The Underworld

by Emma Lydon

Philippa Porter was not a detective. At least not in the conventional sense. Finding missing shin guards and Barbie doll combs did require a special brand of sleuthing, but her efforts went largely unappreciated. This was not the case for her husband.

Russell Porter was a detective. He had received much appreciation for his work. People complemented his tact, insight, and above all, discretion. See, Mr. Porter was unfazed by the seedier aspects of human nature. This particular aspect of his personality probably helped get him murdered.

When Philippa got the call she was waging an unsuccessful battle against their finicky sewing machine. Moments from smashing the iron contraption against the floor, she was relieved to hear the phone ring. Philippa enjoyed distraction.

“Hello, this is Philippa Porter,” she chirped into the phone.

“Mrs. Porter?” The clipped voice responded, “This is the police. I’m afraid we have some bad news.”

Philippa was dazed. She comforted her children, arranged the funeral, and spoke to the police. Russell had disappeared from a reception at the Claremont Hotel. Hours later, a phone call was made, informing the police of his murder. His blood-spattered shirt and prized watch had washed up at the Marina days later. In the watch was a chunk of his hair. There were no leads.

She thought of their relationship. She did not mourn his death as a lover. They had never been truly intimate in that way – their marriage was founded on one drunken night eight years prior, ending in a hasty wedding and twins. But she did miss him as a friend. Russell was her closest confidante, loyal partner, and fierce protector. She kept his watch in his empty sock drawer, and from time to time she would open it up, just to assure herself of its presence.

Philippa was pulled from her reverie as the wake began. Her house, fine in its simplicity, exuded a gentle warmth. She admired her brave twins, who stood, stoic, beside her. Georgia and Fred, earnest in their efforts to appear solemn and collected, held hands and directed their eyes toward the floor.

The neighbors started to filter in. The women gathered in the kitchen, arranging food and cleaning, all the devoted, expected acts of friendly neighbors. The men settled by the fireplace, arguing about Eisenhower’s recent election and the rumors of desegregation.

Daisy Miller sidled up to Philippa, pressing her rough lip to her cheek. “Oh, honey,” she cried, “you must be just devastated. Let us take you into the kitchen where we can pamper you.”

“Oh, really Daisy,” Philippa lied, “I’d love that, but I just have to stay with my kids right now. You understand, as a mother?”

“Mommy, we’re fine,” Georgia reassured.

“Yup,” Fred added, “A-O-K.”

Philippa groaned internally. “Well, great!” Daisy exclaimed, shepherding Philippa into the kitchen.

The moment she stepped through the doors, the women swarmed.

“A murder!” They had declared to their husbands and family the night before, “One of our neighbors. Can you imagine?”

“Sweetheart,” they simpered, “how are you holding up?”

Philippa grunted a non-committal noise, but was saved a real response by Daisy’s husband, George. The moment Mr. Miller violated the inner sanctum of the women’s realm, the chatter shifted to an icy silence.

“Hello, Darling,” Daisy’s voice rang out, “What brings you in here? Is anything the matter?”

“Oh, no,” George smiled apologetically, “I was wondering if I could borrow Philippa for a moment.” He held the door as she followed him out.

In the hallway he gave her a light peck on the cheek. Of everyone she knew, only George understood the dynamic in her relationship with Russell, and she shared the loss of a best friend with him graciously.

“Daisy’s on top of her game today,” Philippa grinned up at him, “it took her less than five minutes to bring up drugs and concubines as potential reasons for murder.”

“I’m always impressed by her ability to combine her xenophobia with her penchant for violent deaths,” George responded. “But seriously, what are they saying? Who do they think did it?”

“They’re not sure. I don’t believe a single one of them has a larger reasoning ability than my twins.”

Philippa sighed, resting her tired head against the wall paper. She squeezed George’s hand lightly, and he pushed a stray lock of hair away from her dark eyes. “I just don’t know what to say to the kids,” she confessed.

They leapt apart as Daisy called after them, “Is everything alright you two?”

Re-emerging in the bright kitchen, Philippa plastered on a smile. “Of course,” she said, “George was just kind enough to explain what exactly Russell’s life-insurance policy entails.” She smiled at him, “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you two as neighbors. You’ve been such dears.”

“Well, what are neighbors for,” Daisy responded with false modesty “I couldn’t imagine what you’re going through. I would honestly die without Georgie here.” She leaned away from Philippa, straightening his tie.

“Well, ladies,” George said with an affable smile, “I believe I must excuse myself. Pardon me for intruding on your woman time,” and with a nod of his head, he was gone.

Daisy Miller stopped by the next morning. She did not need to borrow a cup of flour or a tomato. Rather, her husband had never come home last night.

“Philippa?” the panic in her voice rose to the surface.

“Daisy, you’re a wreck.” Philippa worked hard to conceal the note of glee in her own voice. “What could possibly be the matter?”

“I think,” she gasped heavily, “George has been abducted like your husband.”

“Why would you think that?”

“There was a note.”

“A note?”

“It said,” and her hands shook as she pulled out a crinkled slip of pale green paper, “I do not love you. I never have. And today I am leaving you.”

“Wow.” Philippa was impressed by George’s bluntness.

“Who would write such vile things?”

“I’m sorry Daisy,” Philippa apologized, “I really cannot help you.” And she shut the door heavily, leaving a sobbing Daisy out in the cold.

Philippa walked slowly down the hall, and entered the bedroom she and Russell had shared for eight long years. She passed her twin bed, and walked to the other side of the room, where Russell’s things had sat. Past his bed she stepped towards the dresser. The sock drawer had been left ajar. The clothes had been emptied out of the drawer.

Frantically Philippa pawed the empty drawer, searching. At last, her fingers grasped a slip of paper. It was the same color as the note left for Daisy. On it was a crude drawing, two men holding hands. One word was scrawled at the bottom –

Thanks.