The Little Black Book

I was on my way home, or my place of living at that current moment. I was sharing a flat with three roommates in New York City, this was my fourth apartment since coming here from my hometown, Kalamazoo, Michigan. Everyone told me I was crazy to move out here alone and that I would never make it big in the journalism industry without a degree. But here I was, bar tending in any place that would take me. Which meant taking the subway, constantly.

So I was on my way home, on the subway, from working another long late night. It was almost four in the morning. I was used to this crowd by now. There were only a handful of others on the train; a couple business men heading to work to get there before everyone else, a few college kids- always plastered, and usually more than one person sleeping and I could never be sure if they were homeless or not, but one of my current roommates, Katy, had warned me not to try to give anyone money, in case you offended someone. But tonight, I got on the train, not expecting anyone but these normal offenders of the late night ride - and instead, I was in an empty car, expect for one girl. She was stunning, her hair was auburn blond and seemed to be glowing in the light of the train, her electric blue eyes focused on a book, her hands looked smooth and elegant and she sat up straight as she focused on her book. But when I stepped on to the car, she looked up at me, slow and sutily, she smiled at me.

“Good evening.” Her voice was smooth like an old bottle of whiskey.

“Hi...” I felt like I stumbled over the words.

“Come sit by me. I hate sitting alone on these things.” She gestured to the seat across from her, as if we were old friends meeting for a coffee. I felt out of place as the train jerked forward and I moved towards the seat. “How are you tonight?” I felt very odd.

“Fine.. How are you?”

“Oh I’m wonderful. Where are you coming from, work?” She guessed looking at my clothes.

“Yeah, I bartend so I frequent the late night trains.” We sat talking about where I bartend and why I came to New York and my hometown. Finally I turned and asked her why she was on the train so late.

“I’m looking for something I lost.” This was such an odd statement that I just sat there flabbergasted for a moment before she continued, “I came here when I was about your age. I had the same idea but I wanted to make it big in the fashion industry and where better to start than beautiful New York City?” She smiled that sly smile again.

“Did you do it? Break into the fashion industry I mean?”

“I did what I came here to do- but I’m still looking for a way to leave my mark on the world.”

“Aren’t we all?” We laughed together. I suddenly felt so connected to this stranger, and I still had yet to know her name or anything real about her. The train came to a stop.

“This is me.” She stood up and moved toward the door, “It was wonderful speaking with you, Marcy.”

“I don’t think I told you my name...” Suddenly wondering if I was imagining her, she stepped off the train with another sly smile. The doors closed behind her and I was alone again, to wonder if this creature on the train was a figment of my imagination or if I was just so wonderlusted with her beauty that I forgot that I told her my name. I looked back to where she was sitting and there was a little black book- the one she had been reading when I got on the train. I leaned over and grabbed it. There was nothing written on the outside and it appeared to be leather bound. Before I could open it the train stopped. I shoved the book in my bag and quickly made my way home. I remember being eager to open the book and read what was inside, but I woke up to my roommate Katy.

“Marcy, get up. There’s someone at the door for you.” That was an odd statement. I didn’t have many friends out here - most of my friends were simply my co-workers and none of them knew where I lived. I rubbed my eyes and pulled on some sweats.

“Who’s here?” I asked Katy.

“I’m not sure. He just said he needed to speak to you.” I was suddenly very confused. He?

I walked into our communal living room, a mess in itself, and was already slightly embaressed, even if I had no idea who this man was. He turned around and he was easily ten years older than me. His hair had small grey streaks in it, but in an attractive way. He wore a jacket, with jeans which struck me as odd.

“Marcella? Marcella O’Connell?” He asked looking at me. I was suddenly very aware of the fact that I hadn’t taken my makeup off last night and was currently not wearing a bra. I crossed my arms.

“Yes?”

“I’m detective Logan Monroe. I have some news you may want to sit down for.” I took a seat on our couch crowded with a ton of different clothes from the four of us - women are so dirty when living together.

“Vivian Carlson was killed last night. We haven’t found the man that did it, but she suffered multiple gun shot wounds and we suspect that she was specifically targeted.” I had no idea who that was and my face must have matched the confusion going on in my mind because the silver fox detective then asked, “Ms. O’Connell, are you okay?”

“I... think so. Why are you telling me this?” It was Mr. Monroe’s turn to look confused.

“You were friends weren’t you?” He asked.

“I’m sorry I don’t know who that is.” I shrugged.

“She named you in her will. She wanted you to write her obituary. I was under the impression you two were very close.” He went into his jacket and riffled through some papers and then turned around one and showed me a picture. It was the woman from the train last night. “Her family reported her missing three days ago. But why would she name you if you two didn’t even-“

“I spoke to her last night.” I cut him off.

“What?” He stopped and suddenly grabbed his phone from his back pocket and pulled out a stylus. “Wait! I’m gonna record this.” He touched a button on his phone. “Go ahead.”

“On my way home from work, I saw her on the subway and we talked. I’ve never met her before that.” I shrugged.

“What time?” He asked.

“About four am. I catch the 3:47 train after work.” He looked up. “What, what’s wrong?”

“Who else was with her?”

“No one. We were the only ones in the car.” I answered a few more questions about what we talked about and where she got off. I couldn’t remember the street name but it was a stop before mine. Finally he stopped asking questions. He stopped the recording and looked up at me a little grim.

“Ms. O’Connell, you were the last person to see her alive.” My body shivered at this news. “You’re sure you’ve never met her before last night.”

“I swear, I mean it’s possible she’s come to the bar where I work before but I feel like I’d remember her.”

“Well you’ll have a chance to get to know her. Her family is insisting you write the obituary since she put it in her will.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I don’t know her... didn’t know her.” I shook my head, this whole thing was making my head spin.

“Well I’m sure you’ll have more than enough resources. They want you to write it in the Times so they’ll probably let you use their network systems.” My head jerked up at this.

“The Times... as in the New York Times?”

“You really have no idea who Vivian was?” He said realizing I did in fact have no idea who she was.

“No.”

“Her family is one of the wealthiest families in the country. Her father invented-“

“Toaster strudel?” Katy said walking in laughing. “Sorry, I just heard ‘father’ and ‘invented’ and I couldn’t help but quote it.” She stopped as she read the room, “I’m going to work... unless you need me to stay?” She looked past Logan Monroe, to me. I’m sure my face was still in complete shock.

“I’m good, Katy, thanks.” I said, trying to smile. She nodded and left the room slowly.

“Her family is very wealthy. So yes, the Times. From what I understand their paying you a decent sum to write it too.”

“They’re paying me? They want me to write a piece for the Times AND they’re paying me?”

“They’re paying the Times too just to let you do it. Odd request. It’s not usually included in a basic will and trust.” He suddenly sounded suspicious. I had no idea how to move forward. We sat in silence for a long awkward pregnant pause. “Well here’s her father’s number.” He pulled another paper from the stack from inside his jacket and handed it to me. “He said to call him when you’re finished. Have a good day, Ms. O’Connell. I will be in touch.” That last sentence sounded menacing. I stood up and walked him to the door.

As soon as it shut behind him I ran to my bedroom and looked frantically for my bag. My heart was pounding. I could feel it in my throat. Finally, on the side of my bed, there it was, my messenger style bag. I ripped it open, almost legitimately ripping it. There it was, amongst my pepper spray, tampons, and a copy of The Sun Also Rises, was the little black book. The little black book that Vivian Carlson left on the train, right before she died.

I took a deep breath as I looked at the black leather bound book and peaked onto the first page. It was a diary.

It was her diary. On that very first page, she had written her name. It reflected her. Elegant and confident. I moved onto my bed and flipped over to grab my notebook. Got back up, made myself comfortable and opened the diary again. Who was Vivian Carlson and why on Earth did she find me?

Three hours later and about halfway through reading and taking notes on her little black book, my phone rang. I did not recognize the number... but this day had been full of surprises already.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Marcella? Marcella O’Connell?” The deep voice asked.

“Yes?”

“This is Vivian’s father. I understand Mr. Monroe spoke with you this morning. Are you okay writing the obituary? I know Viv named you but if you’re not comfortable...”

“I am.” I said almost too confidently, “And I’m so sorry for your loss.” I said a little more humble.

“Thank you. I hope you’re okay with check payment. I could wire transfer the money, if you’re okay with that, I would just need some simple information.”

“Of course. But we don’t have to worry about that right now if-“

“Nonsense. You should be paid for your work. Anything you do well, never do it for free..... I used to tell Vivian that all the time.” He said slightly sad. We quickly exchanged information so that he could wire transfer money, I was too embaressed to ask how much they were paying me, and too in a rush to get back to her diary.

After we hung up, however, I needed to get a coffee. I grabbed a jacket to walk down the street to Starbucks. Before I walked out the door, I grabbed the little black book to take with me.

I opened my Capital One app to check how much money I had left in my account, if I could even afford a Starbucks drink with some extra shots. I stopped dead in my tracks when I opened my app. A shiver went down my spine and I felt as if everyone on the street was looking at me. There in my bank account that barely ever read over $100 was $21,000. I looked at my history. There was a $1,000 wire transfer from Mr. Carlson. Then there was a $20,000 transfer. There was no name attached to it. Just an account. My head spun again. I took a deep breath and shoved my phone into my pocket before anyone could see. Why on Earth had someone transferred $20,000 into my account?

An hour and half later, I had closed the little black book as I sat in a comfy chair at Starbucks. I felt closer to Vivian than I had with my own sister. I knew many things about her life. Very interesting. It seemed she never had a dull moment. I knew so much about her ... the main thing being that Vivian Carlson was still alive and I needed to find her.