Alysse Aallyn

Blog

  • Haiku: Overthinking

    by Alysse Aallyn

    #Haiku: Overthinking

    Brain heats up

    Smoke blurs eyes

    Complications threaten –

    Solutions

    Vanish

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 20 – The End

    We flew to a hotel at LaGuardia,

    Called Derek, whose father suggested

    Vince Tromwell.  He got 

    Mirabel immunity as long as she told

    “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth”

    and after they tested the shirt and the knife

    Verne even confessed –

    If you call taking an Alford plea –

    (Which legally means “You got me”) –

    Confession. Verne got forty years

    On each count with deportation

    Instead of parole. 

    Mom and Dad didn’t mind

    Having a yoga teacher in the family –

    They both started yoga –

    I admit I did too –

    That’s what big sisters are for;

    They go through everything first

    So you don’t have to.

    We get to be writers, we

    The little sisters

    Poets and thinkers of all the peaceful

    Afternoons; assessing, not

    Regressing, savoring even

    The upside down moments

    Right side up and 

    Passing them to history.

    It worked on everyone but Mr.

    Mowgley, English teacher,

    Who said;

    “Shouldn’t you write this

    In the third person voice

    To gain some distance?”

    I said, “Never.

    I’m Richenda Marshott, only me and

    I’ll never pretend to be

    Anyone else.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

     “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.”

    “Mom & Dad won’t miss me. I was

    Nothing but trouble.”

    I spoke truth when I said;

    “I guarantee you that’s not true.

    They will never get over you.

    And in the meantime, Lord Verne gets away

    With murder. He’ll just kill

    Someone else, Mirabel;

    Don’t you get it? Violence is

    His foolproof way

    To get what he wants.”

    Mirabel moved her shoulders restlessly.

    She’d almost escaped that life and saw me

    Pulling her back.

    “I can’t go to jail. I’d rather die.”

    “People who make immunity

    Deals don’t go to jail. Derek’s family

    Must know a lawyer who’d negotiate

    For you. You stay anonymous

    Because deals never go to court.”

    She eyed me suspiciously.

    “What do YOU know about 

    Bargaining with prosecutors?”

    “I have a Netflix subscription!

    I watch the ID channel! If you tell them

    What you know it might be enough

    To convict him.

    Get him out of all our lives

    Forever.” Fingers crossed.

    She struggled to believe me.

    She had so little trust.

    Yet I was the one

    She’d invited inside.

    “I have the murder weapon,” she admitted.

    “I told him I got rid of it. And

    The shirt he wore – it’s bloody.

    In a safety deposit box.”

    A thrill ran through me.

    I hadn’t expected

    Such cagey planning, but

    I should have; from

    The Girl Who Got Away.

    “That’s probably enough,” I promised.

    But still my sister hesitated,

    Torn between embracing her 

    Imaginary life with its

    Brand new identity and

    Facing her destroyer.

    I played my final card.

     “You owe me,” I whispered.

    “You owe the dead girls.

    And so Mirabel – not Franny but

    The grown up girl who’d always been

    My sister; made up her mind.

    She accepted herself; the way

    I had always accepted her.

  • 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.”