derek,” I announced, exiting the car,

    .“Derek Lowther is a ratty, pimply little brat 

    Who spits when he talks.”

    “And you were a squirt with braces

    And a squint,” he sassed back,

    All I needed to hear for confirmation.

    Nobody knows about the squint.

    “It’s called amblyopia 

    And I’m all cured now,” I told him

    As  we race-scrolled through family pics –

    Growing up for each other’s eyes

    Across eight years of ski slopes

    School parties, beaches and

    Christmas.  “Verne, this is Derek Lowther.”

    Verne barely deigned to register

     The presence of another human being.

    “Step into the café,” he ordered.

    Perhaps if you’re six feet tall 

    And possibly still growing

    Things are different but hadn’t we

    Just breakfasted?  No one cared.

    Derek:  2 Breakfast burritos and a café Americano,

    Verne: espresso and blueberry blintzes,

    Richenda: Milky coffee, everything bagel.

    Only ordered where I can

    Shed bagel dust at will.

    As he and Verne gazed at each other

    I thought Derek required a call-back.

    “Remember Mirabel?”

     “I remember the Mirabel Legend,”

    Derek offered.  Honest guy.

    “Kids absorb gossip.”

    “What kind of gossip?”

    Verne was too sharp, I thought, snapping

    At a guest like that.

    Soon Derek too would want escape –

    Playing into my hands exactly.

    I smiled to myself, steepling my fingers

    Like a movie mad scientist.

    “Text and sub text,” Derek offered.

    “Text” was parents explaining Mirabel had run away,

    “Sub-text” came through eavesdropping about

    Mirabel living wild and free to public acclaim.”

    I could work with this guy, I thought,

    Satisfied.  At least

    We spoke the same language –

    Very unlike me & Verne.

    “We were going to get married,” huffed Verne.

    “She gave up her job with her boss –“

    “Her nasty boss –“ I added. Helping.

    “She called Richenda to help with planning.”

    See? THAT wasn’t true.

    Since I didn’t challenge Verne went on more

    Confidently, “Ghosted us at dinner.  

    Didn’t come home at all last night.”

    Derek looked at me with an

    Expression seeming to communicate

    “Tell me the REAL story later.”

    I liked him more and more.

    “Wow,” Derek commented evenly. 

    “Rough.” Turned to me. “You saw her?”

     “I did,” I offered, not willing to say

    In front of Verne what exactly I had seen.

    “She’s a redhead now.”

    Verne was impressed enough

    To plunge into a long recital 

    Of our late night Kruptupian call,

    Then insisting Ravi posed as

    Mirabel’s groom. I could tell

    My silence was registering with Derek.

    Since he seemed to know I saw it

    Differently, he must know I wanted

    Getting out of there.

    “Runaway Bride,” said Derek,

     “I get that you can’t involve the media.”

     “Any ideas?” asked Verne.

    “I’ll study traffic cams for Mirabel locations,”

    Derek offered, “See where she went.

    And with who.”

    Verne’s eyes jumped with excitement.

    “You can do that?”

    “Traffic cameras are easy, private cams

    Are more complex.”

    “I’ve got the exact times she was in 

    Brooklyn and at the spa,” I offered. 

    “I just need my laptop,” said Derek,

    Hastily said,

    “I need the ladies’ room”

    But secretly went upstairs

    To get my bag and leave it

    In the hall.

    Verne did not alert, unaware

    Of my escape. Like Mirabel

     I was getting the hell out.

    When I got back they were discussing

    Hiring a P.I., Derek’s dad

    Had an art theft guy.

    “We think she ditched her phone. “

     “But her online account,

    See who she called –

    It’s golden. Maybe just a password hack,” 

    Said Derek. “Depends how well you know 

    The person.” “I can help with that,” I said,

    Possibly unwisely – Verne’s face

    Froze in jealous competition.

    Apparently I belonged to him

    Already.

    Verne paid the bill,

    Discomfited by precipitous

    Abandonment.

    “I have some friends to call,” he sniffed.

    Threat or promise – we encouraged him.

    “I’m going to see Derek’s folks” I lied so

    Smoothly Derek kept his calm.

    “They’ll have all kinds of suggestions.”

    Verne was stymied

    By our determination.

    “I’ll call,” I promised pathetically.

    Verne made a note of Derek’s number.

    I marched after Derek

    Who was walking decisively.

    “So where are we going?” I hissed

    Conspiratorially.

    “Subway. No car service on my allowance.”

    Down the steps into the hot and stinky 

    Underworld. “Fine with me,” I offered.

    “I want to be anonymous.”

    “I know the feeling,” said Derek.

    “What’s with that guy?

    You’re escaping a police state.”

    We clutched straps and leaned together

    Studiously ignoring people who

    Were studiously ignoring us.

    “So, what’s the deal?”

    Hissed Derek.  “Do you think he murdered her?”

    “Not sure,” I said, “When he wanted me

    To comfort him he said

    I wasn’t the first fourteen-year old he’d had.”

     “Oh, my God,” said Derek. “Disgusting guy.

    His world is him and whoever he’s picked

    To be his mirror.”

    A startling, grisly, accurate thought.

    “He left with me,” I mused,

    “I’m his alibi but he could always hire someone.” 

    “But you don’t think she’s dead.”

    “I hope she’s not. But if I find her now

    I feel sure she’ll finally tell the truth.”

    That idea sounded stupid to my ears.

    Wouldn’t Mirabel do what she’d

    Always done and feed me any story

    I wanted to believe?

    “I think I can tell the truth from lies,”

    I offered, I’d like to

    Test it.” To Derek’s credit

    He didn’t argue. “My only question is;

    What if he killed her, and then

    Hired a girl to impersonate Mirabel?”

    I had to admit I’d thought of this.

    “It doesn’t sound so hard to me,” said Derek.

    “After all you haven’t seen her for – what –

    Six years?” I shook my head.

    “I think it was really her and everything

    She said and did was signaling. 

    I longed to learn her language.

    “I think –“ could I confess this deepest secret

    To this stranger –

    “She’s longing to be found.”

    A moment’s silence but Derek didn’t

    Counter. “We’ll check her friends,” he said, 

    “When we open her account.”

    Did Mirabel have friends?

    Would Verne allow it?

    I must have looked like a stopped clock

    Because he propelled me out the double doors.

    “Is this our stop?” “Change trains.”

    Back to waiting on a dangerous platform 

    In the dark, hovering over an electrified hell.

    Had I always been this scared

    Of  everything?

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

     Derek speaking.

    “Sounds just like Mirabel to me.  Wasn’t

    Disappointing everyone her stock in trade?”

    Impossible to argue with.

    But I put in the effort.

     “Maybe something’s REALLY happened to her this time.

    She seems to have been juggling two men

    She hated; stealing diamonds and God knows what.”

    Should I explain her attempted

    Brain hijacking?

    Maybe I shouldn’t tell him anything.

    Why couldn’t I stop myself? Because

    Derek is my age and will have

    Predictable response? It felt like,

    AT LAST a human being 

    To speak to in this world of artificial masks.

    “God. I’m sorry.” His voice really did

    Sound sorry. “Do you want to come here?

    Should I go there?”

    It was fresh and novel to be offered

    The Choice. Sounded like he really

    Wanted to help. 

     “What could you do?”

    My own voice sounded like a five year old

    Quivering on the edge of tears.

    “Help you look? I’d do anything I can.”

    I gave Derek the bridegroom’s address.

    Speaking of the bridegroom, he burst through 

    The doors, arms full of literature and bottled water.

    “Hotel coupons, flight discounts –

    These could suggest where Mirabel might go.

     Or where Ravi might stash her.

    What a liar! That bastard!”

    He DEFINITELY wanted to be the one

    Whose mood Mirabel controlled.

    I felt I had to interject some authenticity.

    “She probably wanted to keep Ravi

    From chasing her. Or suing her. 

    For, you know, the diamonds.”

    Verne paused to drink from his

    Chilled bottle, flicking

    Droplets on his collar.

    “She shouldn’t turn to him.”

    So we were back to Bad Mirabel,

    Conniving Mirabel, with motives

    Always suspect.

    Not so different – as Derek pointed out –

    From the way she’d always been.

    We climbed dispiritedly back into the car.

    I needed Derek. Just to speak to

    Someone sane.

     “Have you announced your engagement

    Formally?”

    “No. We just thought of it. No details yet.”

    This opened an unpleasant picture.

    Why was I the first

    Wedding task?

    It couldn’t be that Mirabel needed

    Someone sane to speak to –

    I must be a distraction

    From what I could see was Verne’s

    Slow boil.

    At that very moment

     he eyed my phone suspiciously.

    “So, who was that?”

    I saw him itching to 

    Commandeer my phone.

    Who WOULD I be talking to? The press?

    Poor Mirabel! Her trap was sounding

    Worse than ever.

    I engineered my way out.

    “My parents’ friends.

     Their son could help –

    He’s hacker smart.” 

    Should I mention my upcoming move?

    Best not; a storm settled between 

    Verne’s eyes. He thirsted to be

    My focus of attention with

    No competitor to mute his power.

    “He’s meeting us at the apartment.”

    Verne didn’t like that one bit.

    I realized, even if I have to sacrifice my clothes

    I must escape.