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“Reporter, dear, what was your name again?” Scarlett asked.
“Jill Cassidy. KOXO television. Channel Six news.” She nodded to the cameraman, then turned to Scarlett. “Are we ready to get started, Ms. Vaughan?”
“Not quite, Jill. I have more questions. Firstly, who gave you that atrocious haircut, and is it too late to sue her?“
Jill’s breath whooshed out as if she’d been sucker-punched.
“Secondly, do you think I’m a murderer? Of course you do. I can tell by the look in your eyes.” Scarlett flapped her hand toward the cameraman. “Action—or whatever it is you people say in the newsroom. I’m ready to set things straight. Soon the whole world will know I’m innocent, and will be rallying for my release.”
*
Jill: “Scarlett, tell us what it’s like to be an identical twin.”
Scarlett: “Dreadful. Nightmarish. Positively horrific. You have no identity of your own, and constantly find yourself searching for ways to express individuality.”
Jill: “In what ways have you learned to express yourself?”
Scarlett: “Assertiveness, for one. I can take care of myself—unlike my Screaming Mimi of a sister. And shrewdness. Nobody outsmarts me or gets one over on me.” Scarlett cut her eyes from Jill’s face, looking directly into the camera lens. “Nobody.”
Jill: “ I’ve seen photographs of your sister, Darcy. It seems to me the two of you bore more of a resemblance as children than you do today.”
Scarlett: “Yes, well, I had a little work done to enhance my features.”
Jill: “By work, I assume you mean plastic surgery.”
Scarlett: “Yes, of course I mean plastic surgery. Would you like a looksy?” She unfastened the first button of her jumpsuit.
Jill: “No!” Jill motioned at the cameraman to cut away. “Next question.” She cleared her throat. “Why are you here, behind bars, in McAlester’s Oklahoma State Penitentiary?”
Scarlett: “Because a jury of my peers—Ha! More like a jury of underdeveloped chimpanzees—didn’t have the scruples to recognize the gaping holes in the prosecutor’s case. I mean, the fact one of my acrylic nails was imbedded into Bessie Robert’s velveteen throw pillow doesn’t mean I suffocated her. I was simply fluffing the musty thing, readying the old lady for a nap. This is the thanks I get for sacrificing a perfectly good manicure for that withered prune’s comfort.”
Jill: “And what about the allegations that you murdered your ex-boyfriend, Malcolm?”
Scarlett: “That retched doll murdered Malcolm.” Her eyes took on a faraway look.
Jill: “Doll?” Jill scooted to the edge of her chair, licked her lips. “What doll?”
Scarlett: “That unholy, cursed scrimshaw doll that was chained to my soul like an anchor, causing harm to whoever betrayed its owner. Our ignorant crow of a great-grandmother acquired it from a gypsy woman and gave it to my sister for protection. Protection from me, no less.”
A slow grin stretched Scarlett’s lips. “Little did the old hag know Darcy and I shared a special bond which made it impossible for the doll to tell us apart. Since my twin-sister and I co-owned the doll, anyone who brought harm to either of us… Well, let’s just say our enemies ended up in a very bad way.”
Jill: “So, the doll was a type of supernatural guardian over you and Darcy?” Jill quirked an eyebrow.
Scarlett: “It would do you good to wipe that skeptical expression from your face, dear. I’d hate to have to do it for you. That would significantly lower my chances for parole.”
Jill: “Thank you for your time, Ms. Vaughan.” Jill slashed a finger across her neck, cuing the cameraman to stop rolling.
*
“Wait. What are you doing? I’m not finished. There’s more,” Scarlett said.
“We have all we need.”
“You think I’m crazy. Tell me, would a crazy person be able to invent a story of that magnitude? Divulge those kinds of details?”
“Open the door please,” Jill said to the guard. “Let’s go, Bruce.” She motioned to the cameraman, who followed her to the door.
“Come back here. God as my witness, I’m going to get that scrimshaw doll back, and when I do, you’re finished. Do you hear me? Finished!”
“Why don’t you save the drama for your book?” Jill said over her shoulder.
“Book? Hmmm… Not a bad idea.” Scarlett tapped a finger to her chin. “Guard, escort me back to my cell. And bring me some paper—lots and lots of paper.”
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I’m wondering if Jill didn’t let the cat out of the bag… Scarlett, lots and lots of paper…anything you’d like to divulge?
Calisa, darling, you’ll have to wait for the release of my book. Patience is a virtue…or so I’ve been told.
As interviews go, this one is outrageous. Outrageously, outrageous. I suppose I’m repeating myself. But, oh my…outrageous.
Thank you, Kathy, dear. Anything less would leave one hungry for more. After all, outrageous is as outrageous does…
So, Scarlett, anymore secrets, I mean bodies, out there? Do you plan to write a tell all book?
Tell ALL? Heaven forbid, Tamrie. Age, weight, number of intimate partners, results of psychological evaluations and degree of murder involvement are all things a wise woman never divulges.
Calulatingly smart woman. You terrify me.
Rightly so, my love.
Haha! Can’t leave murder out of that equation!
So sad but so true.
Wow. Scarlett, all I can say is I’m sure glad you’re behind bars. ::shudder::
Careful not to overestimate the bars, dear. Where there’s an opportunity for a bribe, there’s a way. And trust me, there’s ALWAYS an opportunity for a bribe. Lucky for me, everyone has a price.
Scarlett, you’re certainly smug for someone behind bars. I have a feeling you’re jealous that Darcy is happy and free, while you’re rotting in prison. Finally, she is getting the happiness she deserves, and you’re paying for your crimes. Bitter much?
I wonder if Scarlett will have her own “bitches” or becomes someone’s “bitch”. What do you think?
Bitter? Oh, honey, I don’t get bitter–I get better. And if you’re insinuating I’m jealous of that…that…parasite that dares to think herself my equal, you’re sorely mistaken. I pity the poor, pasty thing.
By the way, Alicia, I really would like to get to know you better. What is your address–physical address, please, not a PO Box–so I can send you a nice personalized license plate or something.
Shhhh Kathy, not too loud. This is 2013. The term “bitch” is considered to be highly offensive in the big house–not to mention stereotypical. My girls prefer to be called “facilitators”. And to answer your question, I have many. They practically beg for my attention, it’s quite extraordinary.
You must think I’m stupid, Scarlett. It appears your years of getting your way have made you think EVERYONE can be manipulated by you. Not me, sweetie.
So nice of you to carve a bit of time out for me in your schedule, Alicia. I’ve heard all about how insanely busy you are, and am honored to have manipulated you out of some of those precious moments. It was just what I’ve always wanted. Thanks.
I’m afraid I’m able to identify with one line in your post, Anna. “That unholy, cursed scrimshaw doll that was chained to my soul like an anchor…” I’m in Texas cleaning out my mother’s huge two story home and it occurs to me that everything she collected over the years is a lot like that scrimshaw doll–a curse. I feel guilty giving things to Goodwill, and Lord knows I don’t need any more stuff in my house. But that’s as far as my identifying goes. Scarlette is super-scary. I’ve known a few twins; seems like there’s always a Scarlette type. Looking forward to reading your story. It’s waiting, waiting, waiting on my Kindle.
Anna, here (Scarlett is taking a break). Jess, don’t feel guilty–just remember you are attached to the person who collected the items, not the items themselves. Then, literally pucker up and kiss the items goodbye as you box them up and cart them off to the Goodwill–where thrift-shop junkies like me can get all excited over them and feel like we’ve struck gold! Let your mom’s treasures be acquired and appreciated instead of suffocating under a blanket of dust 🙂
excellent advice, Anna! Keep the memory, get rid of the stuff.
I learned that lesson the hard way, Diana, when we moved from a home with a large basement, into a home with painfully little storage space. Lugging all of those countless ‘gifts I didn’t really want, but couldn’t bear to part with’ up those basement stairs caused me such misery–I labeled them all with masking tape price-tags and sold them on the front lawn! Now I’m quick to re-gift and never look back.
If Scarlett was as clever as she thought she was, she’d’ve never gotten caught in the first place. 🙂
I don’t believe ‘gotten caught’ is an accurate description of what happened to me, sweet Diana. I was framed. Framed, I tell you! Betrayed by that cursed doll. ‘Shaw’ as my silly sister referred to the arthritic thing. So you see my dear, the degree of my cleverness has nothing to do with this unfortunate situation and, therefore, should not be called into question. Don’t you agree?