When I returned to Rolling in Layers, my Volkswagen Thing was still parked outside, but it was empty. Putting my face against the building’s glass door, I peered inside. Tineshi read a book as she leaned against the counter. Nobody else appeared to be in the store.

  “Where is she?” Junette asked.

  After circling the block, I gave up and headed back to my vehicle. The bag with the cell phone was also missing, as was the forty dollars I kept in the cup holder. The scene didn’t suggest a struggle.

  “Looks like Cinderella bolted.”

  “Perhaps the police sirens spooked her,” I said while sliding into the driver’s seat.

  “Maybe she conspired with Face-Tattoo and knows we’re onto her.”

  Claude said, “I remember a short man with facial tattoos. He pointed a firearm at me.”

  “That dude offed you,” Junette said.

  “We should ease him into this.” I started the car, backed out, and drove toward the office.

  Junette’s voice rattled in my head as she lectured me, “Yank the band aid off quick instead of dancing around all scared and shit.”

  “The hallucinations must result from a psychotic break,” Claude said. “The stress of being alone in the states and struggling through my wife’s immigration procedures finally took their toll.”

  “You had to absorb a shrink,” Junette said.

  “I’m hearing two voices. Perhaps they symbolize my parents.”

  I parked on the shoulder, closed my eyes, and envisioned traveling through a hallway, this time between Claude and Junette’s room. As I opened the last door, my body went limp. I’ve burned through most of my life force. It needed to regenerate before pushing any further.

  “There you are, Frenchie.”

  “Saperlipopette!” Claude said, “How did you get in here?”

  “I’ve been in Ludwigville for quite some time.”

  Pulling onto the road, I headed toward my office. “Claude, T-Bone robbed, kidnapped, and mortally wounded you. I absorbed your life force before it left your body.”

  “I’ve read about this. Sometimes the mind creates an elaborate ruse to protect itself from a traumatic event,” Claud said. “The manifestations are quite realistic, but a ruse nevertheless.”

  “Call me a ruse again, and we’ll find out if I can smack ya,” Junette said.

  The sun beat down from above us. I raised my hand up to shield my eyes. “Please,” I said, “Nina’s missing.”

  “Nina.” His voice steadied. “Is she in danger?”

  “Not-so-slim-shady back there said Cinderella met with Face-Tattoo before snatching Frenchie.”

  “Slim who?” Claude asked.

  “A woman matching your wife’s description met with the person we believe killed you. Can you think of any reason your wife would want you dead?”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “That big life insurance policy tempted her,” Junette said.

  “I have no policy. We’re madly in love. She called me daily for two years. Being together again meant more than money.”

  The light turned green. I stomped on the gas and accelerated. “These things often center on finances or a lover. Long-term relationships take their toll. Loneliness may have steered one of you into the arms of another. If not you, then…”

  Junette said, “Cinderella. All alone. Shaking that fine ass. Someone must’ve bitten.”

  “Her moral compass renounces such behavior. As for money, she’s rich, or at least she will be.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Her father is ill. The doctors suggested he had a year to arrange his affairs. He’s leaving her millions.”

  “Aha! Psycho Cinderella ain’t into sharing. Knocking off Frenchie lets her keep everything.” Junette scoffed. “Case closed. Tell Detective Uppity to book Cinderella before she cancels the check.”

  “She could’ve filed a no-contest divorce.” I pulled into the office driveway and stared at the three-story brick building. “Even if her father died before it was final, inheritances are considered separate property. If she divorced, he’d get nothing.”

  “And she’s above such materialism,” Claude said. “We’ve kept the flame of our love lit for our entire twelve years of marriage.”

  “I just threw up a little in my mouth.”

  Something stood out from the brick facade. My window hung open. I had shut off the air conditioning when I left. Nina must not know how to turn it on. “Maybe we’ll find out soon.” After chugging one of Johnny’s potions, I jetted out of the car, dashed into the building, and hustled up the stairs. As I slung my suite door open, the bell rang.

  Nina sprung from the couch. She fluttered her lashes before dabbing a tissue against her cheeks. “I got scared and came back here.” She sauntered to me, reached out to touch my hand, and peered into my eyes. “Will you keep me safe?”

  “Don’t let Psycho Cinderella get too close. You’re immune to her lucky charm, but she might be armed,” Junette said.

  “We need to talk.” I motioned toward the couch. “You might want to sit.”

  She ran her hand up my arm. “I can’t handle any bad news. Please hold me for a moment first.”

  My body tensed. The potion worked. For the first time, her seducing behavior seemed obviously inappropriate, considering the circumstances. Junette read Claude’s wife correctly from the beginning. Nina didn’t run back here because of fear. The police had showed up to T-Bone’s apartment with sirens blazing. Nina must have heard them and fled, coming back in desperation. But what did she gain from killing her husband?

  “Now isn’t the time for flirting,” Claude said.

  “Suddenly, your wife’s moral compass is off, isn’t it Frenchie?”

  “That’s not my wife.”

  I froze. The room seemed to expand and contrast in tandem with my escalating heart. I stumbled back and yanked my arm from her grasp. “I need a drink…”

  “Tall, blond, and sexy isn’t Nina?”

  “My wife’s a brunette, half a foot shorter than me, and doesn’t wear makeup.”

  “See. Even without my bones, Psycho Cinderella didn’t sit right with me,” Junette said.

  My legs wobbled as I took a few steps back through my office doorway. I didn’t bother turning on the lights. “Do you want a drink?” I asked, buying time to think.

  “Nothing for me.”

  I skipped the glass and tilted back a bottle of bourbon while grinning at the me-doll on the shelf. The candle flickered, getting low but giving off the only light in the small room.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Don’t corner yourself in the office, Lud,” Junette said.

  “Are you okay?” Not-Nina asked from the doorway. She clutched her purse with one hand and rifled through it with the other. “I thought I had more tissues in here.”

  “What did you do with her?” I asked.

  “That question is premature. You must gain trust and weave a web of her lies as a trap,” Claude suggested.

  “Lud’s always blunt and direct.”

  “Who?” Not-Nina asked.

  “Nina. Claude’s wife.”

  She put her hand against her chest. “But I’m her.” Her facial expression twisted into shock, very convincing, but not real.

  “She’s a short brunet.”

  A smile flashed on her face for a millisecond, but faded quickly, as did her French accent. “You’re a lot savvier than advertised.” She drew a Ruger from her purse, then yanked the door shut behind her. “Nina’s long gone. They’ll never find her body.” The candlelight illuminated one side of her face as its dim light struggled to fill the room.

  “No!” Claude screamed.

  Before I could talk, Nina pulled the trigger. It didn’t fire. She froze, glared at the gun, then at me. As I lunged forward, she launched the Ruger. It glanced off my shoulder.

  I attempted to intercept the pistol as it fell. My fingertips brushed off the butt, sending it bouncing off my desk and into the corner.

  Nina pulled a small canister of pepper spray from her waistline and faced it toward me while tapping the top.

  I threw my hands up in anticipation, but nothing came out. Our eyes locked as she twisted and hit the canister. I lunged forward again and slapped it away with one hand as I grasped her necklace with the other. I yanked on the chain. It snapped. A thud on the carpet confirmed my suspicion. The pentacle bounced past my feet and landed behind me.

  Nina swung her metal studded purse. It swooshed inches from my forehead before colliding with the shelf, knocking the contents to the floor. The candle flickered out as it fell, leaving us in darkness.

  The purse smacked into my face. My left hand flung to my tender cheek as I blocked with the right. “Do you carry bricks in that damn thing?” I yelled.

  The bag smashed against my elbow. I snapped my arm forward, grasping the studded leather, then yanked it toward me. She released it. My momentum sent me into the wall, then to the floor.

  I heard her shuffling around as I struggled to regain my feet. Once steady, a liquid hit my face. My eyes burned. She must have found the pepper spray.

  Light shot into the room as the door flung open. Through my blurry vision, a shape resembling Not-Nina fled through the suite and out the entrance.

  I sprinted after her but tripped over something and face planted. Reaching down, I found a high-heeled shoe.

  “Cinderella lost a slipper.”

  “The odds of the gun misfiring and pepper spray jamming are astronomical. You’re a lucky man,” Claude said.

  “And you didn’t wanna light the candle.”

  Yasmin glared at me from across the cold metal table, drumming her fingers. A thick folder sat in front of her. When she requested my presence, I didn’t envision a meeting in the interrogation room.

  “Ms. Uppity gonna put us in a cage,” Junette said.

  My hand dropped to the outside of my jeans, and I rubbed the pentacle I had shoved into my pocket before heading here. Sitting back, I crossed my arms.

  Yasmin did the same. “You truly believed I referred that woman to you?”

  I nodded.

  She opened the manilla folder and slid a single piece of paper to me. “You don’t check your Yelp reviews?”

  “I didn’t realize I had any.” After leaning forward, I glanced at the printout from the website, with only one review for my nearly non-existent PI business. ‘Most incompetent detective. Go to him if you don’t want your case solved.’

  The author didn’t hide her identity. Detective Yasmin Artigas signed it herself.

  “That isn’t professional,” Claude said.

  “No wonder business is booming.” I shook my head.

  “I’ve reviewed every detail of this case and can’t figure out why his wife hired you,” Yasmin said.

  “Psycho Cinderella’s a clever one. That’s why.”

  I sighed. “She’s not his wife, as I told dispatch when I called.”

  Yasmin leaned forward and pushed the next paper to me. “Her headshots for immigration. Filed by her husband. Sure looks like her, not some…” She read from a legal pad with her scribbled notes. “…short brunette.”

  “Those aren’t the headshots I submitted,” Claude said. “My attorney can send the real ones.”

  “Did you contact his immigration attorney and confirm they match the originals?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “His attorney has been missing for a few days.”

  “Have you looked into Vlad?”

  Normally, I’d expect Yasmin to slam her hands on the table and demand I stop telling her how to do her job, but the Pentacle didn’t have to be around my neck to work. Even in my pocket, it disrupted her natural tendency to distrust me.

  “We picked up Vlad. The tough guy broke down in less than twenty minutes. Confessed to multiple crimes. All petty. He’s a dead end.” She leaned forward. “Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”

  “She actually might fancy conversing with you,” Claude said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “It’s simple. Tell me everything.” Yasmin arched her eyebrows.

  “Not you.”

  She scrunched her face, as if chewing on a lemon.

  “Did you notice her feet?” Claude asked.

  “You a freaky one, ain’t you, Frenchie.”

  Ignoring Junette, Claude added, “They’re pointing toward you, not the door. People often direct their feet to the exit when they subconsciously want to escape. Not to mention, she’s been mimicking your movements, and it doesn’t appear to be intentional. Those crafty in manipulation will mirror subjects to befriend them, but she does it involuntarily. You leaned back, she leaned back. You crossed your arms, she crossed her arms. You leaned forward…” He paused. “Well, you get the picture.”

  “Frenchie with the skills,” Junette said.

  Yasmin put her arms up. “Are you still with me, Ludwig?”

  “Hold on,” I said, raising my finger.

  Yasmin recoiled.

  Claude continued talking. “I used to consult with detectives during difficult interrogations. Not in the room, mind you. But watching from a monitor. The details tell a story, even one as minuscule as the detective’s fingernails. Her polish looks professionally done. But they’re chewed. A compulsive nail biter doesn’t waste money at a spa. She’s extra nervous about something. Maybe she has a lot riding on this case. I don’t think she suspects you. Instead, she wants your assistance but is ashamed to ask.”

  I locked eyes with Yasmin. “We all know why I’m here.”

  “Do we?” She smirked.

  “The details of my investigation are valuable, but you don’t want to admit to needing me.”

  The smirk faded from her face as she turned her head away.

  “Sudden avoidance. We hit the nail right on the head, as the kids say.”

  “Ain’t nobody’s kids saying that,” Junette said.

  Yasmin blushed. “We’re missing something. Why pretend to be his wife and come to the police station?”

  “A moment ago, you claimed she is his wife. Now you admit she isn’t?”

  She slid a passport across the table. “We found this under the hotel mattress. The picture doesn’t match the woman calling herself Nina.” She peered at me.

  “That’s why she wanted me to bring Nina’s suitcase. She needed to find the passport, because the police would become suspicious when they realized it looked nothing like her.”

  “But why?” Yasmin asked.

  “Nina just arrived in America. If they changed a couple of electronic files and made Claud and Nina disappear, Not-Nina could assume her identity.”

  “Someone killed three people, four if the immigration attorney is dead, just to steal an identity?”

  “Three?”

  Yasmin pushed another picture to me. “We found the body of Timothy Boneey this morning.”

  “T-Bone? ” Junette asked.

  Claude said. “Maybe the inheritance is a factor.”

  Memories from my childhood rarely popped into my head. So many decades have passed by since I was a lad. But a vivid memory played in my mind like a movie. My grandfather bought a puzzle, and we spent the day working on it. I got stuck when concentrating on a section with a red ball. I started there because it was the only red on the display. But despite shuffling through the remaining pieces, I failed to locate the last section of that ball. My grandfather noticed my frustration and checked the box. The piece I searched for was stuck in a fold on the inside corner. After that, it all fell into place.

  I sprung to my feet. “We’re missing the red piece.”

  “What does that mean?” Yasmin threw up her hands.

  “Did Nina’s father die?” I asked.

  Yasmin wrinkled her brow.

  Putting out my hand, I said, “Give me your phone.”

  She shook her head.

  “Fine. Search for obituaries in France.”

  “Strasbourg,” Claude said.

  “In Strasbourg France.”

  Yasmin paused for a moment, then sighed before picking up her phone.

  “His name is…”

  “Silvain Gachet,” Claude said.

  “…Silvain Gachet.”

  She typed into her phone, then froze for a moment. “He passed yesterday.”

  “I’d imagine the obituary posted online around brunch.”

  “You go, Lud,” Junette said.

  “Nina would inherit millions when her father died.” I moved from my seat and paced the room. “Someone aware of her father’s medical condition wanted to assume her identity. They played the long con, trusting the doctor’s diagnosis. With a year, they could methodically alter records at a comfortable pace. But he passed suddenly. They had to act fast.” I stopped and put my hands out. “Changing the electronic data was easy enough, but they lacked the time to alter physical records in two countries.”

  Pacing again, I added, “They killed Claude so he couldn’t blow the whistle on the scam, but unlike Nina, he worked in America. His patients would notice him missing. Inheritances take time to process. They couldn’t just make him disappear. They also needed to extract additional information to finish their identity theft, which explains the torture.”

  “That doesn’t answer why she came to the police station,” Yasmin said.

  “She needed his murder to be solved quickly, as a robbery gone wrong. The spouse is always suspected, but being questioned by detectives makes for the perfect alibi. She realized they wouldn’t fully investigate an adult missing for less than 24 hours, but thought they would take her statement. T-Bone intended to kill Claude while Not-Nina went on record with the police.” I rubbed my chin. “This would also establish her as Nina with local law enforcement.”

  “But why hire a PI?” Yasmin asked.

  “Things don’t always go as planned. First, Claude didn’t cave to the torture quickly. Nina left the station well before he coughed up the passwords. His time of death wouldn’t match her visit with the police. She needed a new alibi. That is why she kept wanting to stay with me.”

  “And second?”

  “Between beatings, Claude must have mentioned passports. They thought Nina’s was in her luggage. She needed a PI she could manipulate into retrieving items from the hotel, but one that wouldn’t discover their plot. Thanks to your defamatory review of my services, she decided I fit the bill.”

  “How did you discover her inheritance?” Yasmin asked.

  “Claude told me,” I said, then wavered and added, “Right before… he passed.” I paused. “They were his dying words.”

  She squinted. “You didn’t mention that when you gave your report.”

  “Find the lawyers handling the inheritance in France. They will connect us with the imposters’ attorneys.”

  I smiled at Yasmin, and for the first time, she smiled back.