Alysse Aallyn

Category: Confessions

  • 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

    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

    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

    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

    Chapter 6 –

     Alt-Mirabel

    To be around Verne

    Was to feel

    Too many emotions at once –

    I almost don’t want to remember them.

    Depression, disgust, anger,

    Amazement.

    Safe to say

    I’m not “alt-Mirabel”

    And never will be.

    When my journey began it’s true

    I vaguely envied Mirabel 

    Enjoyed imagining

    The Perfect Life –

    How delicious doing only

    What you want!

    Some relief to feel above it all! 

    But now I saw her slavery.

    Still conundrums proliferate.

    How and where had Mirabel

     Learned to pretend so effectively?

    Had she studied foxing Mom and Dad and

    Turned it into outwitting this

    Aristocratic partial-wit?

    He who declared that;

    Thesis, antithesis

    Synthesis – so, if I’m not Mirabel

    I must be her opposite.

    His definition for rivalry.

    Girlfight!

    Naturally that explains

     Why he tried to kiss me.

    What can The Real Richenda say to

    A man so uninterested in her existence?

    “I’m changing,” I said abruptly.

    “Getting out of this idiotic dress.”

     “The car’s downstairs,” said Verne. 

    “You don’t have time.

    He’ll take us where she went.”

    “Go without me,”

    I said. “I’m changing.”

    A clash of wills;

    How did I know he wouldn’t?

    I joined them downstairs

    Wearing my oldest jeans and my Three Mad Cats

    T-shirt -turned out Mirabel had gone to

    Brooklyn, apparently – it seemed a long, long way.

    The driver was unhelpful – Mirabel’d said nothing and

    He was a glum fellow taken for

    Himself. We halted in the warehouse district. 

    Verne coaxed him to wait while we stepped out of the car.

    Pessimism was back.

    “Nothing here. I hoped she’d get sloppy.”

    I had my own ideas.

    Looking for the “other man”

    Verne forgot the critical

    Importance of staging areas; or perhaps

    He never knew – maybe he’s

    The kind of guy who thinks

    Women awake made up for him

    .

    Behind one of these doors could there be a place

    Where she changed from one facade to the next –

    But they were all unlabeled –

    No numbers, no doorbells,

    Broken-looking speaker units.

    Impossible to tell.

    But the psychic bond persisted.

    I was beginning to get a sense of her –

    Inhaled like faint perfume –

    My confidence conferred a heady power.

    I wasn’t alt-Mirabel

    But I did feel I knew her

    Better than he did;

    I’d seen her just beginning

    Before she polished up her act

    And took it on the road.

    The question was never –

    When did Mirabel get so wily? I felt

    She’d always been this way – but

    Now I wondered;

    Had her plans EVER

    Included us?

     “Maybe she met another car,”

    Verne offered, 

    “Parked somewhere out of sight.”

    That nemesis of his again – he preferred 

    A universe of dastard rivals. 

    We savored the possibility.

    The night was silent.

    “Well, who?” I asked.

    Verne sighed.

    “One chance left,” he said. “Humiliation, but 

    What have I got to lose?”

    I think he had already lost it

    But said nothing.

    Looking him up and down

    I wondered idly how many on this planet –

    Four fifths? Two thirds?

    Would trade places with this guy.

    My mother’s drill-sergeant voice snapped

    Inside my head, demanding he “buck up.”

    He gave the driver an address on the Upper East Side 

    And we settled in for another 

    Lengthy ride.

    “So…where are we going?”

    “Mirabel had a job – personal assistant to…

    This man and they

    Were friends. Too close for me.

    He might know something.”

    “Was he invited to the wedding?”

    Inquire I.  Ingenuously.

    “No. His wife thought they

    Were too close too. Let’s say I thought

    He dismissed her with

    An overly generous gift.”

    Aha. Torn between rich men,

    And only one of them

    Unmarried.

    Picture becoming clearer. 

    Verne drummed his fingers,

    Grim but seeming cheered.

    “She might be there. If we take him by surprise.”

    His eyes raked me over.

    “You were smart to change.

    Sorry for rushing you.

    Button up your coat. I want to

    Push you front and center.”

    I understood he

    Prepared to use the

    Adolescence; familial relationship 

    So recently forgotten –

    He had the nerve to congratulate me

    For dressing down to

    Young and vulnerable.

    Really they deserved each other.

    “He won’t care

    About me – I’m just the jilted bridegroom – 

    I’m sure she complained about me to him

    Just as she complained to me about him – but

    He’ll be interested in you.”

    Hmm. Yes. Abandoned sister. 

    The suburbs were dull but the city’s

    Charm now seemed theatrical; everyone required

    To play roles.

    Hilariously, both these men

    Would look to me for clues to who

    Mirabel had been.

    At another golden barracks

    The doorman demanded the

    Purpose of our visit. 

    Verne said, “Emergency.” 

    He flashed a picture 

    From his phone. “Seen this girl tonight?”

    The man shook his head, consulting his service phone.

    “Penthouse Suite. Mr. Kruptupian will see you now.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    “Where would she go?

    You must have some

    Guy in mind?”

    Verne looked so childish, shoulders collapsed,  

    Unresponsive iPhone fallen to the floor.

    I was not going to mother him.

    I felt sorry for him but I also

    Fel everything was his own damn fault

    How could such a lucky man

    Wealthy and free

    So mismanage his own life?

    Suddenly my dream was

    Magically achieved; I felt

    Old; sophisticated;

    Like HE was fourteen and

    I was thirty-seven.

    I pushed coffee.

    It’s always been my 

    Panacea.

    He sipped in new docility.

    “Black. The way I like it.”

    I corrected brusquely,

    “There is no cream or sugar.”

    “It’s mean strong. I need it

    To fight back.”

    I wish he’d stop raising these

    Disturbing concepts –

    Was that what he liked about me?

    How was that possible when

    He hated it about Mirabel?

    Maybe he was trying to apologize. 

    I muted.

    He studied me ironically.

    “Will you tell The Folks?”

    Mirabel’s word for them.

    Felt a chill. 

    How explain this to the world?

    Did I finally have

    Something to write about for my break essay –

    I could rush home

    To my life as a

     Powerless teenage nobody. 

    “We don’t know what

    Happened.” At the very least we should

    Figure out what the hell

    Was going on.  It’s true that Verne

    Seemed a loose cannon now but

    I could always lock my door.

    Grab that bull by his

    You Know Where.

    “No more kissing. OK?”

    He flushed a dirty red.

    “No. Hell no.

    I’m sorry.”

    “Maybe she’s in trouble.” 

    He shrugged this off.

    “Impossible. She’s just a tease.”

    This did not feel right.

    If she could get out of her depth with Verne she could

    Certainly do it with other men.

    Plenty going on am

    I am curious.

    I was slowly realizing that

    Because Verne was Verne he MIGHT

    Always be the last to know.

    “You really think she’s left you?”

    He writhed. “We played the hurt game

    To the top of our bent This could

    Be her winning shot.”

    What was the score?

    Why inject me?

    Did she owe me or –

    Did I owe her? I said,

    “If she left you

    She left me, too.”

    Why couldn’t I believe

    That Mirabel would ghost me?

    Wasn’t that what she’d always done?

    But it was different now –

    We’d been “sisters” together –

    For one split second.

    Fresh chills fevered me – 

    Was she handing off her bridegroom? 

    The matching dresses were just too weird.

    On the other hand, fashion is transgressive;

    Always trying to break the rules.

    No. no. Can’t go there.

    “Until Mirabel calls it off

    It’s on. This could be nothing. 

    She might come back.

    She’ll call.  Sleep on it. Have some 

    Lemon cake.” He shuddered. Grumpy.

    “I asked for Hazelnut.” 

    I easily imagined a Mirabel

    Blocking his desires.

    He settled for coconut

    Companionably we ate together.

    He’d fed me, now I fed him.

    That’s called a relationship.

    Then he fixed me with

    A gnarly eye.

    “Did she warn you?

    What did she tell you?

    Did she say anything

    About HIM?”

    I always hated third degree.

    I blush as if I’m guilty.

    “She told me nothing,”

    I said coldly. “I

    “Was invited to a wedding.”

    “She’ll never call,” he moaned.

    “She’ll keep the tension up

    Until the victim dies. That’s her way.”

    “Then you should call it off.”

    I scraped the rest of my cake

    Into the trash – I only

    Like the frosting – and

    Hardened myself against their

    Nuptial craziness.

    Verne rose so decisively

    His plate fell to the rug.

    “I’m going to find her,”

     “Game on. She chose me. She doesn’t get 

    Another choice.”

    What was the matter with this man?

    Physically attractive – 

    Wealthy – powerful –

    So insecure?

    The only game with players is REFUSE TO PLAY.

    Mirabel had always coveted those

    She could manipulate. But

    Did I know that of my own

    Knowledge – how could I – or

    Did my parents prompt me?

    That’s the thing about growing up –

     It slowly dawns on you that

    All you’re told is nonsense.

    A dose of sense is

    Obviously required.

    “I think you’re looking at this wrong,

     Mirabel’s frightened

    Of our dad. He’s the “other man.”

    Verne gaped at me,

    His focus readjusting as if

    He saw me for the first time.

    “Explain.”

    “Don’t you know the story?

    She pretended to go to college but really cashed all

    Daddy’s checks and lived the high life.

    She got in trouble with the student loan people,

    Forging documents.  We haven’t heard from her for

    Six years. Dad’s still angry.

    I thought something was up when 

    She wanted to come home.”

    “I didn’t know.  Quite little scamp.”

    He seemed cheered.

    “Think we should wed in church?

    I don’t know one marriage that’s survived ten years.”

    This man could certainly surprise me.

    “Mom and Dad have been married FOREVER,”

    Worse than that –

    Unimaginable without each other;

    A true team – like Laurel & Hardy or

    Abbott & Costello.

    I could imagine no other human

    Puting up with either of them.

    How to convey this?

    “Maybe you shouldn’t get married

    When you are so uncertain,” I suggested.

    Would I get kissed or

    Slapped for interfering?

    Adults don’t like to second-guess but

    Mirabel forced my hand.

    “All our bridges burned,”

    He sighed.

    “The only way is forward.”

    Depressing thought.

    Keeping up this guy’s mood is work.

    “Let’s figure out where she

    Could have possibly gone. Like,

    How would she travel?”

    Verne sat straight up.

    “Car service,” he announced.

    “I pay the bills. We can track her.”

    He worked his phone.

    “I’m so glad 

    “You’re staying. I need you.

    You’re Alt-Mirabel.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    “I’m a vegetarian,” I said.

    And pushed my plate away.

    “A vegetarian who eats turtles?”

    He challenged me.

     “I was trying to be polite.”

    And now I’d stopped. 

    Saw no reason to continue the game.

    “Americans think food fuss

    Makes them interesting,”

    He snarled. But it turned out

    His disgust was not for me.

    “Oh, imagine that,”

    snorted his Lordship scornfully, 

    Talking to his phone.

    “We’re on our own,

    Mirabel can’t make it.

    And now her phone is locked!

    We’ll see about that! 

    I’m ordering the car. Time to find out just what

    This bride is playing at.”

    Chapter 5 – Unavoidably Detained

    She must have known he’d come

    After her – the apartment was empty.

    Of course she wasn’t there.

    Furniture gazed at me

    Forlornly as I wandered through

    Expensive accommodations crying out

    For individuality and life. 

    The closets were still packed but

    Some of her clothes and luggage

    Could have been gone

    How would I know?

    The bathrooms were still littered with cosmetics –

    Everything replaceable.

    In the long, bare white kitchen I 

    Started a pot of coffee.

    The refrigerator was particularly sad: champagne, 

    A month’s supply of celery juice. 

    And three kinds of wedding cake in origami boxes.

    Mirabel must have returned – however briefly –

    Because someone drank the last of my wine.

    Her dress lay discarded on the floor

    One flounce torn 

    And stepped on,

    Ground beneath a fleeing heel.

    When the coffee was ready

    I sampled the cake –

    I pick lemon though

    Everyone likes coconut and

    Some people are partial to 

    Chocolate raspberry.

    Found Verne collapsed in the bedroom,

    Clutching Mirabel’s dress.

    “I didn’t believe she’d really do it,”

    He said. “I suppose the wedding’s off.” 

    “Maybe she had an errand,”

    I proposed stupidly. 

    “She’ll be back.”

    I bundled the fantasy garment

    Back into its slick bag; a glittering

    Promise too fragile to stand up to actual wear.

    “Don’t you see what’s happened?”

    demanded Verne,

    Trying to recruit me on his case

    “She doesn’t want to marry me. She

    Probably she never did. All along

    There’s been this game. Some another man;

    I know it. Using me as leverage.”

    Was this the double life he’d mentioned?

    Crazy stuff. No way could he get me to sorrow

    Over postponed parties; 

    I saw plenty of reasons not to marry Lord Verne

    And in case I was likely to forget, he demonstrated more.

    He sat on the bed and

    Reached out his arms, clearly thinking 

    I would pet his shoulders

    Or at the very least, kiss his hair

    But chose not to comfort him.

    I preferred to get some facts.

    “Who?” I demanded. Sadly,

    Both of them were bad at facts.

    He held his head.

    “There were so many.”

    I came up with my most 

    Comforting message;

    “Of course she’ll return.

    “Or why on earth invite me here?”

    But a terrible possibility began to niggle in my brain.

    He certainly was suspicious of her

    So probably watched her

    Like a hawk. What if the whole wedding – 

    And my presence – was only to allow escape?

    It was so thoughtless and cruel I knew nobody I dared

    Explain it to; but it also sounded just like her;

    The Mirabel who pretended to go to college, 

    To have diseases,

    To be in jail; All to wrest

    Advantage from the poor old folks. 

    What would she care about me?

    Verne turned to me a tear-stained face –

    I was amazed – and just

    As I was thinking he couldn’t be a rapist –

    Grabbed my shoulders and

    Sucked me into a kiss.

    The real “adult” kiss I’d pined for

    Fantasized about and mimed

    On all those lonely nights

    After Ricky Stoekels ghosted me

    Couldn’t be THIS one –

    A full body penetration –

    A probing grasping invasion

    Shutting off my air.

    I jerked away with so much force

    I landed on the floor.

    Verne threw himself 

    On the bed, face down

    Wracked with sobs

    While I wiped my face

    Stunned.

    “Love the one you’re with”

    Isn’t that what Ricky Stoekels says?

    “She cheats, you cheat?”

    I hope all men aren’t

    All bastards.

    “Forgive me,” shuddered Verne,

    “I’m out of my mind.

    I don’t know what I’m doing.”

    Maybe. I recognize excuses.

    I’ve used them.

    “Don’t do it again,” I said. 

    He said, “You’re so like her”

    Which was an insult at this point.

    I could stomp away, go home –

    Explain to a mother trying desperately

    To make it all my fault

    Or I could find out about my sister’s life.

    “Where would she go?

    You must have some

    Guy in mind?”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Mirabel’s been hard to pin down lately. 

    Then suddenly she changed. This marriage idea.”

    Did he blush or blanch?  I couldn’t

    See clearly in the darkening light but

    His throat trembled raw

    With pent emotion.

    My face must have betrayed 

    My distaste

    Because he hurried to explain.

    “She’s been trying to

    Talk me into seeing her family. 

    A wedding to erase her

    Great Silence. I thought we were 

    Two avatars alone. I imagined 

    A woman to stand with me against the world.”

    How rich, I thought, literally, 

    For a man with a title based on family 

    To disown that very concept.

    But to quarrel seemed

    Perfidious, and once again,

    The youngest person in the room

    I was silenced and shamed.

    He leaned back in his chair

    As beef wellington arrived.

    “I’m amazed you existed, frankly.

    I thought the little sister

    Was another of her stories.

    Kudos to your parents.”

    I stared nauseated

    At beef wellington –

    Perhaps I’m vegan after all.

    This party made me gag.

    “I’m so glad you’re you,

     Just like her but so

    Unspoiled.”

    Never had a compliment

    Felt more like an insult.

    What kind of talk was this from

    A prospective groom?

    And any idea that my parents “made” me

    Is creepy and revolting.

    “Mirabel and I are opposites,” I stressed

    Too angrily before I considered.

    “How can THAT be?”

    He was smug. Superior.

    I schooled him.

    “She cares what others think and

    I just don’t.”

    That should have stopped him but –

    It didn’t. He smiled

    Indulgently.

    “Sisterhood is powerful.

    I see she’s got “the drop”

    On me,” he emphasized the slang

    Like any English lord raised on 

    American movies.

    Unable to be me;

    Unable to read him,

    Know him, change him.

    Is this the dawning of

    Despair? It makes me hate

    The grown-up world. 

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    He reached for my bag

    Kissed the top of my forehead –

    Doubtless drinking in

    Sweat, hairspray, foundation;

     “Richenda?”

    Pronouncing it “Richendor”-

    English accents are so cool.

    “Recognized you immediately. You’re

    Just like Mirabel. Maybe it’s 

    The dark glasses – always dodging

    Paparazzi.”

    I felt helpless rapture as if

    He flattered me when all it meant

    Was that Mirabel wanted to hide and yet

    Remain superior in just the way I’d

    Fantasized. I did some obscure

    Need to argue –

    I’m an arguer –

    But taking “compliments”

    Is the better part I know.  

    But usually people said how unalike we were

    Snow White and Rose Red.

    “Er, thanks,” sounds so ungracious and

     “What happened to Mirabel?”

    Downright rude.

    I said it anyway.

    He batted at it briskly.

    “Unavoidably detained.”

    Swept me and bag away from the escalator

    Clogged with ordinaries –

    Down the platform

    “We’ll take the elevator to the car service.”

    Actually, it was a limo.

    The driver rushed to fondle my

    Pathetic flowered bag. Couldn’t parse whether he

    And this mystery man

    Knew each other – casual hire? or

    Permanent position?  Hard to know.

    “You’re the fiancé?” I stuttered out. 

    Worse and worse! Country cousin

    Morphing into bumpkin sister.

    He seemed surprised.

    “So sorry,” he bundled me into the limo,

    “My excuse is wedding nerves. 

    Meet the family!

    Philip Valerian. Everyone calls me 

    Verne.” Now I was 

    Laughing and I couldn’t stop.

    “Mom thought your name was Rupert Golden!”

    Verne didn’t see the amusement. 

    “Must be some other swain,” he huffed.

    Was I

    Getting Mirabel in trouble? 

    Would she thank me?

    What kind of fiancé

    Hates to hear his glamor girl

    Has been around?

    “I guess we all have wedding nerves.”

    He was jumpy,

    Fingers drumming on one knee.

    What a relief to turn away

    Make what brain-meat I could of the street outside.

    Writing my own story

    In which he was smoother, easier,

    Less knotty and complex.

    New York City! Kubla Khan!

    But everything was dark and dingy

    Until Fifth Avenue; there a

    Nonstop parade of glittery storefronts 

    And entitled shoppers

    Promised trousseaux and makeovers and

     Glamorous fun!

    The limo stopped at the dress designer

    Questrina,

    And the driver stepped out of the car.

    A woman rushed through the double doors offering

    two glossy green dress bags in outstretched hands-

    Driver swept them into the trunk and we were off again.

    “Your dresses,” explained Verne.

    My excitement dulled to confusion &

    Disappointment –

    Bait and switch:

    I should have known.

     “I thought Mirabel and I

    Would choose our dresses -“

    “Oh, there’ll be lots for you to do.”

    I’m surprised he didn’t offer a

    Lolly to distract me.

    “Here we are,” said the would-be groom.

    “At my place.”

    A skyscraper on Fifth Avenue? 

    Shiny red doorman

    Rushed the curb. “Your lordship.”

    I thought my ears were ringing.

    Was I hearing right?

    Should have watched that damn Downtown Abbey 

    Or whatever it was called –

    My oldsters begged me to 

    Watch with them

    Instead of proudly sequestering my anime anger.

    Could he really have a title?

    Do they still give those out?

    We were alone for a looooong 43 floor ride.

    Under sallow yellow

    Lighting he seemed

    Depressed – was it me or

    Or approaching Mirabel?

    If only I could read minds!  Then

    Gold enameled door opened and 

    There stood my sister.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 2 –  @Valerian

    Once Mom had exited

    I fell contentedly into

    Wondering:

    Who would Mirabel be now?

    When I turned ten

    I followed her face &

    Body through

    Inter-space but in

    Three long years  

    But there’s been nothing to see.

    I fully comprehend

    That shiny airbrushed people

    Don’t resemble that really. But

    Mirabel was always gorgeous;

    Swimming through some

    Different air; her

    Huge eyes and Roman nose teased & promising

    Cavernous depths of soul.

    We all want to believe that beautiful people

    Get everything they want out of life;

    Otherwise what’s the point –

    Yet the Mirabel I’d known

    Deliberately evaded us;

    Abjuring the fold

    Unless needing something.

    At eight years old I had learned

    She was a mysterious gift-giver

    Like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy

    In whom it would be unwise to

    Believe.

    So, as my train slid into the darkness

     Of Grand Central tunnel I texted the number 

    They gave me with “Train on time” &

    Happiness emoji. 

    Of course I wanted to delete it

    Immediately;

    But as the sole bridesmaid –

    Wasn’t I 

    The real Maid of Honor?

    Obligated to planning

    If not excitement but

    No response from Mirabel.

    Someone called 

    “@Valerian” tweeted: “I’m meeting you. 

    M. otherwise occupied as usual.

    Look for red hunting coat.”

    Who was Valerian?  Where was Mirabel?

    Did fiancé have charge of her phone?

    Possibly he cloned it;

    My friend Derek does that.

    Forced fresh perspective:

    If parents had known

    There wasn’t a Mirabel

    Would they let me come?

    That was the emotion Mirabel engendered

    I well remembered –

    She was a genius at 

    Preparing the faithful –

    “Softening us up”

    For future hard times. 

    This means never forthrightly

    Telling those Inconvenient truths.

    As the train lurched to stop I vaulted upwards 

    Greeting myself in the

    Mirroring windows. The girl 

    “Valerian” would see

    Passable in gray skirt, shiny thigh high 

    Pink leather boots, subtly highlighted 

    Nut brown hair. Nothing to compete

    With Mirabel’s blond goddess-hood.

    Free from Mom’s diminishing thumb

    I could exaggerate my eyes – 

    Outline my cheekbones

    Use lips to suggest

    Goddess potential all my own.

    The sight of my made-up face 

    Makes me feel hopeful.

    I didn’t answer that text:

    Stranger-Danger ever-present;

    If I didn’t like the look of him

    I could Uber myself – 

    Once I knew where I was going.

    I  bet on my chances;

    There were other girls on this train –

    I had a hat and sunglasses

    I’ve been melting into crowds

    Once I learned how to walk.

    Problem; my idiot mother

    Sent pictures

    Proud as she was –

    Cross-eyed in her fearfulness –

    If he was the one trying to

    Friend me –

    He’d already seen me grow up.

    Ugh!

    How the past follows us!

    Tortures us; cramping our style!

    How I long to be known 

    Yet forever undiscovered

    Wild virginal territory

    The better to project myself 

    Into the brains of others –

    Ultimate Observer.

    I’m aware

    It makes no damn sense

    To wish for admiration and 

    A the same time 

    Disappear – could it be

    We’re all the stalkers of our dreams?

    Threw diary, book, magazine

    Into my capacious carpet-bag –

    Diaries take one

    Only so far –

    Scribble scribble

    Ratcheting up while 

    Tamping down

    All the sharp points of life. 

    Fell rather than walked

    Down ungainly steps and My God

    There he was-

    Guarding the escalators, in his famous

    Red coat.

    Mirabel would NEVER come 

    Way down here 

    “To the tracks” –

    Hoi polloi, déclassé –

    But this sharp face looked eager

    Gladdening to see me.

    Was he

    A sight for eyes too young to be sore?

    Tall physique; you’d say

    “Distinguished,” but 

    Foreign looking, really,  in spite of 

    American jeans and that red down parka.

    The closer I got the more

    Startlingly handsome appeared

    That knife-planed face –

    Curly undisciplined black hair –

    Couldn’t stare long because

    He grinned at the sight of me. 

    No possibility of escape –

    Nor desire really 

    Wasn’t this more fun 

    Than forging some raw

    Uncomfortable relation with

    The long-lost sister?