Last Fairytale, The

The Last Fairytale

© 2013 Molly Greene

www.molly-greene.com

COPYRIGHT NOTICE - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The content of this book is protected under Federal and International Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be electronically or mechanically reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or retention in any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from Molly Greene.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, locations, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

e-book ISBN: 978-0-9855112-2-7

Also by Molly Greene:
Mark of the Loon,
Paint Me Gone
(excerpt at the end!),
A Thousand Tombs
, and
Swindle Town.
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~

The Last Fairytale

Beware of her fair hair, for she excels

All women in the magic of her locks

And when she winds them

Round a young man's neck,

She will not ever set him free again.

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

~

Genevieve Delacourt pushed a button to summon the elevator, then turned to admire the building for the thousandth time. She’d lived here for months, but the old brick walls still sparked her most self-satisfied grin, and she was okay with indulging herself.

Life was good. She wanted to take it all in.

The lobby of the converted warehouse was reminiscent of an old-fashioned parlor, rich with dark wood paneling. Vintage brass sconces lined the walls, lending a warm glow that held back the encroaching dusk. Heavy padding beneath the carpet muffled sound and added a layer of elegance that set the tone for the condos above.

The place was gorgeous. And it was hers.

Well, a piece of it was, anyway. She felt like a little girl, twirling in princess skirts and serving tea in the doll house her father built in the back yard.

Too soon, she heard the car descending. When it shuddered to a stop and the door slid open, Gen tore herself away and moved toward the threshold.

A slender, pretty woman leaned against the rear wall. She was wearing a slim skirt and a simple, short-sleeved jacket that grazed her elbows. Her eyes were focused on the floor. When she moved forward, her long, dark hair swayed like a curtain.

Gen stopped in the doorway. “Hello.”

The woman startled and grasped the metal handrail. They stood like mannequins, staring, until Gen shook her head to clear the cobwebs.

“Cambria Butler? Bree, is that really you?”

“Genny Delacourt?” Bree cocked her head and squinted as though Gen were an apparition.

“Yeah. Unlike you, I’ve put on a few pounds. But it’s me.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Bree stepped out and Gen threw an arm around her. When their handbags banged together, they moved apart, laughing, and grabbed each other’s hands.

“Boyfriend and I moved in a few months ago,” Gen replied. “Sixth floor. Don’t tell me you live here.”

“Yeah, on the seventh.”

Surprise stole their voices for two beats and they blinked and beamed, at a loss for words.

“How haven’t we bumped into each other?” Gen caught up a strand of Bree’s thick, waist-length hair. “You haven’t changed a bit since college,” she said.

Bree laughed. “I should’ve chopped it off long ago.” She shot Gen an admiring look, toe to crown, taking in the brunette’s chic chignon and the tailored suit. “Get you in your Jimmy Choos. You look like an ad for Harvard Business School.”

“I had a meeting.” Gen waggled her eyebrows. “I don’t usually dress like this. But hey, what a hoot we ended up in the same building. What are the chances? Come up for a glass of wine and chat.”

“Sorry, I can’t,” Bree dipped her head toward the street exit. “I’m on my way to a job.”

“At six o’clock on a Friday. What are you, a stripper?”

“No.” Bree dropped her eyes to the carpet. “I need to meet an exec downtown. He didn’t want to burn any daylight just to give his alumni magazine an interview.”

She looked up. “Rain check?”

“Of course.” Gen slid her business card from a pocket and offered it. “Let’s hang out sometime.”

Bree flipped up the heavy paper stock. “Wow, a private investigator. Last time we talked you were headed for law school.” She slipped the card into her jacket pocket.

“I passed the bar and joined a practice in Marin. But I got tired of it, so I opened my own legal-slash-detective firm this year.”

“Sounds exciting.”

Was that envy she heard in Bree’s voice? Gen cleared her throat. “It’s not glamorous. Mostly cheating husbands and stolen pets. Let’s have lunch this week and I’ll share the sordid details.”

“Sure.” Bree rummaged in her bag, then retrieved her own card and passed it to Gen. “Here’s my number.”

“Cambria Butler, writer. Bios, press releases, newsletters, website content, ghost writing, book editor, blogs, social media.” Gen raised her eyes. “We can commiserate about the challenges of being self-employed.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Gen, that in college I was gung-ho about being a journalist.”

“Not at all. I was thinking we’ve all taken a different road. Life flings us where it wants, not where we planned.”

“I feel like mine took a detour and I don’t have a map.” Bree shrugged, then circled an arm around Gen’s waist and gave her a squeeze. “I’m late, I’ve got to run. Call me and we’ll make arrangements.”

She turned toward the street, then looked back. “Seeing you was a lovely surprise. I can’t wait to catch up.”

Gen watched as Bree pushed through the door with a wave, then tucked the business card into her wallet.

Why did Cambria Butler leave a trail of sadness behind her like the wake of a boat? Gen could feel it. Particles of sorrow swirled through the air, looking for a suitable place to settle.

She hurried into the elevator and jabbed at the button, anxious for the door to close.

* * *

Twenty minutes later Bree was on the fourteenth floor, checking suite numbers in a plush hallway. She found the research department and knocked. When no one called out an invitation to enter, she pushed open the outer door and stuck her head inside. Her eyes swept an impressive lobby. The front desk was empty.

“Hello?” she called. “Anyone here?”

Chemical engineer Andrew Ducane had graduated magna cum laude barely ten years before and was now head of the biotech’s R&D wing. It was a short run to the top. Ducane was so dedicated he’d requested her presence in his office after hours so he wouldn’t lose any time during the regular work day.

So here she was. Now where was he?

Bree skirted the reception booth and passed through the foyer, noting the thick oatmeal-hued carpet beneath her feet. Pricey. It spoke volumes about the firm’s success. She continued down the deserted center aisle of the main floor, peering from cubicle to cubicle.

The fifty-foot row ended and she faced the rear windowed wall of the downtown San Francisco high rise, up against a bank of private offices. She caught a glimpse of the illuminated Oakland Bay Bridge through a narrow pane of glass.

For a moment Bree wondered what her world would have been like if she hadn’t given up her search for a newsroom job. This could have been her office. Her name might have been rendered in gold on a glass door.

She could have been the one granting interviews.

“Hello?” She shook it off and called out again, then swung right and moved on, checking each brass plate for the name that matched her meeting.

Bingo. The plaque on the spacious corner suite was his. She knocked lightly on the closed door.

No answer.

She tapped again, this time with more pressure, and the strength of the whack released the latch. The door squeaked inward a scant two inches.

The lights were on inside.

“Mr. Ducane, are you there? It’s Cambria Butler. We have a six-thirty appointment?” Silence. “Sorry, I’m a bit late.”

Bree placed her fingertips against the solid plank of wood and gave it a little shove. “Mr. Ducane?”

Something creaked behind her in the depths of the abandoned space, and the hairs on her arm stood up like a stadium of sports fans kicking a wave. She grimaced and rolled her eyes at the sudden lurch of her stomach, then smacked the door again.

In her most authoritative voice she called, “Sir, are you there? We have an appointment?”

A phone rang. She jumped at the sound and fell across the threshold, then dropped her handbag and clutched at the handle as the portal careened inward and took her with it.

She tripped on an overturned chair and nearly fell to her knees on the expensive Berber. A wild grab at the edge of a formidable mahogany desk broke the momentum.

Nice entrance.

Bree’s eyes caught the heels of a pair of man-sized Gucci loafers sticking out from behind the chrome leg of the desk. Bad news; they were still on the owner’s feet. In what good scenario would someone be lying on the floor?

“Mr. Ducane, are you all right?”

She kneeled on the rug, then crawled on hands and knees around the hulking table. Two beats later she was staring into the ashen face of a man who looked way too young to be the department head of a large corporation. If this was Andrew Ducane, he really was just a boy.

His lids were half closed. The bottom edge of his dilated pupils glistened through lowered lashes.

Her stomach threatened to heave again.

“Mr. Ducane?” Bree jiggled his arm, then put an ear to his chest. She couldn’t hear a heartbeat. When she shook him again, his head lolled to the side and his mouth fell open.

He didn’t appear to be breathing.

Bree grasped his wrist; no obvious pulse. She placed trembling fingertips against his throat. Nothing.

She sucked in a ragged breath and stood, then leaned over to fight the stars circling her skull and reached across the blotter for the phone.

A movement from the corridor caught her eye. She jerked her head and found herself staring into the cold eyes of a very attractive six-foot-tall man. He was standing casually in the passageway, hands thrust into the pockets of tailored charcoal trousers. His dress shirt and sweater fit like they’d been painted on.

“What have you done?” His voice was a glacier, slow and ice-cold. “Move away from Andrew. Now.”

“I found him there.” Bree stepped back and leaned against the wall for support. “On the floor.”

The man’s eyes were riveted on her face as he reached for the phone, hit nine, then dialed 9-1-1. Three beats later, he spoke again.

“This is Taylor Vonnegon, CEO of Elergene Enterprises. There has been an incident on the fourteenth floor of our building. A man here needs an ambulance immediately.” He paused.

“And send the police.”

Vonnegon propped his shoulder against the door jamb and cocked a hip, then tapped his foot double-time, keeping pace with the beating of Bree’s heart.

“I don’t think he’s breathing,” she whispered. “I think he might be dead.”

“No kidding.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” she said. “We scheduled an interview. I stood outside in the hall and called to him, but he didn’t answer. A light was on, so when he didn’t respond, I came in.” She pointed at the body. “He was already there.”

“How convenient. You had an appointment on a Friday evening after working hours, when every single member of my staff except Andrew Ducane would be on their way home to enjoy the weekend.”

“How dare you.” Bree’s hands curled into fists at her side. “What are you insinuating? I said–” She cautioned herself to stay calm. “Aren’t you even going to look at him, see if you can help?”

“I already checked. The fact he had no heartbeat pretty much told the story.”

She circled her throat with trembling fingers and stepped away, back toward the windows. “You’ve been here? You already found him? For all I know, you killed the guy yourself.”

“Save it for the authorities.” He pushed away from the wall. “Come with me.”

Bree hesitated. “Where?”

“To wait in a conference room. Unless, of course, you’re snug here with the corpse.”

Oh, right.

“Lead the way.”

Twenty paces down the hall, he waved her through an open glass door and into a room furnished with an elegant table and chairs. When he closed the door behind her and walked away, Bree turned to protest.

But he wasn’t alone.

A handsome older woman wearing a severe black business suit and matching demeanor appeared behind Vonnegon, arms across her chest. She said something and put a hand on his shoulder, but he brushed it off and walked past. Her expression cycled from stern to bereft and back again.

She lingered for a moment, then was gone.

* * *

Bree went out into the hall when the paramedics came. She was dry-mouthed and nervous but felt compelled to watch, like a googly-eyed driver creeping by a traffic accident.

The team hurried into Ducane’s office and did their thing without a lot of chatter. She couldn’t hear their conversation, but the gist of it was clear when they came back out a while later and milled around.

There was nothing to do. Ducane was dead.

A pair of San Francisco’s finest arrived not long after the EMTs gave up their attempts to revive the body. Thick and thin, Bree dubbed them. One was burned, both in manner and coloring, all stout muscles and barrel chest. The outline of a Kevlar vest was obvious beneath his uniform shirt.

The other was average-looking, sandy-haired and calm. He reminded her of a high school English teacher. She prayed he would take the lead and she’d be able to explain herself to him, not his hot-headed, flushed partner.

Bree held her position against the wall while the medics gave the officers the low-down. Next it was Vonnegon’s turn. As he listened, the thick cop crossed his arms and glowered at her. After twenty minutes or so, the thin cop approached.