Author's Note: I love a good mystery. In fact, the first thing I ever remember wanting to be as a child was a detective. Those who used to live in my old neighborhood would most likely remember seeing me, at one point or another, running around in a thrift store trench coat with a magnifying glass sticking out of my pocket, solving such ground-breaking crimes as "The Missing Earring" (it was behind the coach) and "The Kidnapping of Husky Blue" (Blue the husky had run into a cornfield). It was my mom who bought me my first Sherlock Holmes book when I was nine (I remember this age specifically because Mrs. Nelson, my third grade teacher, got angry with me for reading it during math class) and my neighbor Gale Zolner who got me to read Nancy Drew. I am still a huge fan of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle is one of my literary heroes, but Nancy Drew has always struck me as a goody-two-shoes. She's a primp little blond who has a picture perfect life from her upstanding lawyer of a father right down to her spotless blue convertible. The woman doesn't even gossip, for Pete's-sake! Anyways, that's where the original idea for this story came from. Maggie O'shay was inspired to be something of an "anti-Drew." Not really so much as a biker-chick, but definitely a girl more prepared to get her hands dirty; someone who would probably drop-kick the bad-guy rather than call the police. A bit more Sherlockian, I guess, now that I think about it. This piece is another bit I wrote for Creative Writing Class. It is short (just a bit over 1000 words) and incomplete, also I had to gloss over details to fit the assignment guidelines (its already over twice as long as the assignment demanded), but I really wanted to introduce her to my class and now I want to introduce her to you, the reader. The result is a little slip-shod, but decent enough for an introduction to a character. Enjoy!
Maggie O’shay: A Case of Dirty
Politics
By: A.L. Miller
Not
many people can say that they’ve stumbled on a murder during their first day at
a new job, but I guess I’m just lucky like that. The day started out with its
usual depression and lack of promise…I mean really, how much “sunshine” can a
person muster in the morning when they are about to start a “thrilling” and
“fun-filled” career as a hotel housekeeper? Personally, I could barely manage
to roll myself off the couch. Oh, the couch? Yeah, it belongs to my best friend
Suzie Hong and her stuck-up roommate. You see, I’ve kind of been illegally
crashing in her dorm room at Harvard ever since my Dad, a certain Senator
O’Shay, cut me off and kicked me out after I…well, that’s another story. Back
to the morning at hand, huh?
Long
story short, I’d been imposing on Suzie for a while now and I needed a job.
Badly. Being a maid isn’t exactly the most glamorous of employment positions,
but they were desperate enough to hire me on the spot and promised regular
raises. Plus, Suzie’s roommate has been shooting me some pretty dirty glares
and I’m not sure how much longer I can stand the brat.
I
got to the hotel five minutes late (Boston traffic is a nightmare, especially
when all you have to drive is a moped that only goes forty-five miles an hour)
and was immediately paired up with a broken-down warhorse of a woman named
Verne to train me. I followed her up the elevator and down the sixth floor
hallway to the linen closet where she said the supply carts were kept. Watching
her chug along, old legs moving at a slow but unstoppable pace set by ages, her
worn blouse fitting loosely on her wrinkled frame, and glasses secured to her
face with a delicate chain that disappeared amongst tightly curled white hair,
I imagined with terror that this was going to be me in fifty years.
“You’re
in for a treat today, Mags!” she said with a grin as she pushed the cart down
the hallway. “It looks like we got the Presidential Suite! You’ll love it, it’s
the best room in the hotel.”
“Cool.”
I replied, trying to sound more enthused than I really was. It would have been
a lot more exciting to see if I didn’t have to clean it.
Knock knock knock “Housekeeping.” Said
Verne, holding her ear against the door. Apparently there was no answer. “I
guess he left already.” And Verne slipped her card key into the lock.
“He?”
I asked.
“Oh
yes, a Senator from Louisiana, Mr. Joe Malcolm. I knew he was leaving today,
just didn’t know when.” The name sounded familiar. I think my dad mentioned him
once or twice.
Just
by walking into the room it was obvious that something wasn’t right. There was…
a certain dark tension in the air. It’s hard to describe. Some kind of
electricity pricked the hairs on my neck, and mixed with the dank mustiness
that immediately invaded my nostrils I was fighting every ounce of flight
instinct I had.
Not
to put too much detail on a gruesome scene, Senator Malcolm was dead, lying
splayed upon the doublewide bed in nothing but his pajama pants. Verne screamed
before she ran and I…well, I stared on in horrified fascination for a second
before the sense to run kicked in in me too. The cops and an ambulance showed
up five minutes later.
For
the next three hours the whole hotel staff was detained for questioning. A
thick, beefy man with an equally thick mustache introduced himself as Head
Detective Mathews. Standing by his side was a string bean in about his early
twenties named Detective Stuarts. I was in and out with those two clowns in
under two minutes. Once they heard that it was my first day and had my
application to prove it, they let me go. But on my way out I couldn’t help but
notice something.
A
group of CSI guys passed me in the hallway carrying items presumably belonging
to the late Senator. One of which was a set of earplugs. Curious, I snatched
Verne’s clipboard of rooms from the nail hook on the wall. According to the
list, Senator Malcolm checked into that room alone. Who wears earplugs when
they are sleeping alone? I shrugged it off then. Surely if I could notice
something like that so could Boston’s finest.
The
rest of the day was much less exciting. You’d think the hotel manager would be
shocked that a senator had died in his hotel, maybe to the point of letting his
hardworking housekeepers have the day off, but nope. All employees, especially
the housekeepers, had to makeup for all the time lost in questioning. As a
result, it wasn’t until almost eight o’clock that we got to go home.
I
shuffled out of the double doors of the hotel, feeling every creak and groan in
my aching back as if I’ve aged about fifty years in the past nine hours, and
made my way to the underground employee parking garage. Aside from a few cars,
it was completely deserted. The overhead lights shone in a dim orange glow, and
one in the far corner was even flickering. Slowly, I made my way over to my
moped.
It
wasn’t until I was next to my moped that I noticed the dark figure just across
the lot, leaning against the cement wall in a long black trench coat. The coat
wasn’t what set off my spider-sense, however. It was the mask. The guy was
wearing an old grim-reapers mask, the kind that was just a hood top with a
special fabric covering the face that only allowed the wearer to see through
but no one could see the wearer. My hands dove into my pockets and pulled out
my pepper spray.
“A
moment of your time, please, Miss O’shay.” He said, holding up both his hands
to show they were empty. His voice was deep and garbled, as if through a
voice-changer. “I apologize for my startling appearance, but the nature of my
visit requires a sense of secrecy.”
“Oh
yeah?” I said, still keeping my spray aimed at the mask. With the other hand I
was putting my key into the moped ignition. “Well, talk fast because you got
about two seconds before I run you over.”
“It
concerns the death of Senator Malcolm.” He said, still keeping at a distance.
“I believe he was murdered. And I have a hunch, if your eyes were open at all
this morning, that you believe that too.”
“It
hardly matters what I think. Why don’t you talk to the BPD?” I answered. Common
sense told me to run from this guy. I had my moped, I was ready to go, and I
could have gotten away easy. But something about the way this guy carried
himself…they way he made sure to stay a distance…told me that he wasn’t there
to hurt me.
“Because
the BPD are already failing.” He said, and he flung the evening newspaper at my
feet. The headlines read “Senator Malcolm Killed by Heart Attack at Age 45.”
“What!”
I cried. “But the earplugs…”
“Exactly,
Miss O’shay.” His voice turned to a mechanical wheeze as he spoke softer. “At
the very least, it points to someone else being in the room, someone that the
police are neglecting. And I want you…” he pointed a black gloved hand at my
face. “to investigate.” From one of his pockets he pulled out a manila envelope
and slid it over next to the newspaper. I opened it to find a thick wad of
Jacksons frowning up at me.
“And
what makes you think I’ll do it?” I said, but I’d be lying if I said that the
sight of that money hadn’t already made me drool a bit.
“Lets
just say I know you.” He replied. “And I know your past.” And without another
word, he turned to leave the underground lot. “I’ll be in touch.” He cried,
just before turning a corner and disappearing into the shadows.
