Marianna Mystery: Nothing's As It Seems, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
KRISTIN O’FERRALL
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KRISTIN O’FERRALL
Copyright© 2021 by Kristin O’Ferrall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other noncommercial uses as permitted by copyright laws. For permission requests, please email kristinoferrallauthor@gmail.com.
ISBN: 9798704362111
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
DEDICATION
This is a book of love,
written for my boys—all three of them:
My husband Tim who has supported, guided, and encouraged me throughout the process of writing this book;
and Colin and Gavin, my joys.
How did I get so lucky?
Thank you for believing in your ol’ mom
and believing this book into reality.
You make me so proud.
Mom and Dad, thank you for passing along
the gift of creativity. I stand on your shoulders!
I would also like to thank my Marianna muses
(Delaney, Ella, and all of my amazing nieces—
Jessica, Megan, Neve, Cate, Piper, and Marianna).
I see a little bit of myself in all of you.
And thanks to ALL my family and friends
who have encouraged me. There are too many to name,
but all are remembered and cherished in my heart.
CHAPTER ONE
Dad was AN AVID reader and instilled in me that same love. Stories were magical places that would transport me to a land of adventure, mystery, and excitement—a land where my mother was still living with us, and my father was not guilt-ridden, raising an only child. This only child – me – from what I’ve been told is an eerie replica of my mother, who mysteriously disappeared when I was six.
The memory of my mother’s unexpected departure remains fresh, although now as an adult, I have put aside my anger and have learned to forgive. The last time I saw her was the night the tooth fairy was to visit me for the first time. I had lost my tooth, a little prematurely thanks to the help of an overzealous puppy, and was preparing to learn the tooth fairy’s going rate. My mother tucked me in that night, and looking back, her good night hug did seem a bit longer and tighter than usual. I remember her gently stroking my hair as I drifted off to sleep. She had such a calming way about her that always put me at ease.
The next morning, I excitedly checked under my pillow, hoping to find a cash reward for my tooth. There was none. Instead, my tooth remained, resting under the pillow untouched, next to the last reminder of my mother—a handwritten note from her, telling me that she loved me very much, but had to leave for reasons that I would one day understand.
As a child, it was never clear why she left. My father did not like to talk about her, and would only respond, “She had her reasons.”
“She loved you, Angel Bear,” he’d tell me. “You were her joy. She just had her reasons.”
My father had a nightly routine of reading to me. The earlier days of our reading sessions included Dr. Seuss books, Five Little Monkeys, and my personal favorite, I Love You This Much. Later, we graduated to novels – chapter books as I called them – that could not be completed in a night’s reading.
These books left me wondering. I would fight to stay awake to hear my father read: “Please, dad, just one more chapter.” I admit that part of me was afraid that when I woke up, he too would be gone.
The characters in my books became my best friends. They didn’t have the luxury of judging or hurting me, unlike other kids my age. We were friends because I understood them—they needed me to listen to them as they shared their inner thoughts. They were constant and loyal. And if I needed them, I could simply visit them in the pages lying patiently on my bookshelf.
I loved our evening fictional adventures. To Kill a Mockingbird was my ultimate favorite. I could relate to Scout, the protagonist, and Atticus Finch, Scout’s father, was the epitome of mine. To me, Atticus and my father were invincible. They were men of honor and integrity, who exuded quiet strength. Both lawyers, they fought against politics to uncover the truth. Just like I did.
You could say that I was destined to be a detective—it’s in my genes and my name, after all. Born Marianna Marie Mestre, I’ve always had an inclination for solving mysteries. I don’t think it was an accident that my last name—which sounds like “mystery” if you say it fast enough—resembles just the thing that I’ve always felt compelled to solve. After all, my dad is a lawyer, and he told me that to be a good lawyer, you also have to be a good detective.
I did have non-fictional friends as well, amazingly enough. My two best friends were Colin and Michael, brothers who would join me on my detective escapades. They knew that I was too inquisitive to leave unanswered questions unsolved. They indulged and assisted me in my quests for the truth. In turn, they opened doors for me to new adventures. They, namely Colin, encouraged me to step outside my social network of one and make friends.
I met Colin and Michael when I was thirteen. They had just moved into the house a few doors down. Being one of unwavering curiosity and outfitted with the need to know all, I felt obligated to introduce myself to my new neighbors.
Colin and Michael were outside tossing a lacrosse ball back and forth when I first visited. The moving truck was still in their driveway where their mother was directing the traffic flow of manhandled furniture.
“Hey there. I live down the street. I’m Marianna—Marianna Mestre.”
Colin, who was the older of the two brothers, said hello back and introduced himself and Michael. The lacrosse ball exchange continued with Michael dropping most of the balls thrown to him. He seemed more concerned with scooping up the lacrosse balls than he did my presence, so I directed my conversation to Colin. He was thirteen like me.
Michael was only six and wasn’t much of a talker. Adults used the term “non-verbal,” but I simply thought he didn’t have much to say. Michael adored Colin and followed him everywhere. I realized that if I was to be friends with Colin, I needed to be friends with Michael. They were a package deal.
Colin and Michael had moved here to Richmond from Baltimore. From my conversation with Colin, I learned that they were very upset about moving. Their father had gotten a job as a professor at the nearby university, and they had no choice in the matter. Although Virginia was only a state away, to them, they might as well have moved to the moon. I tried convincing them that they were living in the state capital and that Virginia was the best state ever. They didn’t want to hear it. Baltimore was where they were born and raised, and Richmond was nowhere they wanted to be.
Midway through our conversation, I realized that this prospective friendship was going nowhere. I had learned that Colin and Michael didn’t like my hometown, they weren’t interested in hearing about it, and my constant questioning was starting to wear on them, or at least on Colin. Michael still hadn’t acknowledged my presence. If it hadn’t been for our first case—the case that fell upon us by happenstance—we probably wouldn’t have been friends.
It all began when Colin and Michael’s father ran out of the house to ask their mother if she had seen his laptop. After learning that “no, she hadn’t seen it” and it wasn’t in their car where she thought, “surely, it must be,” I decided to interject myself and ask the parents a few questions. Their blank stares explained a lot. Mainly it explained that they had no idea who I was and why this strange girl was giving them the third degree.
“Mom, Dad,” Colin introduced, “This is Marianna; she lives down the street.”
They half-nodded, indicating that they understood that much but still didn’t know why I was bombarding them with questions. I’ve been known to ask a lot of questions—or at least that is what my father tells me—but I got that from him. He’s a lawyer, after all, so technically, it is his fault.
“So, when did you last remember seeing your briefcase?” I asked. More blank stares.
“Wait a minute, I did have it,” said Mr. Logan. “I was working on my class curriculum and exams in the kitchen, right before the movers came.”
“Maybe you left it in Baltimore,” I added.
“No, no.” Mr. Logan was deep in thought. “I know, one of the movers reminded me to grab it, he pointed to it, I thanked him . . . and then . . . I . . . put my laptop in my briefcase, in the trunk.”
Padding his pockets, Mr. Logan fumbled for his keys. “The trunk.” I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or anyone in particular.
“Colin,” Mr. Logan said, popping his head out of the car trunk, “did you take the laptop out of my briefcase to play one of your video games?”
“Noooo,” Colin answered, obviously annoyed at the accusation. Michael shook his head “no” before his dad had a chance to ask him the same thing.
“So, this mover that reminded you to get it, is he still here?” I asked.
Colin and Michael’s dad, realizing that he had no choice but to engage me, resigned himself to my inquisition. “Hmm, I think so, young guy.”
As if on cue, a “young guy” came out of the house carrying a moving blanket, and Mr. Logan’s look of recognition spurred me to chase after him.
“Excuse me, sir, have you seen a computer? A laptop, have you seen a laptop?” Instead of answering, he just stared at me as if he was a deer in a headlight.
“Cheese and crackers,” I muttered, “why is everyone giving me that look?”
“He doesn’t speak English,” I heard another mover tell me.
“Oh, well then. Can you translate for me? Mr. Logan can’t find his laptop and said that he,” I say, pointing to the young boy, “was the last one, besides himself, to see it.”
The other mover suddenly looked worried. “¿Has visto un ordenador portátil?” the mover asked the younger mover.
“No, no,” the young mover responded.
The older mover continued speaking to him in Spanish. Judging from his tone and facial expression, he was interrogating the younger mover on the whereabouts of the laptop.
“Sí, sí en Baltimore,” the young mover responded. I could decipher that part. Baltimore was where he last saw the laptop. It was also the last place that Mr. Logan had seen it.
There was a further exchange in Spanish, with the older gentleman speaking loudly and the younger mover shrugging his shoulders. I walked back over to Mr. Logan, shaking my head in disappointment.
“Maybe you did leave it back in Baltimore,” I said as I followed him and Mrs. Logan into the house. I gave him a quick pat on the back to reassure him. “Don’t worry; I’ll help you find it.”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Logan responded with a quizzical look. “Who are you again?”
CHAPTER TWO
The Logans’ house was quite similar to mine, although it was updated with modern amenities, such as stainless steel appliances and fancy kitchen countertops. I wandered around their house, catching the echo of my voice against bare walls and stacked boxes. Three bedrooms occupied the Logan house, yet only two were occupied with furniture. Colin and Michael had decided to share a room, which must have previously housed a female tenant judging by the cascading folds of pale pink curtains.
“Those will be going away,” Colin volunteered.
Michael pounced on one of the beds that rested parallel to its twin counterpart. Within a minute, he was up again, grabbing my wrist and motioning me to follow. I willingly obliged because, quite frankly, up until that point, I wasn’t sure if he even knew I existed. Leading me into their bathroom, Michael opened a cabinet under the sink and pointed to a large hole. I recognized this as a laundry chute. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that not only does my house have the same feature, but so did most of the other (older) homes on the street.
Instead, my response was my standard one-word answer, “Cool,” when what I should have said was “don’t try squeezing your body through that hole,” having tried that once as a youngster. But I didn’t warn him. And Michael did try squeezing through the hole that same day. It was during our first game of hide-and-seek – the first of many more to come – that this happened. Colin and I were able to pull Michael out before their parents were all the wiser. They never found out, and to this day, we still look back at that time and laugh.
The laptop never turned up that day. I really thought it would. With all the packing, unpacking, and moving, I figured that the laptop was just misplaced. I think that’s what Mr. and Mrs. Logan were hoping as well, but by dinnertime, the laptop was still missing. Mr. Logan called the moving company to confirm this realization. He even called the realtor back in Baltimore to check their old house, but nothing was found. I heard Mr. Logan apologize to the moving company, which seemed odd since, as far as I was concerned, the moving company should have apologized to him. But maybe they did. I only heard one side of the conversation.
“Well?” Mrs. Logan asked as soon as her husband got off the phone.
“Well, the moving company is licensed and insured, so I can get reimbursed for the laptop or for whatever the insurance company says that it is worth. Which probably won’t be much. The good news is, fortunately, I have my work saved on a flash drive.”
“And it looks like they’re going to fire that young mover,” he added. “I feel awful. I told them that he probably didn’t take it. Why would he have reminded me to grab my laptop? There’s no way to be sure though, and the owner said this is the fourth time this month that they’ve had similar complaints. And all the complaints were on days that he was working.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mrs. Logan replied.
I could see that Mr. Logan was still upset. His suggestion of pizza for dinner appeared to be his attempt at shrugging it off.
I was troubled too. Something didn’t seem right. My gut told me that the young mover hadn’t taken the laptop, and when Mr. Logan opened his briefcase to retrieve his wallet, my logical side became even more perplexed. Why would someone steal a laptop and not take the wallet or the money in it? They were also in the briefcase.
“Mr. Logan, is all your money there? Any missing?”
“Uh,” he said, pulling out fresh twenty-dollar bills that were most likely the by-product of a recent ATM transaction. “No, all accounted for.”
Colin confirmed what I was thinking. “Then, why didn’t he steal the money? Oh man, I bet he didn’t take the laptop.”
“Yeah, but who did or what happened to it?” I asked.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I really wanted to consult my dad about what happened—after all, he was a lawyer and had defended his share of the falsely accused—but I didn’t get the chance. Dad was more than a little upset that I had extended my stay at Colin and Michael’s. Well, that and I had forgotten to tell him where I was. Not one to get easily angered, my dad was seething by the time I had gotten home. Sending me straight to bed with a lecture and a hug, he didn’t give me a chance to tell him about the case.
“Hey, you guys awake?” I asked in the walkie-talkie that Colin had secretly slipped me when I was leaving their house. “In case we need to talk” was his reasoning. It was this gesture that affirmed to me that I had been accepted as their friend.
“Yeah, you?” Colin responded.
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” It was pretty cool, actually.
“I was thinking,” I whispered into the walkie-talkie. “We need to find out who all works for that moving company. There were other movers that day. Maybe someone else stole it. Or maybe it wasn’t even stolen.”
Colin laughed a little before signing out, “My dad’s right; you are tenacious.”
“Tenay-chis? What does that mean? Is that an insult?” I was a little hurt; I had just met the family, and they were already talking about me.
“Nooo, it means that you don’t give up, or at least that’s what he said it meant. He said it was a compliment.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, not completely convinced. “Well, I guess I’ll have to use my tenay-whatever to solve this case. But I need your help.”
The three of us met up the next morning, ready and eager to crack the case. We used an old whiteboard to jot down what we knew and what we needed to know. I had watched my share of detective shows, and all good detectives had, what I called, a “thinking board,” a place where they would write up their theories, suspects, clues, etc. The whiteboard would be our thinking board, and we quickly muddied it with our list of facts. We knew that there were. . .
Facts
(1) 4 movers helping yesterday
(2) 3 other complaints
The list of what we didn’t know was a lot longer.
What we don’t know
