R.L. Blake

Blessed Are the Meek & Wily

2nd Place, 2021 Short Story Award, Winter 2022 issue

“Where is Mother’s ring?”

Regina’s voice snaps across the crisp autumn air like a whip in the hand of an experienced dominatrix.

I’d barely pulled to the curb at St. Andrew’s Cathedral when she rushed from the parish hall’s side entrance, her emerald cashmere coat left unbuttoned in her haste, a new Hermès scarf flapping in the breeze. Dressed to impress the Manderfields, no doubt, wealthy descendants of Cliffview’s founding family, and her daughter Sammie’s future in-laws.

Regina Cassidy could teach a master class in social climbing, in Louboutin stilettos, of course. Somehow Mother’s ring, or rather my ring, is important to her latest scheme. I intend to find out why.

Her husband Albert appears unembarrassed by her antics, though I suspect his frequent trips for Dentists Without Borders are camouflage for well-earned mental health breaks. Especially the ones to the Virgin Islands. Lots of cavities in paradise, apparently.

There is no escape for me.

I hoped we’d outgrow our dysfunctional childhood, but no heavenly hand ever reached down to answer my prayers. Looking back, asking God to pluck her head bald after a particularly cruel instance of bullying may not have been appropriate. But at thirteen, it was a sincere petition, and one I don’t regret. Even after Father Benjamin gave me five extra Hail Mary’s and a lecture on blasphemy.

I shrug off the memory and lift the insulated food carrier from the back of my latest purchase, a shiny pre-owned Volvo.

“Lasagna al forno, as ordered,” I tell Regina.

She grasps the container gingerly so as not to mar her perfect French manicure.

“A used car, Claire? Surely family law pays better than this.”

Her standard smirk is crossed with a pout of annoyance at my supposed frugality. I smother the unexpected laughter bubbling up in me at the look on her face. Delight and disdain. So hard to reconcile in one expression. If only she knew. My practice is not all prenups and adoptions. I just prefer not to flaunt my assets. Makes the clients nervous and Regina envious. Something to avoid at all costs.

“Sammie called yesterday,” I tell her as I heft the carton of crystal vases and cellophane-wrapped flowers I picked up on the drive over. Another last-minute favor for Regina. “She’s delighted her shower is here today.”

Regina shudders as she glances at the venerable church. An afficionado of all that is modern, she has no time or taste for the past, but my niece and I love the Gothic Revival architecture. Built in the early 20th century of rough-faced sandstone, it features a bell tower that rises over 100 feet and rare Tiffany stained-glass windows.

“How often must I tell you to call her Samantha, not Sammie? Willowcrest Country Club is much more suitable for a bridal shower, but she said the diocese can use the rental fee.” With a lofty wave of her hand, she states, “I agreed because we owe a duty to those less fortunate.”

Sanctimony doesn’t suit her. We’re the same height, so she needs to tilt her head back to stare down her nose at me. Mrs. Noblesse Oblige. Leave it to Regina to spin this as her own act of generosity.

Arms full, I push the liftgate closed with my elbow, and face the leaded glass image of St. Michael smiting the dragon. Today I will confront my own demon.

No more whipping girl.

No more minion.

No way is Regina getting my ring.

***

We stow our coats and handbags in the pantry off the kitchen and start prepping for the day’s event. I’m assembling the centerpieces when Regina turns to me.

“I’m waiting,” she says, hands impatient on her hips, a frown of intimidation attempting to form on her Botox-frozen brow.

As a vigorous advocate for those I represent, I am assertive without being antagonistic. I’ve negotiated positive outcomes from jaded prosecuting attorneys, obtained leniency from judges notorious for harsh sentencing, and won respect from law enforcement by treating them with courtesy. None of these skills have ever worked with Regina.

Einstein said insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Today I’m taking a new tack. I stare straight at Regina’s menacing gaze and slowly articulate. “I’m keeping the ring.”

Clear. Decisive. OK, maybe there was a slight quaver in my voice. You can’t expect perfection on the first attempt.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She shakes her head as though what I said is of no consequence. “Hand it over.”

I cherish Mother’s ring. Its classic Art Deco design includes an emerald-cut diamond surrounded by tiny rubies shaped as petals. Worth but a few thousand dollars in today’s market, it is invaluable to me. Despite everything that happened.

Dad and Mom discovered it in a musty antique store on their honeymoon in New England. Mom wore it until the day she died. I admit it was a non-traditional choice as my own engagement ring, but its uniqueness eclipsed the more conventional options. And my fiancée agreed to use the money we saved toward a down payment on our first home.

“How can you bear to touch it after Jonathon left you at the altar?” Regina’s aim is impeccable. Straight to the jugular as always. “Anyway, Samantha expects it today.”

“No, she doesn’t. Tell the truth for once. What are you really up to?”

At that moment Darla Manderfield, the mother-of-the-groom, bursts into the kitchen.

“Darling Claire,” she exclaims and enfolds me in her arms, not with the brief hug and fake air kisses so common in her social circle. A real embrace. Regina inhales sharply, shocked at our rapport. The familiar green-eyed monster shimmers in her narrowed eyes.

Darla first appeared in my office several years ago, hair pulled too tight in her ballerina bun, a sure sign of distress. Could I have her daughter Mia’s shoplifting record expunged, she begged, so it wouldn’t harm her chances for college acceptance? A first offense, I could and did get the charges dropped after I had Mia make restitution and a heartfelt apology to the store owner.

“Claire, you must sit with Edward and me at the Metropolitan Museum fundraiser next Saturday. I hear Regina is donating a spectacular family heirloom for the auction, a

Cartier-designed piece from the 1930s.”

Fireworks explode in my brain at this news. There it is. Regina gets the ring from me, for free. She gains status with her daughter’s future in-laws by donating it. And gives credit only to herself. Her audacity should not surprise me, but it does. I’d been deliberating on whether to go through with my plan. This knowledge, however, solidifies things for me.

“I’m sorry to tell you, Darla. That heirloom is no longer available. Perhaps Regina can find another item.”

I glance at Regina’s ashen complexion, but she rebounds quickly.

“Certainly, Darla,” she gushes. “I promise. You’ll be amazed!”

***

“The chalice is gone! Oh, my Lord, the Richelieu chalice is gone!”

Angela Maldonado hustles into the banquet hall as fast as her walker and orthopedic shoes permit. The normally soft white curls of St. Andrew’s secretary-slash-guardian resemble a mad explosion of cotton balls.

Gasps and cries of “oh no” and “how terrible” echo around the tables where the shower guests are finishing coffee and lemon crème brûlée.

“I took it from the vault this morning to polish before tomorrow’s services and now it’s missing,” Angela exclaims.

She starts to tremble. I rush forward and lead her to a nearby chair.

“Regina, call 911.”

“Oh, Claire, she undoubtedly put it someplace else and forgot.” She turns to those assembled and gives a strained chuckle. “Just a tiny misunderstanding. Please enjoy dessert while we deal with this little contretemps.”

Of course, no one pays any attention. Excited whispers pop and float in the room like hot sparks from a Girl Scout campfire.

“Go check the church, Regina. I’ll stay with Mrs. Maldonado. She’s still unsettled.”

She grumbles her acquiescence and leaves. I pat the secretary’s arm. “I’ll make you some of your favorite Earl Gray.”

“You are always so sweet, Claire.”

Regina returns ten minutes later as I wheel the tea caddy from the kitchen.

“No luck.”

In a voice laden with skepticism, Regina asks Mrs. Maldonado, “Are you certain you removed it from the safe?”

The elderly woman sputters, “I’m not senile.” Querulous now, she snaps, “In fact, I saw you in there earlier today. Maybe you stole it.”

The accusation stops all chatter in the room. An ugly red flush blooms on Regina’s neck.

The Richelieu chalice would make an ideal item for the fundraiser.

“Don’t worry,” I tell those gathered. “I’ll call the police. We’ll find the chalice.”

***

Outside, I shiver as Officer Wrigley pulls Regina’s hands behind her back and slaps on the metal cuffs. Click. The shower guests, Cliffview’s elite, remain inside but crowd together at the windows, mouths agape, their warm breath fogging the panes.

This is so much better than I could have predicted.

“Claire,” she cries, voice cracking. “Help me.”

I stand corrected. This is better. Even if she didn’t say “please”. Yet in my rising euphoria, I pause. Is it too much?

Then she barks, “Answer me, you twit!”

Now I ask you. Is that any way to speak to your twin sister? Who can still fit into your clothes? I must admit. Cashmere truly is luxurious. And Regina’s coat sleeves proved spacious enough to conceal the chalice, as the police discovered for themselves in their search of the premises.

“I’ll meet you at the station. Don’t talk to anyone until I arrive.”

Regina jerks her arm from Wrigley’s guiding hand and slides unassisted into the rear seat of the black-and-white. Before he closes the door, I see her knees and ankles are pressed together, canted slightly to one side. The Duchess pose. Haughty ’til the end. I am a little proud of her in that moment. Her booking photo is going to look great in my scrapbook.

Three years. That’s the typical sentence for a Class D felony. But the charges won’t stick. Eyewitness testimony is often flawed, and poor Mrs. Maldonado is nearly blind. Plus there are no fingerprints to be found. I made sure of that.

Regina’s sole punishment will be to live as a social pariah, the subject of lurid gossip. For her, it’s a fate worse than plastic wineglasses at a formal dinner party.

Why did I choose such a punitive option instead of more moderate revenge?

Call it poetic irony. I’d never have contacted Jonathon if Regina hadn’t demanded the ring. We’d not spoken since he failed to show for our wedding. I survived the bone-deep embarrassment of that day but never knowing why has haunted me.

Once the shock on hearing from me wore off, Jonathon was strangely relieved to reveal the sordid details. How Regina snuck into his hotel room the night before the ceremony and seduced him while pretending to be me. Her smug confession and mocking laughter the next morning appalled him. The thought of Regina as a family member was so repugnant, he fled.

Regina covets what I hold most dear. I have always known this. What she cannot take from me, she does her best to destroy. To maintain peace, I’ve let my sister go unchallenged.

Until now. Jonathon may have been weak, but I loved him.

I raise my hand to my throat and lift out the necklace hidden under my dress. The diamond from Mother’s ring glitters in its new platinum setting, its facets catching and reflecting the reds and blues from the cruiser’s flashing lightbar.

I stroke the pendant before I slide it back beneath my collar. Patterson’s Fine Jewelry did an amazing job on the rush orders.

As the patrol car departs, I stand in the shadow of the cathedral, home of my religious training, and decide to show some mercy. Regina can have the ring. I hope she likes cubic zirconia.

After a year teaching English in Tokyo and traveling in Asia, R.L. (“Bobbi”) Blake spent 30+ years working in economic development in the high-tech software industry. A native of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, she resides in Northville (between Ann Arbor and Detroit), where she is working on her first full-length novel, a modern-day mystery centered on the 1913 Italian Hall Disaster, a true life tragedy where over 60 children of striking copper miners died at a Christmas party in Calumet, MI. She is a founding member and officer of the Michigan chapter of Sisters in Crime. She enjoys spending time with family and friends, history, playing golf and euchre, and meeting with her writing/critique group* who help each other to improve their craft.

*Wine included.