Murder Misstery Melange
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A Murder Misstery Returns free porn video
A Murder Misstery Returns
© 2008 by Nom de Plume
For those who came in late, Matt McCoy - now Madeline Moreau - is on the
run for a crime he did not commit, and a murder which she did....after
returning home to Chicago, Maddy discovers a shocking secret about her
past.
The journey from St. Martin to Montreal, on a charter flight crammed
with sunburned Canucks, was sheer penance. Stuck in a miserable coach
seat between a snoring slob and a psychotic woman who talked my ear off,
I endured a horrid meal featuring tough, tasteless chicken, a moldy
bread roll and an undrinkable split of wine, serenaded by a screaming
infant in the seat behind me. The worst part was having to climb over
the slob in my skirt to stand in line for the coach toilet...hoisting up
my skirt and tugging down my panties and hose to straddle the pee-
covered seat, I bemoaned my decision to become a woman.
Despite the wine and a sleeping pill, I couldn't even doze off as the
endless hours droned on. Finally, after circling the airport for what
seemed like an eternity, we were lucky to be able to land in a near
blizzard on the frozen tundra. When I stepped outside the terminal to
find a taxi, it was immediately apparent that my pathetic skirt, sweater
and nylons would be no match for the brutal Canadian winter. I'd spent
most of my life in Chicago, but not in a skirt, so the blast of frigid
air took my breath away. Fortunately the turbaned taxi driver heated
his cab to 90 degrees, and it almost felt like I was back in the
Caribbean, as we made our way into downtown Montreal.
My hotel, which catered to road warriors and government types, was
located in a tatty section of downtown Montreal, and my threadbare room
was immediately depressing. Fortunately Montreal is connected by a maze
of underground shopping centers, and I was able to avoid the elements
while I bought a sturdy woolen topcoat and a pair of calf-length leather
boots, as well as gloves, a long scarf and a beret. I lingered at a
little bistro over onion soup and red wine before I trudged through the
snow to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. I asked the concierge to show me the
agenda for the upcoming medical conference, and learned that Jacques
would be presenting his paper in three days' time.
Wondering how to maintain my sanity until then, I decided to kill some
time at an Internet caf?. As always I began by Googling my old name, to
see if there was any news about Matt McCoy. Instead I got the shock of
my life when I found my father's obituary on the Chicago Tribune
website:
Bradford T. McCoy, age 71, of Winnetka, IL. Beloved husband of Marie,
nee Rickerson of Winnetka; dear father of Michael McCoy of Evanston,
Mark McCoy of Barrington, and the late Matthew McCoy of Chicago; devoted
grandfather of two; fond brother of Beatrice (the late Arnold) Foster
of Fort Myers, FL. Retired owner and President of Great Lakes
Industries. Vet U.S. Navy. Funeral Services 3 p.m. Monday, at the St.
James Cathedral, 55 East Huron Street, Chicago IL. Burial private.
Tears were streaming down my face as it slowly sunk in. My father and I
had never been close, and my thoughts turned more towards my mother,
widowed and facing the rest of her life alone. She was fortunate in
that my two brothers and their families resided in the Chicago area.
With chagrin I realized that Matthew McCoy was a sad footnote to our
family's history...at least my father's death notice didn't mention that
his youngest son was wanted for embezzlement and murder before he fled
the country and committed suicide disguised as a woman!
Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the need to be there with them.
Impulsively I logged onto on online travel site and searched for flights
to Chicago, before I stopped myself. Returning to the United States
would expose my bogus passport to the scrutiny of US immigration
officials, and there was a good chance that it would be flagged as a
forgery. Think, Maddy...what if I were to fly to the Canadian side of
the border and cross into the USA unobtrusively? It didn't take me long
to come up with a plan.
I wasn't sure how my family would react to me, but I was determined not
to embarrass them, or myself. Returning to Montreal's subterranean
shopping mecca, I searched until I found a tasteful black dress, black
hose and simple pumps which were appropriately funereal. I also stocked
up on some more cold weather clothes. Then it was back to my room for a
restless night in my lumpy bed.
Early Sunday morning, without checking out of my dreary hotel, I packed
my suitcase with my new dress, put on some wool slacks and a turtleneck
sweater that I'd purchased the day before, and called for a taxi to take
me back to the airport. All of the flights were delayed on account of
the lingering winter storm, but I finally was able to fly from Montreal
to Windsor by way of Toronto. It was early evening by the time I got
in, which presented no problems since my chosen means of transport
across the border was a courtesy bus from the Windsor Casino to downtown
Detroit. Passport inspection was cursory, as I anticipated, but it was
almost midnight by the time I found myself back in the United States.
Downtown Detroit is no place for a single woman, day or night, and I was
fortunate to hail a roving taxi which took me to Detroit Metropolitan
Airport. The last fight to Chicago was long gone, and I was too
exhausted to search for an airport hotel, so I curled up in a plastic
chair next to my suitcase and nodded off until the airport came to life
on Monday morning. I'm sure I looked like death warmed over, but I was
too groggy and grungy to care. After a chocolate croissant and a
bracing cup of hot coffee at an airport Starbucks, I passed through
security and boarded the 6:00 am flight to Chicago. Thanks to the time
difference I arrived into O'Hare a few minutes after I departed, Chicago
time.
How strange it felt to be back in Chicago, almost a year to the day
since I'd dressed as a woman for the first time! What a roller coaster
I'd been on, losing my identity, my sex, and now my father... I found
myself scrutinizing the flight attendants as I walked through the
crowded concourse, wondering what had become of Tracy, the girlfriend
who had first set me on the path towards femininity. Trying not to
think about the enormity of all that I'd been through, I checked into
the airport Hilton, asked for noon wakeup call, set the clock radio as a
backup alarm and collapsed into bed.
"Okay, honey, time to play dress up again."
I switched off the electric train and reluctantly started up the
basement stairs. "Oh Mom, do I gotta?"
"You know how much fun we have, please do it for me one more time, and
I'll let you help me make a fudge cake and you can lick out the
beaters."
That was incentive enough for me. Both of my brothers were still at
school, my Dad was at work, so Mom and I were alone in the big old
house, as usual. She gave me a big hug when I joined her in my bedroom,
where my usual outfit was laid out on my bed: a frilly white blouse,
pleated skirt and tights. First Mom made me take off all my boy clothes
and put on a pink robe before she braided my long hair into pigtails,
which she tied with ribbons while humming to herself. Then there was
the usual spat over the cotton panties and cami which she insisted that
I wear under my girl's clothes. When I was finally dressed, she helped
me squeeze my feet into a pair of Mary Jane's.
"Your feet are getting too big for these shoes," she sighed. "Oh well,
since you're starting kindergarten next month, I suppose our dress-up
games will have to come to an end. This will always be our little
secret, honey. I promise that I'll never tell your father and brothers
if you don't."
The very thought sent a chill down my spine. My older brothers were
always teasing me about being a wimp, and I shuddered at what my father
would do to me if he saw me in a dress. "Please don't tell anyone,
Mommy," I begged her.
She gave me another hug. "I promise, honey. You are so sweet to be my
little girl, even if it's only for a while. This will always be our
secret," she repeated, then we were off to the kitchen to bake a cake.
At first I didn't know where I was, or even who I was...why was I
listening to a Chicago radio station? I sat up with a start in the
pitch dark room, and for a moment I thought I was back in my old
apartment, being awakened by the 5:00 alarm for another manic day on the
trading floor....
Grim realization slowly dawned after I opened the blackout curtains and
switched off the radio. I was back to myself by the time the hotel
operator called to inform me that it was noon, cheerfully adding that it
was ten degrees outside, before wishing me a pleasant day in Chicago.
After a quick shower and shampoo, I unpacked my mourning clothes with
feelings of dread and foreboding. Dressing as a woman was totally
routine for me by now, but I was very nervous as I tried to get my
eyeliner on right, and the brand new black pantyhose I bought to wear
with my dress got a nasty run when I tugged them on! Fortunately I'd
brought another pair, but they were nude and I worried whether they
would be right for a funeral....
What the hell was I thinking! I was about to return from the dead and
show myself as a woman to my family for the first time, on they day when
they were burying my father, and I was worried about what shade of
nylons I had on? I almost chickened out before I put on my wool coat,
closed my suitcase and took the long walk down the hall to the elevator.
After I checked out, the doorman hailed a taxi for me, and my stomach
was churning all the way to downtown Chicago. Seeing the familiar
landmarks once again made me ache for the life I'd left behind, and I
could almost taste the flavors at my old haunts as we passed them by.
Which reminded me that I hadn't had anything to eat since I left
Montreal. It would be half an hour before the memorial service, so I
asked the driver to drop me off a block away from the cathedral, and
started tugging my suitcase behind me on the crowded sidewalk. It was a
bright clear day, windy and bitterly cold, so my legs were freezing by
the time I entered a Corner Bakery across the street from St. James's.
I found a seat by the window overlooking the street, and passed the time
sipping hot coffee and munching on a blueberry muffin.
My seat afforded an excellent view of the entrance to the cathedral, and
I recognized some familiar faces as the mourners started to arrive.
Neighbors, business associates of my father, my Aunt Beatrice with one
of my cousins...suddenly a stretch limo pulled up to the curb, and out
stepped my mother, looking so much older than I remembered her, with one
of my brothers on each arm. I pressed my hand against the plate glass
window as if to reach out to them, trying to muster the courage to get
up and join them...instead, I just sat there, rooted to my chair,
ashamed of myself for all that I had put them through, and afraid to
show them the person who I had become.
Good thing! Further down the street a gray sedan with two men in it
caught my eye. One of them seemed to be using binoculars, and even at a
distance they looked awfully familiar...of course! Mutt and Jeff, the
FBI agents who had pursued me from Chicago to Barcelona, were staking
out my father's funeral. Which could mean only one thing: they never
bought my fake suicide, and they were still looking for me!
I crouched down in my chair and tried to keep from hyperventilating.
Thank God for my week knees, which were shaking under my dress. I would
have been arrested the moment I stepped outside the Corner Bakery, in
full view of my family, turning my father's funeral into a farce...and
that would have been only the beginning. My trial would have been a
media sensation, turning me into a freakish celebrity as the man who
changed his sex to stay out of prison. By the time I got there,
probably with a life sentence, the boys would have been waiting for me,
and I'd have spent the rest of my life as the plaything of vicious
criminals.
I blessed my decision to cross the border on a casino bus, wondering how
I'd ever be able to make it back across to Canada, and France. The
memorial service for my father was all but forgotten as I plotted my
escape, and it wasn't until I saw the mourners begin to walk down the
steps from the cathedral that I realized it was over. I felt ashamed
and very, very sorry for myself as I watched my family, for the last
time, hugging and kissing before they drifted off.
Then things happened very fast. As the crowd disbursed, the FBI agents
gave up and pulled away. Then my brothers took leave of my mother to go
their separate ways, leaving her all alone on the sidewalk to wait for
the limo to take her back to Winnetka. The thought of her returning to
spend the night as a widow in that big, lonely house broke my heart, and
without thinking I threw on my coat, grabbed my purse and raced out the
door of the bakery. Running as fast as I could in my high heels, I made
it to her limo just as it was about to pull away, and I pounded on the
windshield with both firsts before my mother rolled down her window.
I will never forget the look on her stricken face when I stuck my head
inside. "Mom, it's me," I said in a fierce whisper. "Please, let me
in." Her eyes widened in recognition, the door opened, and I tumbled
inside, falling into her arms before we both started bawling like
babies. The chauffeur must have taken my suitcase and put it in the
trunk before he closed the door and started driving towards the northern
suburbs.
Somehow I found the presence of mind to press the switch raising the
glass partition between us and the chauffeur. "Is it really you?" Mom
asked through her tears. She took a tissue out of her purse and gently
wiped my face. "Your mascara is a mess, Matthew."
I took the tissue from her and returned the favor. "So is yours, Mom,"
I said, and my woman's voice temporarily threw her. She sat back in her
seat and took a long, hard look at me. What must she be thinking, I
remember asking myself as I self-consciously tugged my dress down over
my knees. She studied me from head to toe, shaking her head in wonder.
"At first I didn't know who you were," she said at last. "Then, when I
realized that it was really you, I thought I was seeing a ghost. We all
thought you were dead..." She started crying again. "I'm sorry, I've
been through so much...."
Now it was my turn to try to comfort her. "Mom, I'm sorry I ran out on
you like that. I didn't steal that money." How to tell her that I had,
in fact, murdered the man who set me up? "I'm so sorry about Dad," I
added quickly.
"Your father never forgave you," she said dispassionately. "He was a
wonderful man, but stubborn as a mule, and once you ran away, and we
heard about what you'd done to yourself...." Her voice trailed away as
she studied me once again. "Did you have a nose job?"
"Yes, among other things." It took her a moment to figure out what I
meant. "I'm a woman now, Mom," I finally said.
If she was shocked, she didn't show it. "Thank God your father isn't
here to see you," she sighed. "He never knew...." There was a faraway
look in her eyes, and she pressed on before I could ask her what she
meant. "Do you remember the dress-up games we used to play when you
were little?"
So the dream I'd had that morning was real! Old, forgotten memories
began to stir in the deepest recesses of my mind. "Tell me about them,
Mom."
"I always wanted a daughter. Once your brothers were born, we thought
our family was complete, and when we finally decided to have another
child, I was praying for a little girl. I really thought you were one,
too," she smiled, "back in those days you really didn't know until the
baby was born, and then out you came! Your father was very happy, and
of course I loved you with all my heart, but I must confess that I was
very sad and disappointed...the doctors told me it was post partum
depression, and in a way I suppose it was, only the reason was that you
weren't a little girl!
"Your brothers were already in school by then, and as you know your
father traveled constantly, so one day when we were the only ones in the
house, I dressed you up as a girl. You were so precious! Your hair was
still quite long, and I kept persuading your father to put off your fist
haircut, although I'm sure he never knew that I secretly trimmed your
bangs. I used to spend hours brushing and braiding it while you sat in
my lap, all the while imagining that you were the daughter I always
wanted. You had quite the wardrobe by the time you were four, I kept it
all locked away in a cupboard when your father and brothers were home,
but as soon as we were alone, I'd pick out the dress or skirt were going
to wear, and help you with your slip, your tights...." She closed her
eyes, lost in her memories. "We used to go everywhere together! To the
museums in downtown Chicago, or shopping for dresses for you, although I
always drove out to the Woodfield Mall, so we wouldn't run into the
neighbors."
She opened her eyes, and there was a guilty expression on her face as
she surveyed me once again. "You make a lovely woman. So many times I
would look at you as you were growing up, and wonder what might have
been...." I was hanging on every word as she revealed the secrets which
explained so much. "Once you were old enough to go to kindergarten, I
knew I had to put an end to my fantasy, and I promised you that it would
always be our secret. By then, I could tell you were getting tired of
it, and in a way I was happy that you forgot about your dolls and
dresses and adapted so well to being a full-time boy. Until you made
the newspapers," she said wryly, "I'd all but forgotten about it too,
although I must say I wasn't entirely surprised when they said you ran
away disguised as a girl." She leaned forward and took my hand. "I'm
sorry for what I did to you, I know I was foolish and selfish, and
looking at you now, I can't help but wonder if it's all my fault."
There was a look of infinite sadness in her eyes. I tried to imagine
all that she'd just been through: the death of her husband, so soon
after the loss of her youngest child, after he'd been branded a criminal
and committed suicide, only to discover that he was really alive and
living as a woman...these weren't life passages, these were bobsled
runs! I was trying to think of the right words to say when Mom said
them for me. "So I guess you have me to thank for your perfect disguise
and getaway. Will you stay with me for a little while before you go?"
* * *
Once again I awakened in a strange bed, only this time my surroundings
were familiar - my old room! I stretched in my nightgown and thought
back over the incredible evening we'd spent together, sitting on the
family room sofa and gabbing till midnight like mother and long-lost
daughter, which in a sense I suppose we were.
As if to prove to myself that it really happened, I reached over to the
night table and looked at the photograph which Mom had given me the
night before. It showed a little girl, in a velvet dress and white
tights, sitting on Santa's lap. The back of the photo said that it had
been taken at Marshall Fields. The little girl was me.
There was a rap on my door, and Mom walked in, looking ten years
younger, with a contented smile on her face. "Morning, sleepyhead!" she
said as she drew back the curtains. "Breakfast will be ready in half an
hour."
I quickly showered, washed and dried my hair, and returned to my room to
get dressed. Soon I was bounding down the stairs in a kilt, turtleneck
and tights, just the way I used to when I was her little girl, only now
it was all for real. The smell of bacon and coffee was wonderful, and I
busied myself with helping her set the table and pour the juice.
Breakfast was delicious, and we sat down at the kitchen table, each lost
in her own thoughts, as we lingered over our morning coffee. "My lawyer
is coming over this morning," Mom finally broke the silence. "I need to
sign some forms to probate your father's estate. Afterwards I thought
we might go downtown for a ladies' lunch."
"Mom, there's something I need to tell you. Yesterday I was planning to
go to Dad's funeral, but I lost my nerve after I noticed that the FBI
had it under surveillance."
"The FBI! I thought they thought you were dead."
"So did I, but it was the same two agents who chased after me in
Europe." I'd told her all about my adventures the night before, and she
asked me to describe them. When I did, she nodded knowingly.
"I've seen them hanging around Winnetka." She got up and peeked out the
living room window. "There's no sign of them now, but the men you
described have been around the neighborhood asking questions about you,
and every so often I'll see one of them when I'm at the store or driving
by. The nerve of them staking out your father's funeral!"
"I don't want to get you in trouble, Mom. Somehow I've got to get out
of the country."
"Where do you plan to go?"
"Montreal, then hopefully Paris." After our gabfest the night before,
she knew all about Jacques, and it was clear that she disapproved of her
daughter carrying on an affair with a married man.
She bit her tongue while I helped her with the dishes, until she said,
"Your brothers have encouraged me to take a long vacation. They think a
round-the-world cruise or a safari would help me take my mind off all
the sad memories here in Winnetka."
"That's a good idea, but won't it be awfully expensive for you to keep
up this house while you're away?"
"Honey, your father was very successful. He sold his business when his
health started to deteriorate. Your mother is a very wealthy woman."
Still I was worried about the thought of her traveling alone. "Take it
from me, international travel is very stressful since 911."
"Your father had some unused time on NetJets, its sort of a timeshare
for private planes. I went with him on a few trips before he sold his
business, it's very luxurious! There's enough time left for me to
travel anywhere in the world, and as I recall, passports are a mere
formality."
"Where are you planning to go?"
"The thought of a cruise without your father depresses me, and the last
thing I want to do at my age is troop through a jungle full of wild
animals. If I had a traveling companion, there is one place I've always
wanted to visit. In fact, I might even buy a home there."
"Where is that, Mom?"
"Provence."
By the author of The Jessica Project
Latisha
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