Chapter Text
There’s an ornate box in the bottom drawer of Harlan’s desk.
Harlan’s desk which was now legally and surreally Marta’s desk. But she’s pretty sure she’s never going to see it that way. The whole house was Harlan’s, every inch. It’s hard to believe that it existed before he bought it. The brick, the dark wood, the decorative glass window panes. The ‘T’ carved in stone at the forefront of the house. Apparently it stood for Turner at some point but now it was undeniably Thrombey.
But back to the ornate box.
Marta found it a little over a week after Alicia and Mama moved in. A few disagreements between the Cabrera’s cropped up after the remaining Thrombeys cleared out. Alicia made a rather large point about selling the house and moving out of Massachusetts all together - “ Aye, no way Marta, no me gusta . This place is creepy,” She whispered as they toured the empty house.
Mama didn’t say anything until they reached the third guest bathroom on the first floor, “It’s too big for us, mija.” But Mama didn’t want to move out of Massachusetts. She was friendly with the women at church and around the neighborhood. She was madrina to two twin girls down the street. It was hard to leave that behind.
“We’re not going anywhere, Mama. No te preocupes,” Marta reassured her, “But I don’t think we should stay at our home anymore.”
And that was something they could all mostly agree on. Their quiet little neighborhood that the Waspy folk used to ignore became a mini landmark overnight thanks to the countless news vans, independent journalists, novelists, podcast hosts - and, at one point, a producer from Entertainment Television .
“We think you could be the next Kardashians,” were her exact words.
So they broke their lease and agreed to move to the Thrombey house temporarily. Just until they found a place near the old neighborhood that could offer more comfort and security, now that they could afford it. In the meanwhile Marta would sort through the house and other assets, deal with Mama’s immigration status, figure out what to do with Blood Like Wine, and maybe, hopefully, adjust to the fact that her life was very different now.
And that led to the discovery of the ornate box. Marta stood in the study on the first floor with her hair tied up and an empty filebox tucked under her arm. The task was daunting but Marta figured that this room was as good a place to start as any. There wasn’t a room in the house that didn’t remind Marta of Harlan but this space wasn’t as private as the other Thrombey’s might have thought it was. The doors were hardly ever closed, was one thing. Harlan was dramatic as a writer and as a man, so sitting behind that desk with his many props and knick knacks and valuable curios was a little performative.
It wasn’t as personal as the private nook upstairs where they played go. The place where he died.
Yes, she’d start here. She’d start with the desk. The top two drawers had the typical items; stationary, fountain pens, stamps, envelopes. The next two held personal items that Marta felt more than bad looking through. Letters and cards from writer friends and, more surprisingly, a stack of postcards from Ransom. Marta jolted, reading the name. She flipped through them, a blur of European landscapes passing by - Barcelona, Marseille, Paris, Amsterdam.
They were dated from seven years ago, around the time Ransom graduated college. Marta placed the stack among the other personal letters and moved onto the bottom drawers.
On the left she found a few notebooks that she recognized. She placed them on the desk, curious about what book ideas they held. Scraps of characters he was forming. Research on poisons and garrotes and exotic animals. Marta would look over it later feeling deep within her that Harlan wouldn’t mind.
In the right drawer was the ornate box. She sat in the chair and brought it onto her lap. “Cigars?” She wondered, idley.
That’s what it seemed like, a very fine cigar box. A nice, weighty and polished wood with beautiful floral detail carved into the side panels. Except there wasn’t a seam between the lid and container, no way to open it. The top had a thin metal plaque with filigree and a finely decorated capital T .
T for Thrombey.
The phone on the desk rang and Marta jumped. She let out a breathy laugh at herself, at the ridiculous nature of this house that could turn a ringing phone into scare. “Hello?” She answered, putting the box back into the drawer.
It was Sharon, an immigration lawyer Alan had recommended, “I wanted to ask you a few more questions regarding your mother’s documentation…”
And then, just as easily as it was found, the box was forgotten.
Mama took the guest room on the first floor, Alicia took Linda’s on the third and Marta took what used to be Neil’s on the second. Mama and Alicia never met any of the Thrombeys, thank God, so each room was equally strange to them. They could have taken any room and felt a superficial sort of weirdness - sleeping in a room decorated to someone else's taste, filled with odd and expensive belongings. But it didn’t go beyond that, not the way it did for Marta. She knew each of them and the idea of sleeping in any of the spaces they occupied felt wrong.
But she’d never met Neil. His childhood room which Joni always took when visiting Harlan. Her decorative touch was mild - lavender candles and soft bedding. Light, breezy curtains. Not as intense as the rest of the house. Not so infused with memories of Drysdales and Thrombeys.
The first thing the Cabrera’s had done in each of their new, temporary rooms, was strip the beds and apply their own sheets and comforters. Soft, hand stitched quilts from Mama’s sisters south of the border. Mama took down a framed photo of the family from ten, maybe fifteen years ago and put a cross up instead. Alicia and Marta watched and then glanced at each other. Alicia lifted a brow and her eyes quickly darted to the framed photo again.
Marta nodded, “I should send it to one of them.”
Alicia shrugged, “If they cared they would have grabbed it when they had the chance.”
“Technically I own it now.”
“You think they’re above stealing?”
Marta didn’t answer.
“Don’t act like you wouldn’t have let them take it. If they had asked,” Alicia said, and left to ascend the creaky stairs to her room.
Mama came over and smoothed away the worry in Marta’s brow, “We can put them in a box, mija. Figure out what to do with it en la mañana.”
Marta set one of their moving boxes in Harlan’s study and froze a moment before placing the framed photo in. It was shot outside the house, and it looked like summer if the knee length dresses and rolled up dress shirts meant anything. Warm light cast on them. Linda, Walt and Neil all wearing forced smiles. Richard stood beside his wife, his arm firm around her. Donna was next to Walt, resting a hand on her round stomach. Harlan stood in the center, that ever present mischievous glint in his eye.
But that’s not what had caught Marta’s attention. Meg was there, younger and disinterested. Ransom stood next to her, his arm slung around her - posed by the photographer or the parents, no doubt - but he didn’t smile so much as smirk. And that’s what’s caught her attention. The same glint in his eyes that Harlan had. It always caught her off guard, the idea that they were anything alike.
Benoit Blanc went to Ransom’s hearing with Marta. Mama and Alicia were there too, on either side of Marta, each holding her hand. Mama looked close to tears so Benoit did that southern gentleman thing Marta assumed only happened in movies; he handed her a handkerchief and promised Mama it would be alright.
“These things tend to be quick when the defendant pleads guilty,” Benoit said, reassuring Mama and Marta at once.
Ransom was pleading guilty to two counts of attempted murder and one count of aggravated assault. It still qualifies as ‘aggravated’ assault, apparently, even if the knife you’re using is a collapsible prop. And this was surprising to Marta since he’d obviously gone through such trouble in the first place. In for a penny, in for a pound. The downfall of evil men was never knowing when to stop.
Pleading insanity seemed more like him. He’d love nothing more than to drag everyone through a lengthy trial and put on a performance; poor little rich boy, if only he’d been brought up in a loving family instead of a wealthy one maybe then he wouldn’t be so crazy. The pressure of his playboy lifestyle finally got to him.
But, Marta quickly learned, pleading guilty wasn’t the same as feeling guilty. Linda got him an expensive lawyer who got Ransom the deal of a lifetime; ten years but likely less with good behavior. The justice system is disgusting.
“The defendant has asked to deliver a personal statement of remorse and I’m granting him the time to do so,” The judge said, gesturing at Ransom who rose from his seat beside his lawyer.
“Thank you, your honor, I really appreciate it,” Ransom said in a voice that sounded so faux-sincere Marta had to wonder if the judge was stupid or just so deep in Linda’s pocket. Maybe a combination of the two. Ransom read from a sheet of paper in his hands, “I understand that my actions can never be taken back, and for that I am deeply sorry. My grandfather Harlan Thrombey was a man dedicated to his craft and his family - even when we were too blind to see it. I have always looked up to him and am,” He paused, his voice trembling, “so ashamed that I allowed petty, family drama to sway my reasoning. I miss him dearly.
“Fran, I know there is nothing I can say that can ever undo what I have done. But I need you to know that I regret it and that I’m thankful that you’re alive. I understand if you can’t ever forgive me, my actions were deplorable.
“Marta,” He started and then, horrifyingly, decided to turn to face where she was sitting in the back of the courtroom, “you should know that Harlan cared for you unendingly. He always spoke about you like you were the smartest person in the room. He’d lie, sometimes, and say you were his favorite granddaughter-” Somewhere, on the opposite side of the courtroom Meg gasped, “and I wish I never ruined the bond between you two. I’m glad he left the inheritance to you. I know you’ll be wiser and kinder with it than we ever could have been. You deserve it.”
Marta’s heart beat inside of her chest wildly, a bird throwing itself against a cage. She wondered if Alicia and Mama could feel it in the rapid pulse in her hands. But, despite it all, she couldn’t look away from Ransom as he stared at her. His blue eyes shone tearfully but too much; theatrically. And they bore into her and her alone.
Ten years but probably less. Maybe he’d piss someone off and get shanked.
Marta and Blanc walked around the grounds later that evening, the dogs following alongside them. “I don’t mean to be uncouth, Miss Cabrera, but I hoped you’d allow me to inquire about the fate of Mr. Drysdale’s residence?”
Marta stopped, peering at Blanc, “What do you mean?”
“I hate being intrusive, but it is a matter of public record and I did look into it during the investigation,” Blanc said, tugging at his collar. She wondered how much of that - his personality - was real and how much he did because it amused him, “The deed to Mr. Drysdale’s house was in Harlan Thrombey’s name. Which means-”
“Oh my god,” Marta touched her gloved hand to her chest,
“-it’s rightfully yours.”
She was supposed to, at some point, fully sit down with Alan and go over the will - beyond the single page document so she could fully understand the entirety of what was now hers. But she was also supposed to help Mama become a citizen and figure out what to do with the Thrombey family portraits and find a new house for her family and--and--and!
“I didn’t realize,” She sighed, finally.
“You’re quite the tightrope walker,” Blanc said and patted her shoulder, “you’ll find your balance.”
“Do you think I should sell it?” She asked.
He smiled, a little slyly, “To the highest bidder.”
“Do you think you’ll ever stop finding out that you own more things,” Alicia asked, standing outside of Ransom’s house - which was Harlan’s house which makes it Marta’s house.
“I hope so.”
Alicia laughed, “I don’t. It’s getting kind of fun.”
Mama was spending the day with friends from the old neighborhood. Marta thought she would have to beg Alicia to help her sort through Ransom’s place but her sister practically jumped at the opportunity. And Marta was glad. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be there alone.
“It’s pretty, y’know, in a snobby white boy kind of way.”
It was. Light colors, spotless glass, sharp corners. “C’mon,” Marta said, unlocking the door and ushering her sister inside. They flipped on the lights.
She had half expected the house to feel different. Insidious maybe, but it was just as it was before. Sleek, masculine furniture and an abundance of natural light. She did realize thought, that she hadn’t fully taken in her surroundings last time.
“Huh,” She said, seeing the bookcases in the living room out of the corner of her eye. Ransom was ivy league, Marta knew that, but still she didn’t take him for the reading type. Even with an author for a grandfather. But the shelves were stuffed - nonfiction, essay collections, novels, anthologies. They stood vertically or lay horizontally, stacked around each other like a game of Tetris. Many with cracked spines or bookmarks sticking out.
Ransom had Harlan’s books. Not all of them; Harlan was prolific, having around one hundred titles under his name. But Ransom’s collection had several, all on their own shelf. Marta pulled the one on the very left out, Dropping Like Flies , and opened it.
It was signed and cheekily dedicated: For Ransom; my grandson, not a payoff. Marta huffed a laugh and checked the publication date. Late eighties, maybe around the time Ransom was born.
Marta pulled out another, The Only Dead Boy in New York , and saw that it too was signed by Harlan but he had scrawled in a note as well; For the last time, you did not inspire the main character. Your ego is astounding! You are not the only rich young man in need of redemption.
The words at face value were harsh but the fact that Harlan wrote them in there for Ransom was undeniably fond. The fact that, likely, each of these books contained a personal message from grandfather to grandson. Love disguised as hate. A game they played with each other. A game that Ransom bested Harlan at without a chance for a rematch.
“Marta,” Alicia called, halfway up the stairs, “his bedroom is probably up here.”
Marta slid the book back into place and hurried over to follow her sister up the stairs. There was only one door to open.
“Wow,” Alicia said, stepping into the room, almost hypnotically.
The view was breathtaking. The entire wall across from them was clear glass, revealing beautiful, misty woods. Tall, dark trees standing bare in the winter, the last of their leaves dead on the ground. It must have been a sight during spring and summer, with warm light filtering through the canopy.
“I hate him,” Marta said.
Alicia nodded, “Me too,” And then she did something awful and indecent - she leapt toward the bed and landed on her back, bouncing slightly on the surface. The sheets were rumpled and unmade already from the last day he’d been there, “so this is how a murderer sleeps.”
Despite feeling sick, her stomach gurgling like she was about to lie, Marta forced herself to laugh. “Get off there,” Marta tried to say lightly.
“It’s stupidly comfortable. This is beyond memory foam. It’s I’ve always known you foam.”
Marta shook her head and walked to the bathroom, just to get away from the sight of it, her sister on Ransom’s bed. Alicia always had a little morbid curiosity, despite the efforts of Mama. But, let’s face it, both Cabrera sisters shared that quirk whether they wanted to or not. As Alicia poked through his nightstand Marta walked past the double sinks and deep-soak jacuzzi tub and into the closet.
It was a walk-in, it’s own little room. Lush with thick knitted sweaters, smart looking coats, and scarves. Toward the back was his summer and spring wardrobe - maybe he had someone who came in and rotated pieces for him when the seasons changed. Hanging back there was a pattern that caught her eye; the shirt he’d worn last 4th of July. It was gaudy and she suspected he’d worn it simply because he knew it would upset Linda.
It was a short sleeve button up but he had it a size too big and wore it billowy and undone to the middle of his torso. Navy blue with metallic thread and beadwork embroidered across the back into the spectacular explosions of fireworks. He’d tucked it into fitted, white shorts adorned with a shining belt. He seemed overtly aware of his handsomeness and that made him bland and unappealing.
Marta trailed a finger over the fine handiwork, the gold thread and ruby red gems. The soft, silky material of the shirt. Marta wore a yellow dress she picked up from Target. A dress that was multipurpose; Thrombey Event dress and church dress and Alicia’s birthday dress. A dress that became stained after that game of mafia.
She turned and was met with a display rack of shoes; oxfords and brogues and loafers and sneakers. But at the top was not a pair of shoes.
It was an ornate box.
Marta swallowed as she stared up at it, where it was on the highest shelf with a beam of light shining down on it like a spotlight. She grabbed it and her fingers grazed the same floral carvings on the sides. On top was the same thin metal plaque, but with a capital D.
D for Drysdale.
“What’s that?” Alicia asked, watching Marta from the doorway.
“I,” She started but paused, unsure what to say but certain that a new mystery was blooming, “I don’t know.”
They left shortly after that, with the box tucked under Marta’s arm and the keys to the BMW. A brief search revealed that Harlan Thrombey’s name was on the car title. Another thing she now owned.
The problem is that, most likely, there are only four people who know about the boxes. Marta, and Alicia by extension, Harlan - who was still very dead - and Ransom who was in prison.
Marta placed them on the desk in her née Joni née Neil’s room. She leaned against the corner of the desk and stared down at both of them, the polished wood gleaming in the lamplight. They weren’t identical in that artificial, factory-made kind of way, but they were indeed identical. Another link between Harlan and Ransom, maybe another game they were playing.
She had two options but they were equally unwanted. She could pack away the boxes along with the other Thrombey-Drysdale items and forget they ever appeared in her life. Or she could contact Ransom. She could ask him what they were.
She opened up the desk drawer and pulled out an old bundle of stationary and a pen.
A week later she got a collect call.
“I think,” Ransom said, his voice low through the phone, “amateur sleuths don’t usually write the men they put in jail.”
Marta didn’t say anything. She just grabbed the boxy body of the old phone and settled into the corner of Harlan’s reading nook. It was, by design, the most private area of the house. She had spent a lot of time there lately, waiting for the phone to ring.
“But, y’know, I don’t exactly get a lot of choice social interaction so maybe I shouldn’t be so picky.”
“I’m not being social ,” Marta said and she was proud of how she sounded. Her voice didn’t shake but she wasn’t too stern either. She didn’t sound like she cared too much about what he thought.
“Of course not,” Ransom replied solemnly but she knew he was smiling. Locked up far away, dressed in a cheap prison uniform and smiling into the transmitter of his phone, “So, you found the boxes.”
He said it in a way that stirred something silly and adventurous inside her, like she was maybe always destined to find these boxes , like they held a secret or a clue or the beginning of another mystery. But that would be insane. They were strange and mysterious but that fact had little to do with her and everything to do with the essence of being a Thrombey.
Or a Drysdale.
“Yes,” She said and waited. She curled further into her spot in the reading nook, further into the plush armchair. There was an art to this, she’d heard. Whoever makes the first move takes the losing position. She had written to him, asked him outright what the boxes were, what they held and how to open them. She asked him to write back or call. She was already losing. “Are you going to tell me more about them?”
“In case you haven’t noticed this is going to be the rest of your life. There’s always going to be a key that doesn’t fit any of the locks, a painting with a cryptic message on the back, a hidden room you won’t discover for a long time.”
Was that supposed to scare her? He said it half menacingly but it was wholly true if she decided to live in Harlan’s house for the rest of her life. Which she wouldn’t, she’d only be there until she got a real handle on the financials. Then she’d move into a new home with Mama and Alicia and everything would be back to normal.
And even if she had to live there forever? Well, that didn’t scare her.
Marta didn’t say anything. She waited.
“Here’s an idea,” Ransom said and the smile was back in his voice, “I’ll tell you about the boxes if you do me a favor.”
“A favor?” Marta huffed, almost laughing. A brief memory of them sitting across from each other resurfaced, a plate of baked beans and sausage in front of her, a deal being hatched between them. “No, Ransom, no favors.”
“What, do you think I’m going to screw you over again?”
“You might try,” She said.
Ransom laughed, “There’s no point, Marta. You won.”
They were quiet again. Marta toyed with the wire, and waited. Maybe she would take the boxes to the highest point in the house and throw them out the window, just to see them splinter. That, at least, would be easier. Faster too.
“This is stupid,” She said finally, “Goodbye, Ransom.”
“Wait!-”
But it was too late, she hung up.
He called the following Wednesday, while Mama and Alicia were out touring homes. And the day after that, when Marta was talking over the details of the publishing empire with Alan. And then Friday, when Mama was making soup from scratch and Marta had to run for the phone before Alicia got it. Like she was a teenager again.
Mama raised a brow, “Tu novio?”
Marta’s face turned red, “No.”
They didn’t know that Marta talked to him. There’d be a lot of questions from Alicia and a lot of disappointment from Mama. It’d be easier if they didn’t know. It’d be easier if he stopped calling.
She told him as much the following week, when she was alone in the reading nook. “Stop calling.”
“No, wait!” And he sounded just as desperate, like no time had elapsed between his last call and now. Like he’d been waiting to say this, which, Marta figures, maybe he had. “I...should have started with an apology last time.”
“I think you covered that in court.”
He huffed, “Were the tears too much? They felt like too much.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah, okay,” and then he sighed and was quiet for a moment, “maybe it’s not an apology, maybe it’s a confession. It’s a secret, actually. Don’t you want to hear it?”
“No,” she said and actually frowned when her stomach turned. She didn’t! She didn’t want to know whatever foul thing that was about to come out of Ransom’s mouth.
Her stomach kept turning and Marta got up to drag a trash bin closer to her.
“I think you're lying.”
Marta squirmed but didn’t say anything to refute that.
His voice took a dramatic flair - and that was very Harlan, “There’s only one knife on that display that’s real, according to Harlan. Out of the hundred or so.”
That would be easy to fact check, now that she owned the place. She could go knife by knife if she wanted to. She could fling them at the carpet to see what stuck.
He continued, “I knew I wouldn’t grab the real one. I’d been on a losing streak so far so, y’know, I figured the odds were against me.”
Marta stared down at the trash bin between her feet. She was going to throw up as soon as the phone call was over. She hated puking very much.
“What if you grabbed the real one? What if you killed me?”
She could hear him shifting in his hard seat, his cheap clothes scraping against each other. The question made him uncomfortable. Good. “I would have felt bad, Marta. Honest to God. But at least I’d have a win in my column.”
Marta puked then.
“It’s going to be slow, especially now around the holidays, but I believe we’ll be able to make some serious headway on your immigration status, Mrs. Cabrera,” Sharon said, concluding their meeting. Marta held Mama’s hand tightly, squeezing her assuredly.
See I told you I would take care of you , the touch said, yo te amo .
“Thank you very much,” Marta smiled, standing to shake the lawyers hand.
“Of course,” Sharon said, shaking Marta’s hand then Mama’s, “There are a few signatures I need you to finalize, Mrs. Cabrera, as we secure you some temporary documentation. If you’ll follow my assistant, Rachel, into the room next door. Marta, there is one last thing I’d like to go over with you.”
Something changed in Sharon’s eyes as she said it. Marta’s brow wrinkled, “Oh. Okay,” then she looked at Mama, “I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”
Mama grabbed her purse, tugged on the handles nervously, “¿Qué ondas?”
“Yo no sé,” Marta shrugged, “but it’s okay, Mama.”
Marta turned to Sharon after Mama left, “Is something wrong?”
Sharon sat down again and Marta followed suit, her stomach turning nervously. “This isn’t exactly official, which is why I’m only telling you and not you and your mother, but Linda Drysdale - well, I knew her socially, for a time, years ago.”
The breath caught in Marta’s throat, as she continued listening.
“She called me yesterday and in a roundabout way and implied that you and your sister’s citizenship might be false.” Sharon said, delicately, “I immediately told her that the phone call was entirely inappropriate but still, Marta, I’m very sorry but I must ask…”
Marta’s face heated, “We were born in the states.”
“Yes, of course, just as I thought. It would be helpful if you would fax the office copies of both of your birth certificates. Just to have on record.”
Marta nodded, shook Sharon’s hand again, and met Mama in the reception area.
“What’s the matter?”
Marta shrugged, “She just had a few questions for me.”
Mama’s eyes narrowed but thankfully she didn’t ask her daughter to go further into detail. Marta wasn’t sure how she could avoid saying it’s the Thrombeys, Mama, it’s always the Thrombeys.
Marta Cabrera was served with three lawsuits the following week. Meg called her and left a message, “I had no idea, Marta. I swear. They can be so selfish. By the way, I wanted to say thank you again for covering my final year of tuition, but I’m actually thinking about auditing a few classes in the summer to see if I want to apply for grad school. Let me know when we can chat!”
She could always hang up on Ransom. That was her advantage. That’s how she justified picking up on the first ring the next time he called. Marta could pick up the phone and put it down and know that he would burn with anger because there was nothing he could do but call back when he was next allowed.
Marta had just gotten home from back to back meetings. One with Alan to discuss how to handle three lawsuits, and the other with Harlan’s financial planner, Stanley. They went over financial holdings, stocks, bonds. There was a lot of paperwork signing, a lot of forms to be filed so that things would be in her name - or, sometimes, Alicia’s name or Mama’s name. She was setting up nest eggs for them. That seemed like a good first step while she learned to navigate life in the space Harlan left for her.
She thought she might have a glass of wine. She wasn’t really a drinker but she had just finished staring at graphs and market reports and her own name for a long time.
Then the phone rang.
The hairs on the back of Marta’s neck stood as she hurried toward the phone in the first floor study. “I’ve got it!” She called out to her sister and mother in the house, hoping they’d assume it was business related. Hoping they wouldn’t pry.
Marta accepted the collect call and sat in Harlan’s chair. She swiveled to look out the window at the great expanse of fallen snow. And she waited.
“Hi” Ransom said, sounding bright and casual.
Checked over her shoulder and saw that the study was empty, that nobody had come down the hall to check on her. “Why are you calling me?”
Ransom laughed, “You’re not one for small talk, are you?”
“I’ve had to endure a lot of it, don’t you think? At your family functions.”
He hummed and it was so close a sound, so neatly in her ear that it felt like he was there with her. “That’s true. Harlan didn’t like small talk either.”
No, he didn’t. Even if a conversation seemed superficial, which was rare, she trusted that Harlan always had a point in mind. It was always in service of something. That was very writerly of him.
“So,” She said.
“So,” He replied and paused, letting the quiet sit there a while. “I heard you’re being sued. Jesus, Linda just doesn’t know when to quit, does she?”
“It seems to run in the family.”
To her surprise Ransom laughed, deep and throaty, “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I want you to know I’ve come around on the whole thing, though. I meant it when I said you deserved the inheritance.”
“That’s very big of you, Ransom.”
“I thought so,” He preened before his tone took a colder air, “but seriously, Marta. Don’t let them having a fucking dime.”
Marta breathed through her nose, sharp. Not quite a laugh, but maybe the start of one. More than any other thing in her life this phone call was confusing. “Why are you calling me?” She asked again.
Ransom didn’t say anything for several moments. She wondered what he looked like now, huddled by the prison phone and mulling over his thoughts. Or if this was another one of his practiced performances. “ You wrote to me , Marta. And that,” He sighed, sounding impressed, “well, that surprised me. You keep surprising me.”
He said it like it was a hard thing to do, to catch Hugh Ransom Drysdale off guard. Marta shook her head - how privileged could someone get? Even from prison he thought he was so smart and deserving of some amusement, a clever little immigrant to keep him on his toes.
“Here’s the truth, Ransom; it’s not very hard.”
He laughed again, but Marta didn’t know for how long. She hung up.
She sat on her bed the following Saturday night after dinner with the boxes in front of her. Marta held one up, T for Thrombey, shook it and heard nothing. No indication that anything was inside at all but what is a box without its contents? Slowly, Marta slid her hands along the top and sides, holding her breath, waiting for her fingers to find an opening.
It was a puzzle, she knew that much. And some quick browsing on the internet informed her that puzzle boxes often had a series of shifting parts that unlocked the whole. It was all about finding the starting point.
But she found nothing.
Marta sighed and stood from the bed. She paced the floor, hands on her hips, sleep shirt baggy on her small frame.
Harlan told her once that the difference between life and fiction is that the little details line up neatly in fiction. The protagonist stumbles upon something early on that seems insignificant to them but is crucial by the third act. Harlan said that real life hands you details and never tips it’s hand. Never tells you if something is important or not.
“It’s up to the individual to decide,” he said, “no one will make it neat and decide for you.”
Marta glanced at the boxes, the beautiful craftsmanship, the mystery of them.
“Harlan,” She whispered to her empty room, “I think these are important.”
“The BMW is just sitting there,” Alicia said casually one morning.
Marta looked up from the desk in Harlan’s study, where she was reading over legal papers, “I’m sorry?”
She has seen this before, or at least experienced it through Harlan. Alicia quit her job a few weeks ago, insisting that she needed time to help her sister adjust to this new life. It had made sense. She was on break from school anyway, community college classes, and she no longer needed to work to keep herself enrolled. Marta promised to take care of her.
Wealth is a slippery slope.
“The car, Ransom’s,” Alicia said.
She was quiet. Waiting for Marta to offer.
“Do you want it?”
Alicia’s eyes widened, “I mean, I think it would be easier than us sharing your car, and it’s harder to use the bus out here...but only if you’re sure, I get it if that’s weird-”
“The keys are on the entryway table.”
Alicia smiled, “Thank you!” and turned away, ready to take it out for a drive
“But,” Marta found herself saying, unsure of how her next words would be received. Alicia froze, turned to face her sister, “I want you to think about transfering to a four year college. Now that we can afford it.”
She didn’t say you can only have the car if you go to school but that’s what she meant wasn’t it? And even if that hadn’t been what she meant it’s what Alicia heard. “Okay, sure. I’ll look into it. Thanks, Marta.”
Marta smiled but it felt a little thin. “No problem.”
Marta was scouring Harlan’s bedroom on a Tuesday afternoon. Mama was out, Alicia was out. There wasn’t any real, logical reason but she knew she wanted to be alone when going through the things in Harlan’s room. She hadn’t stood in there, alone, for more than a few minutes since they’d moved in.
Marta stood there and breathed, letting the smell of leather bound books and tobacco and age fill her. Tears collected in her eyes.
She rubbed them away with the back of her hand and headed for the armoire, seeing a few photos there to add to the collection in the study downstairs. Marta leaned up onto her tiptoes and grabbed a frame. A portrait of Harlan’s wife.
Eleanor Thrombey and Harlan Thrombey divorced decades ago, but she kept his last name. She died tragically in a fire in the early 2000s. That’s all Marta knew.
Well, there was a bit more than that. Marta could see it sometimes, in Harlan’s eyes, when he’d ask Marta to put on a specific record. A soft, crooning song. He loved Eleanor immensely. And she must have loved him too, to keep his name for the rest of her life.
The portrait was black and white and from the sixties, maybe. Eleanor’s lashes were long and her eyeliner was thick. She smiled with her whole face, embracing the slight gap to her teeth and crinkling eyes. She was stunning.
The phone rang and Marta placed the framed photo back on the armoire.
It was a collect call.
“Do you remember that award ceremony a few years ago? In Boston?” Ransom asked, not bothering with a hello this time.
She froze for a moment before breathing out, “Yes.”
It was the summer of 2015. Marta had been working as Harlan’s nurse for a few months, she was still adapting to the eccentricities of the work. Not so much Harlan, they got along immediately, but his life. The way his family was always flitting in and out of his home.
It was early enough that August day that Harlan and Marta could stroll around the property without worrying too much about the heat. Besides keeping him medicated Marta was also trying to generally promote healthier habits in Harlan’s life. This included walking, getting fresh air, before writing. He was taking to it pretty well for someone who liked total autonomy.
Of course, he also used that time to talk through whatever project he was working on. Marta liked listening to the complicated plots, the red herrings, the twist endings.
When they’d made it back to the front door Walt was there. And so was Ransom. This was odd as the two largely despised each other.
“Well look what the cat dragged in,”Harlan said cheerfully as he and Marta walked up the steps together and past his son and grandson. Marta flashed a small smile as a way of greeting both of them.
They had a habit of not quite looking at her unless they needed something from her.
They followed after Harlan and Marta, right into the study. “I sense something conspiratorial between you two. What do you think, Marta? Are they up to something?”
“I hope not,” She said, gently but still playing along with Harlan. Ransom rolled his eyes at that.
Harlan grinned at her as he sat behind his desk then he turned his attention two the two men before him, “ I think you’re up to something.”
Walt produced an envelope from his pocket, “The Crawford Awards are this weekend, dad. And you’re all but guaranteed to take the award for best Thriller. It would be good for you to go.”
Harlan eyed Ransom, “Are you here to strongarm me into this, Ransom?”
Ransom smiled, the corners of his mouth looking sharp, “I was here on unrelated business, but this seemed interesting, actually.”
“ Actually ,” Harlan mimicked, “As opposed to the other aspects of my life which seem painfully boring to you?”
Ransom’s gaze drifted to Marta for a moment before he answered, “Oh, I wouldn’t say boring.”
Walt cleared his throat, “Anyway, I was thinking the kid could go into the city with you.”
“I’m thirty.”
“Really?” Walt sniped, “I thought thirty year olds had jobs .”
“Walt,” Harland said warningly.
Walt leaned on his cane as he stepped forward, thrusting the envelope toward Harlan, “It would be good for you, dad. Good for business.”
Harlan squinted at the envelope before taking it, “I’ll think about it, son.”
Walt groaned, “Dad-”
“Walter,” Harlan stood, “you can’t ask more from me than that.”
Walt’s jaw clenched once, hard, before he nodded, “Of course. Thank you for considering it.”
They were quiet for a moment until Harlan said, “Fran’s making pasta salad and sandwiches for lunch. Why don’t you stay?”
Walt nodded again, “Sure.”
“We’ll eat in the kitchen,” Harlan said, looking at his son and then at the door, waiting for him to move. Walt glanced at Ransom, beside him, who was smirking. Begrudgingly, Walt left the room.
“Ransom,” Harlan said, his tone curious and warm but still firm. Still not too trusting of him or his reason for appearing. But happy to see him nonetheless.
“Harlan,” Ransom greeted back. And that was something Marta always thought was interesting, Ransom’s insistence at calling each of his family members by their first name. If Harlan thought it disrespectful he certainly never said anything. “I was wondering if you wanted a rematch in Go. Since I kicked your ass last time.”
Marta’s eyes widened but Harlan just laughed, “Marta, would you mind getting the board? I need to teach my grandson a lesson.”
“I had a dream about it, last night. It was a little different, obviously, but you still had that black dress.” Ransom said, his voice lower than Marta’s ever heard.
The black dress had been Mama’s sister’s from twenty years ago when she was closer to Marta's build - smallish and light. A black slip dress that tia shipped to Marta on her eighteenth birthday with a note about how the dress deserved a beautiful young woman to have fun with.
Marta kept it deep in her closet, hidden between sensible sweaters and jackets. Alicia, who was still in high school when Marta was eighteen, had asked to borrow it for the homecoming dance.
“I think there’s a tear in it,” Marta said and puked as soon as Alicia left to search the nearest thrift shop.
It was left unworn for years until Harlan tried to press a hundred dollar bill into Marta’s hand, “You should buy a nice dress for yourself.”
Marta’s brow creased as she pushed the bill back toward him, “For what?”
“For the Crawford Awards, Marta. I thought it might do some good to entertain Walt’s ideas for a change.” And again he tried to hand the bill to her.
She refused, “It’s okay, Harlan, I have something.”
And Harlan stared at her with a small smile forming and a twinkle in his eyes, “It’s been a long time since someone hasn’t taken money from me.”
“Don’t worry, I can always steal some silver on my way out.”
And they had laughed.
Ransom continued, “I should have told you then, Marta. You’re very pretty.”
“Did your mice help you make that dress, Cinderella?” Ransom asked, leaning against the BMW as Marta and Harlan walked toward the vehicle. Marta colored and wished she had worn anything else instead.
The dress fit Marta perfectly. The neckline ran straight across, just beneath her collarbone and the straps were pretty and thin across her shoulders. It was longer on her than it had been on her aunt, the hem ending at her calves and the small slit on her right side exposing more of her leg and knee.
Harlan patted the side of Ransom’s face as a greeting, almost a slap, and said, “You’re very foolish.”
Ransom helped Harlan into the back seat and then said, without giving Marta a second look at, “Don’t get too excited, this is about to be very boring.”
“I know I’m pretty.” Marta said, her voice sounding much softer than she intended. She wanted to add I don’t need you to tell me or I don’t care what you think about me or Please, please don’t think about me . But she said nothing.
Ransom chuckled, “That’s good. That’s a good thing to know. What,” he paused, almost sounding nervous, “What did you think about me?”
The question took her by surprise, the implications of it causing her palms to sweat and stomach to knot. “You were mean and snobby and arrogant.”
“Is that all?” He pressed
“If you’re hoping that I’ll call you pretty...don’t.”
There was a smile in his sigh, “Alright. I won’t.”
Ransom looked perfect; he always looked perfect. His suit was deep navy against his summer tanned skin. It brought out the blue of his eyes. He pulled Marta’s chair out for her that evening, in the banquet room of an expensive hotel, and his finger’s had brushed against her shoulder blade, briefly, as he walked away.
“Well, I guess I’ll talk to you later.” He said and ended the call.
Marta sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at the framed photo. Next to Eleanor’s was one of Harlan likely taken the same day. Marta took a sharp inhale and touched her hand to her mouth, shocked; the strong, square jaw, his high cheekbones, the line and slope of his nose.
It’s striking how close he resembled Ransom. Or, rather, how close Ransom resembled his grandfather. Marta walked out of the room and took a long, mind clearing shower in her bathroom.