Interview With A Suspect

Rosie was at a complete loss for words. How dare that miserable creature call her obsessive! It was hardly her fault if she was the only person across this entire god-forsaken campus that understood the severity of this situation. A student was missing, and she has been missing since the first week of term. Yes, Althea Morrigan was as desperate for attention and popularity as any woman comes to be during her academic years- it’s a cutthroat and competitive environment, after all. And yes, she had a reputation of stepping on other people’s toes, metaphorically- That was all par for the course of the feminine social environment. But did that justify wishing ill on her to the point of disappearing from the memories of the entire university population? Call Rosie a bleeding heart all you want, but sometimes there is a limit to how severe a punishment someone should get for their crimes, even if they did deserve it.

Still standing in the rain after Chairman Douglas kicked her out of the University Dean’s Office for disrupting him with her speculative nonsense, Rosie hovers a hand over her eyes in search of shelter. She spots a darling glass-domed gazebo made of ivory marble and adorned with jasmine-spotted ivy vines that spiraled up its thick columns. Hiking up the cuffed edges of her wide-cut slacks, Rosie booked it across the muddy flower garden path. Her shoes were caked in mud, but that was nothing a little rinse in the rain couldn’t fix.

Underneath the gazebo, Rosie set about scrunching the water out of her slacks. Her brown curls were already falling flat from the water weight, but there was nothing she could do about that without a handkerchief handy to dry them. Once that was settled, Rosie quickly pulled out her miniature notebook to assess the damage done to it. It was damp for sure, but the majority of the ink remained intact. Rosie let out a loud sigh of relief. She began tearing away pages of her investigation and lining them up across the tiny garden table meant for two, hoping they would be dry by the time the rain stopped. Alone at a dead-end once again, Rosie took this time to observe what she had already gathered about Althea’s disappearance.

Note number one said in angled cursive script:

-Althea Morrigan

-A beauty pageant winner since ten years old

-Beauty, charisma, competitive

-Many envious friends -Potential suspects?

Note number two was written in the same hurried script as the first:

-Contender for Miss America 1938, New Hampshire

-Beauty Pageant Society Matron: Luisa Monet, maternal aunt, former dance instructor

-Studying Teaching

Note number three was the least legible of them all, riddled with fold creases and a splattered coffee stain:

-Former lover - Charles?

-A recent ex-fiancé - Perhaps vengeful? - Unconfirmed motive

-Current relationship undetermined

Passing her hand gently over her evidence, Rosie tried to place the pieces of this puzzle together, but nothing was sticking. Luisa Monet is the only named suspect Rosie has so far. The research says Mrs. Monet was a veteran of the beauty pageant world, but she never won a title herself. If Mrs. Monet made it her mission to groom her niece into the perfect beauty pageant contestant, then perhaps there’s some displaced passions between them. However, Althea seemed to enjoy her work and the rewards from beauty pageants. So, their competitiveness must be a mutual family trait. Aside from the potential for Mrs. Monet to be desperate enough to live vicariously through her niece’s successes, there is no logical reason for Mrs. Monet to desire her niece’s disappearance. In fact, Althea’s disappearance does exactly the opposite of what Mrs. Monet is trying to achieve, so that easily dismisses her as a suspect. Rosie flicks the first note to the other side of the table.

Most of Althea Morrigan’s friends were either fellow beauty pageant contestants or current university classmates. The history between Althea and her classmates would have to be short, given the timeline of when she first enrolled in university, not leaving enough time for any long-term grudges to form. So, that eliminates her university friends from the suspect list. However, her friends from former beauty pageants were a different story. As their history goes, they constantly came in second to Althea in almost every beauty pageant they shared with her. Rosie’s interview with some of these girls stated different reasons as to why they lost to Althea, ranging from the way she wore her dress to snagging all of the commercial representation for herself. But despite their blatant pettiness, could any of these girls really be capable of kidnapping or murder? Would they even be willing to take that risk in the first place and jeopardize their careers forever? Rosie heaved a sigh and slid this note over with the other.

That left behind one final note. The logic of the era was telling Rosie it was obviously her ex-fiancé who did it, whatever “it” ended up being. Rosie felt a chill run up her back at the thought of discovering a dead body during her investigations. She shook her head to rid her mind of the morbid thought. Most people would point towards this discarded lover, no doubt fascinated by the misfortunes of a heartbroken man. But why promise to marry a guy and then call it off? Was he secretly cruel? Did he have gross habits she only just found out about? Perhaps Althea ended things after she got an opportunity to be a Miss. America contender? There were too many loose ends to consider, so Rosie slid that note off to the side, too.

Rosie stepped away from the table to clear her head. A chilling breeze flew through the gazebo, reminding her that she was wearing nothing but a thin polo shirt, a pair of soggy slacks, and a waterlogged satchel. She began to pace around the gazebo, hoping the movement would warm up her goose-pimpled skin. The squelching of her muddy shoes followed her aimless path around the table.

“Was any of this even worth it?” Rosie thought to herself as her shoes went, “Squelch, squelch, squelch,” behind her.

“Am I even cut out to be a journalist? Maybe I ought to throw my towel in while it’s damp…”

“Squelch, squelch, squelch.” The rain was now pouring relentlessly, only adding to the atmosphere of her misery and self-doubt.

“… The poor girl was supposed to be my roommate, but it’s not like we were ever officially introduced. We’re practically strangers! Why would she want my help? What if she doesn’t want to be found?”

Rosie gasps, pausing her squishy laps around the gazebo to thoughtlessly tap the toe of her shoe, “How come I never thought of that?”

“Squelch, squelch, squelch.”

“Ugh, these darn shoes!”

Rosie stomps over towards the edge of the gazebo, “Squelch, squelch, squelch,” lifts a pant leg as high as it will go, and sticks her foot out into the rain shower. The mud is thick and doesn’t move easily. She impatiently shakes her foot, but it only makes things worse.

“Shit!” Shouts a deep voice from behind the gazebo, followed by an alarming, heavy thud.

Rosie startles and goes rushing around the corner to find a man who had fallen off his bicycle. The poor creature was worse off than she is. Drenched from head to toe, while he had a thick coating of mud adorned to his backside.

Rosie stifles a laugh as she asks, “Are you alright, sir? Need a hand?”

“Yeah, I do,” the man groaned, slowly rolling himself onto his side.

Rosie hooks her arm under his shoulder and hoists him to his feet. Together they shuffle underneath the gazebo’s protection. Once he’s seated at the table, she turns to retrieve his bicycle.

“Leave it,” He dismisses. “Could use a good clean in the rain.”

“What if it rusts?”

“I’ll dry it at home. Ah!” The man hisses. “Drag that chair over here, would you?”

“Okay, then,” Rosie drags the other chair and places it directly in front of the man. He scrunches his face in pain as he lifts his bruised ankle across the seat. Rosie tries to help him but gets sidetracked by the tuft of blonde hair that sweeps across his forehead. Her eyes follow the tuft hovering over his angular cheekbones and sharp jaw. The tuft brushes the tip of his thin nose. After a puff of air from between his plump, soft lips pushes the tuft away from his face, Rosie realizes she’s staring way too intently and awkwardly shuffles as far away from the stranger as she can within the tiny gazebo. She takes in a shaky breath. “What were you doing biking in this rain?”

“Well, I was trying to get back home when I got distracted by a gazebo sprouting legs.”

Rosie chokes, “How odd. And in this weather? Oof!”

The man chuckles dryly. “Guess even he needs a good stretch every once in a while.”

“Wh-who?”

“The gazebo.”

“How do you figure it’s a ‘he’?”

“Judging by the men's saddle shoes ‘he’ was wearing,” the man taunts, arching a single eyebrow. A teasing smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

Rosie looks down at her Oxford saddle shoes, one green and white as it should be, and the other a muddy brown. She frowns.

“I’ll have you know, I got these shoes for a great discount in the shopping catalogue. I do not regret a thing about them,” Rosie huffs, lifting her nose in the air and crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m sure you don’t. What were they doing out in the rain, anyway? Flagging down an airplane?”

“Thinking,” she replies curtly.

“An odd hobby for shoes, don’t you think?” The man smiles.

“No more odd than going for a bicycle ride.”

“You must be a liberal arts major. Am I right?”

Rosie purses her lips, but still concedes, “… I am.”

“What emphasis?”

“Journalism, if you must know.”

“Eh, good for typing jobs.”

“I don’t plan to apply for typing jobs. I wish to do investigative research and write articles for the newspaper. It pays better.”

“Is that why you have notes on Althea Morrigan? Is she your next article?”

“What? How did you know that?” Rosie follows his gaze to her notes sprawled out on the table. She rushes to snatch them up, but the man pulls them back before she can touch a single one.

“Lucky guess,” The man sarcastically states, pulling Rosie’s notes close to his face to read what’s written.

“Have you heard of her?” Rosie pushes.

“More or less. Did you know her?” The man quips back.

“Not officially,” Rosie confesses. The man gives her a quizzical look, so she backtracks, “She was supposed to be my roommate this year, but never showed up to orientation. Her trunks are still lying around from last semester, so I figured she’s traveling late. It’s been two months since, and nobody knows a thing about her whereabouts.”

“So, you did what all journalists do and started journaling?”

“Investigating. It’s called investigating,” she firmly corrects, pointing a no-nonsense finger in his direction.

“So is she?”

“Is she what?”

“Your next article?”

“I-I-I don’t know. I could, but it doesn’t seem ethical, you know? Plus, I barely knew the girl, and she definitely didn’t consent to me airing out her dirty laundry, figuratively speaking. Wh-why would you even care, hmm?” Rosie rambles.

“Well, it’s only reasonable to be concerned when a stranger has your ex-fiancée’s name scribbled down in her investigative notebook,” the man shrugs, waving her notes in the air.

“… Wait… You’re Charles? That Charles!” Rosie exclaims, jamming her finger in the direction of her confiscated notes.

“It’s Oliver Charles, actually,” he holds out his hand to shake hers. She shakes it greedily. “So, you’re not trying to make a profit off of Thea?”

“Heavens, no! I just wanted to know what happened to the poor girl!”

“That’s good to hear,” Oliver sighs, leaning into the backrest of his chair.

“So? Do you know where she is?”

“Not a clue.”

“What? But how? She was your fiancée!”

“Can’t say.”

“Yes, you can! You probably knew her better than anybody on that note. You were planning to marry her after all! And you don’t seem the type to blindly jump into marriage for the romance of it. Not to suggest you’re not romantic. You absolutely have the face for romance.”

“I do?” Oliver smirks and tilts his head in her direction. Small crinkles beneath his eyes light up their bright green color.

“Aha,” she laughs nervously. “Unless it was an arranged marriage. In that case, forget the romance. It’ll show up when it needs to. Ahem, anyways, could I interview you, Mr. Charles?”

“Just Oliver is fine. And, no, you may not.”

“I’ll be quick. So quick. It’ll be like sharing gossip.”

“I only gossip with friends,” Oliver drawls, laying his head back and closing his eyes.

“Then we can be friends! I helped you out of the rain when you crashed your bike, an-and you can help me with my investigative research. Wah-bam!” Rosie slaps the table enthusiastically. “A friendship meet-cute!”

“But I don’t even know your name.”

“Right, how rude of me. It’s Rosie… James. Rosie James is my full name,” she announces, gesturing to herself. Oliver opens his eyes and takes his time looking her over. He is so thorough about it, Rosie’s cheeks start to blush.

Oliver sighs, pointing to his swelled-up ankle, “I don’t have a means to go anywhere at the moment, and neither do you,” he languidly gestures to the rain, “So, for the sake of entertainment, you get three questions, Miss. James.”

“Thank you! I promise they’ll be quick.”

“Only three,” Oliver sternly commands.

“Yes, just three. Ahem, so where to start…,” Rosie ponders.

“The first question,” Oliver snarks with a sly grin. Rosie glares at him.

“You weren’t surprised when I mentioned Althea Morrigan’s absence.”

“Is that your question?”

“It’s an observation.”

“I only agreed to answer questions.”

“You don’t have to respond, then. It’s only a lead-up to the real question. Got it?”

“Was that your question?”

“No, it was not! Just- Stop interrupting me, please.” Rosie asks through gritted teeth. Oliver, biting down on his lips so as not to smile, gestures for her to continue. “Right. So, how long has Althea Morrigan actually been missing?”

“Six months.”

Rosie lets out a strained cough, “And I’m guessing you were the first to be notified, since you were still engaged at the time.”

“Really did your research, didn’t you, Rosie?”

“I’m asking the questions here, Oliver,” Rosie chides. She starts strumming her hands against her leg. With only two questions left to ask, Rosie knows she should be smart about this. “Did you love her?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Don’t judge. Just answer.”

Oliver groans, “Aah, yes, I did. Happy?”

“Elaborate.”

“Thea and I have known each other since our primary school days. I fell in love at first sight. We courted for two years, then last year I asked for her father’s permission to propose. She accepted, and that was that.”

“Until she decided to start participating in beauty pageants again.” Oliver gives her an unimpressed look. She holds up her hands in defense, “It’s not a question but a statement.”

“She called off her hiatus, but not our engagement, if that’s what you’re wondering. She can still technically compete as an engaged contender.”

Rosie begins to pace around the gazebo again. If that’s the case, maybe Althea’s disappearance has nothing to do with Oliver Charles. But, if not him, then who kidnapped her? Or maybe Althea ran away on her own? No, Oliver absolutely has something to do with this. Sure, six months have passed, but for someone claiming to be so in love, he’s abnormally indifferent. One thing’s for certain, Rosie needs to use this last question to get a real answer out of Oliver Charles.

“Alright, last question.”

“Ask away.”

“Is Althea Morrigan dead?”

“…,” Oliver doesn’t respond. Rosie stares him down, but he refuses to make eye contact with her. His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, and his clenched jaw rolls in irritation.

“Take your time. No pressure,” Rosie calmly reassures, but inside, she knows his response will either be a hit or a miss. “Too hasty, Rosie! You should’ve asked about the broken engagement!”

When Oliver finally looks collected enough, he responds, “Probably. I’m not sure.”

“Drats! Another dead end,” Rosie complains to herself. “That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for, but thank you for answering my questions anyway.” Rosie leans against a marble column, looking lost to the wind.

“You’re welcome, Rosie. Now, it’s my turn.”

“What?”

“You asked me three questions, and now it’s my turn to ask you. Sound fair?”

“Is that your first question?” she taunts.

Oliver smiles, “No.”

“Then go ahead,” Rosie encourages.

“Alright. Have you always wanted to be a journalist?”

“Yes. I even ran my own newspaper out of my grandpa’s garage when I was twelve. Sold two copies, one to each of my parents.”

“Cute,” Oliver chuckles. “Next question. Do you think Thea is dead?”

“No, I do not.”

They stare at each other in silence until Oliver gives in, “Last question, then. Can you keep a secret?”

Rosie nods. “My lips are sealed.”

“Thea... isn’t a good person, and neither am I. But she got involved in something I started, and I have to fix it. Since you’re already invested, will you help me?”

“I don’t know, Oliver. You don’t seem to have a knack for the subtleties of journalism like I do.”

“There is nothing subtle about you, Rosie.”

“Will you be honest?”

He chuckles, “Point proven.” She stares until he concedes, “With you, always.”

“Then, welcome aboard, Oliver,” Rosie agrees, adding a new note to her notebook that reads:

-Oliver Charles

-Dangerous?

-Flirt.