Chapter 1

“I want to die!” Stephanie Watson screamed to whoever might be listening.

At precisely 11:45 in the morning, amid mild turbulence, the pilot of a small private aircraft began his descent toward Newnam Field Airport in Easton.  It was a clear sunny day with just enough wind to give the little jet a jolt as it cut through the clouds and skimmed along toward the runway.  Although the Challenger is small by practical aviation standards, it is plenty large and luxurious enough for a single passenger.

“Stop that damn bouncing!  Were you trained to drive a bus or a plane for God’s sake,” Stephanie Watson bellowed from a soft leather armchair inside the cabin.  With a warm towel over her puffy eyes, a strong hangover, and an even stronger drink in her hand, Stephanie was in no mood for a less than smooth landing.  The pilot looked to the copilot who was already rolling his eyes.

“Makes you want to send the plane into a loopty-loop, doesn’t it?”  Both men chuckled as Stephanie continued to huff and whine in the cabin behind them.

Meanwhile, midway across the state, Emily Sullivan was experiencing some turbulence of her own.  “Oh no,” Emily uttered quietly after unwrapping her sandwich.  Mayo!  Emily hated mayonnaise the way most people hate spiders or snakes.  The mere sight of it on her otherwise perfect BLT was enough to make her want to vomit.  She ran to the door to try to catch the delivery guy but it was too late.

“What’s wrong?” her coworker Sadie inquired.

“They put mayo on my BLT and I specifically said no mayo.”

“Can’t you just wipe it off?”

“Umm, no, not really,” Emily replied with a slight gag rising in her throat at the thought of a trace of mayo touching her tongue.

On the first Thursday of each month, Emily’s boss Mr. Arnold gathered his data team together for a meeting to review their prior month’s performance.  The team would order lunch from New Deli Cuisine – the in-house deli where the Department of Public Records employees always ordered their lunches – to eat during Mr. Arnold’s presentation.  On this Thursday morning, Emily decided to stray from her usual ham and cheese on rye, ordering a BLT instead.  Emily was typically a brown bagger on a tight budget but she splurged on a bought lunch each month during the meeting.

Just moments before noon, Mr. Arnold strolled into the meeting room with an armful of papers and a can of diet soda, putting everything down on a desk in the front of the room, then clearing his throat as a signal that the meeting was about to begin.  Emily surveyed her options quickly and decided to call the deli from the meeting room phone for a sandwich swap.

“No mayo,” she enunciated into the phone.  “That’s right, nothing on it at all except the bacon, lettuce, and tomato.”  The clerk on the other end of the phone sounded nearly offended that she would order such a lunch abomination.  Once she hung up the phone, Mr. Arnold cleared his throat again, sending Emily scurrying back to her seat.

After six months in this dead end data entry job, Emily was no closer to a promotion than she was to winning the lottery.  Nor did she have any clue to what position she would like to be promoted, other than out of the data entry department.  Although she had no idea what she truly wanted to do for a living, she was fairly certain that four years of college should have amounted to more than this.  Having gotten good grades in high school and strong S.A.T. scores, Emily’s parents insisted that she continue on to college.  Unfortunately, they did not insist on paying for it.

During her four years at Millersville University, Emily bounced from one major to the next like an intellectual pinball.  A math scholarship paid for part of Emily’s freshman year, but it took only one month for her to figure out that numbers had lost their luster for her.  Dropping math like a hot potato, she moved on to journalism.  Emily had always had a reasonable amount of writing talent so a part-time school newspaper gig and a cute professor bent her toward writing aspirations for all of about four months.  Once the reality set in that getting a decent writing job would be hard to come by, and a relationship with the super cute professor who turned up engaged one day would be impossible, journalism too fell out of Emily’s favor.  After brief stints as a biology major and a psychology major, simply because the textbooks were interesting, Emily wound up in the catch-all category of business major when all was said and done.  She had too many interests yet no serious interest all at once.

Once her four year educational sentence was up, Emily made the leap out into the real world of real work and real bills.  Or, perhaps more aptly described, she jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.  And now those hell fires seemed to be burning up her confidence, her ambition, and her bank account.  A data entry clerk, even a college educated one, scarcely makes enough money to live on her own, much less pay off school loans.  Of course, some money is better than no money; hence her employment at the Department of Public Records under her esteemed boss Mr. Arnold.

As Mr. Arnold’s pudgy little finger flipped on the old projector – the kind that old elementary schools used before the digital age – Emily squirmed in her seat, painfully aware that the New Deli delivery guy would have to interrupt the meeting to deliver her replacement sandwich.  Besides mayo, Emily also had an aversion to being the center of attention at work.  She tried to remain focused as Mr. Arnold started off with a rundown of statistics on how many records the department had processed for the month.  He then congratulated Stacy, the closest thing to a friend that Emily had in the department, on a job well done finding a major error, doing some extensive research, and correcting the problem.

Just then there was a knock at the door that indicated Emily’s replacement lunch had arrived.  In the midst of what Emily perceived to be a deadly silence, she folded up the crinkly wax paper around her sandwich and took it to the delivery guy who was now standing just inside the door.

“BLT, right?” the delivery guy verified.

“Yes, but without mayo,” Emily emphasized as she hurriedly unwrapped the new sandwich for inspection.  To her dismay but not surprise, this one too had mayo on it.  “How hard is this?” she screamed inside her head.  “It’s a simple instruction.  How much more clearly could I have said it?”

“This has mayo on it,” she said through gritted teeth.  “I ordered no mayo.”

“Can’t you just wipe it off?” came the delivery guy’s sardonic response.  If she were anywhere but in the middle of the monthly meeting, she probably would have screamed at the guy, but she bit her tongue instead, pushed the sandwich back at him, and told him to simply forget it.  Since he had no way to reimburse her, he insisted that they try one last time to get her order right.

Returning flush faced to the meeting, Emily sat down feeling as though everyone, including Mr. Arnold, thought she was being a huge pain in the posterior and making a mountain out of a mole hill.

“Let’s continue,” Mr. Arnold said as he changed transparencies on the projector.  “On the whole, we had an accurate month.  There was only one area where we had a real problem – death records.”  Emily swallowed hard, knowing that she was currently the only one handling those records.  “We had two deaths entered as births, three people entered as having died before they were born, and one person entered as having died in the future.  Emily, you need to pay closer attention to those dates when you enter them.”  There it was.  Singled out, with all eyes on her, Emily wanted to crawl under the table or become one of those death records herself.

“Will do, Mr. Arnold,” Emily croaked, barely drowning out the sound of her stomach growling at perhaps the worst possible time.

When Emily arrived back at her cubicle after the meeting, she finally unwrapped the third version of the lunch the annoyed delivery guy dropped at the front desk for her.  Relieved that he did not interrupt the meeting again, especially after being called out as the sole accuracy offender, she was equally famished, with her stomach having protested angrily and loudly throughout the remainder of the meeting.  Now safely back in her little grey cubicle, she stared down at yet another BLT with mayonnaise.  It was too late in the day to return the sandwich yet again, so now she was out not only a lunch but six dollars too.  At least she had the bag of chips that was stuffed in the bottom of the original delivery bag.

In the quiet stillness of the records department, with only the low din of keystrokes rhythmically playing the background noise that everyone tuned out by the third day on the job, the crunch of the potato chips echoed in Emily’s head like Tommy Lee thrashing away on the drums.  She nearly peeked over the side of her cube to see if Sadie was looking over her shoulder in annoyance from the noise, but clearly it was just in her head.

Emily picked up the newspaper that lay on the side of her desk.  Brittany Murphy had just died.  Somewhere in California a Public Records clerk was entering her death record and at least had a fairly interesting moment in her day because of it.  No one famous ever seemed to die in Maryland.  Not that Emily wished death on anyone … she just wished for a little excitement in her life and particularly in her job.

She opened the newspaper to the obituary section to make note of the names for which she did not yet have death certificates.  Besides being in charge of officially terminating people in the public records system, she was also in charge of marrying up public obituary announcements with death certificates.  Surprisingly, funeral homes and families were often more diligent about announcing the deaths of people in a timely fashion than hospitals and morticians were about forwarding the required documentation.  Beaurocracy at work right up to the end she thought.  It was then Emily’s job to attempt to track down the delinquent paperwork.  Sadly, this was probably the most interesting part of her job.

Today was a typical day – one missing death certificate out of the whole lot of obituaries.  After crunching her final potato chip, she wiped her greasy fingertips on her black slacks and prepared to enter the details of demise for the matched up death certificates from her files.

As she pulled up individual records, she could see a wealth of information about each person – it was as if she were peering into their lives and getting to know them after it was way too late.  Some of them had warning signs all over their records.  Like Harold Baumgartner who was ten pounds-three ounces at birth, worked a no doubt sedentary job as a court clerk for twenty-two years, and was five feet seven inches and two hundred eighty pounds at the time of his death from a heart attack at age forty-two.  Not only was Emily’s job boring, it was morbid.  And based on Mr. Arnold’s comments in the meeting, she apparently was not even good at it.

Emily sighed as she finished up the day’s entries, being sure to double check all of the pertinent facts, lest she find herself out of even a low-paying inane job.  There had to be something she was better suited for, but what?  If this was not the life Emily had envisioned for herself, then what was?

Chapter 2

As the gleaming black Lincoln Towncar buzzed into the exclusive gated community of Morgan’s Point on Maryland’s eastern shore, Stephanie had the driver call ahead to announce her impending arrival and to request complete silence in the house due to a throbbing headache.  After a long night of partying in Manhattan, Stephanie had a hangover that just wouldn’t quit.

When the Lincoln pulled into the long circular drive, Stephanie could see that Henry her butler was already waiting for her.  Before the car even came to a complete stop, Stephanie kicked open the back door with her silver platform heel and probably would have staggered her way right to her knees if it were not for Henry who already had his arm around her for support.

“Good evening, madam,” Henry whispered quietly but cheerfully.  Stephanie merely grunted in response.

The delicate feet on the ends of Stephanie’s already shaky legs caught in the cobblestone walkway that led to the main house, forcing her to lean heavily on Henry.

“Too much to drink?” Henry inquired.  Stephanie shot him an angry sideways glance above the rims of her black Gucci sunglasses.

“I am not drunk,” she countered with surprisingly clear diction for a woman who was, in fact, nearly always drunk to some degree.

Once inside the sprawling mansion, Stephanie kicked off her four inch heels and flopped down on the first over-stuffed chair she came to, which happened to be in the study.  Having a study was a gross waste of furniture and time on the architect’s part because Stephanie had no use for it other than to occasionally sit in the supple over-stuffed leather chair just across from the large unused mahogany desk, merely because of its proximity to the front door.  In truth, there were many unnecessary rooms in Stephanie’s mansion, especially when one considered that it had only one resident.  Her small but put-upon staff had their own not-so-modest quarters in the guest house next door.

After checking carefully but quietly to be sure she was not already sleeping behind her opaque sunglasses, Henry slowly and cautiously began the business of catching Stephanie up on what she had missed while she was gone.

“Your father called.  He denied your request to manage your own funds.”

“Ass!” Stephanie blurted as she took off her sunglasses and tossed them onto the desk.

“Pardon?” Henry replied as he picked up the sunglasses, knowing full well that she would have a fit later on if she failed to remember where she threw them.

“Not you; my father,” Stephanie snapped back at him.

“Yes well, onto other business.  Some chap from ‘Entertainment Tonight’ called requesting an interview and—“

“How many times do I have to say no interviews?” Stephanie screamed.  “Why can’t these people understand that just because I am rich and like to have fun does not mean I want to be the next Paris Hilton?  They need to leave me the hell alone!  In fact, everyone is supposed to be leaving me alone!  Did I not request silence in the house because I have a huge headache?”

“Sorry, madam, we can continue this later.”

As Henry turned to leave the study, it was clear that Stephanie was not done with him yet.

“Do you have to use that damn British accent?  I mean really, get rid of it!”

“Well I am British, Ms. Watson,” Henry replied somewhat defensively.

“Well it reminds me of my family and I just cannot deal with it anymore.  Get out; you’re fired!”

Just then, a clang of falling pots rang out from the kitchen.

“Ugh!  No more noise,” Stephanie wailed, gripping her head full of tousled blonde curls in her hands.  “On your way out, fire that damn cook and housekeeper too!”

“As you wish, madam,” Henry declared evenly as he left the study and headed toward the kitchen.

Chef Miriam Stout was worth her weight in gold and as heavy as her name implied.  With her golden palette and technical prowess, she could have worked for virtually anyone; why she had stayed with Stephanie Watson for so long could easily be one of life’s great unsolved mysteries.  Henry knew that Stephanie was making a huge mistake and he also knew that by the time she came to her senses, it would be too late.  Chef Stout would not be out of work for any longer than she cared to be.  Nonetheless, he was not too pleased to have to deliver Stephanie’s latest rash decision.

Henry strolled casually into the kitchen, careful to stay at least a frying pan’s length away from Chef Stout, just in case.

“No dinner prep necessary tonight, Miriam.”

“No?  Is the little bitch finally passed out?”

“Not that I know of but she has sent me in here to be the bearer of bad news as it were.  I know this is ridiculous but boss’ orders and all that … you’re fired.”

Henry took a cautious step backward but Chef Stout said not a word.  She simply dropped the pot she was holding onto the cold stainless steel countertop and began to laugh a wild laugh that Henry had not heard from her before this moment.  He watched her gingerly pull off her chef’s hat and jacket, tossing them on the counter as well before leaving the kitchen.  If he wasn’t mistaken, he almost thought he saw her skipping out of the kitchen.  Who could blame her?  Stephanie was perhaps the worst boss any chef, butler, or housekeeper could imagine.

Stephanie Watson was exactly as she appeared and she made no apologies or excuses for it.  She was a spoiled little rich girl who aspired to nothing and worked for nothing except perhaps losing her British accent, as she herself was a transplant from merry old England.  At the rebellious age of sixteen, Stephanie got a wild hair up her arse to move to the United States.  Her parents successfully fought it off until Stephanie turned nineteen, when she came into a more substantial allowance from her trust fund than she had previously received.  Since her parents did not approve of her move across the pond or her gallivanting around with all the wrong people, they sent Henry to serve as her butler.  They would have liked for him to have also been her chaperone, but at the current age of twenty-four, Stephanie was not exactly of the age to require or accept a guardian.

Henry was a highly trusted employee of the Watson family and although his presence in the Watson household was missed, Stephanie’s father William knew that Stephanie needed him more.  He was instrumental in securing a proper housekeeper and chef for the mansion because left to Stephanie, the house would be a shambles and she would no doubt subsist on alcohol and an occasional frozen pizza.  Henry was an excellent butler and exceptional at putting up with Stephanie, but he was not nor did he care to be a chef or housekeeper.

Since Stephanie was known for rash decisions, and bad ones at that, no one expected her move to the States to last.  Henry in particular expected to be back home in less than a year, but he was now going on his fifth year on the eastern shore of Maryland.  Chef Stout, a local chef from Oxford, had been with them for nearly four years, lured away from an expensive little bistro in St. Michael’s.  Housekeepers, on the other hand, seemed to change at least every three months. 

Henry always thought the eastern shore location an odd selection for such a party girl, but Stephanie preferred to jet around the country for her escapades, keeping her home life as private as possible.  She knew all too well what paparazzi were capable of, so if there was one thing she took seriously, it was adequate reclusion.

After locking up the main house, now empty to all but Stephanie, Henry walked next door to the guest house to complete her bidding.  Maria the current housekeeper was in the family room, munching on Doritos while watching Court TV.  Maria had been in Stephanie’s employ for just shy of three months so by Henry’s calculations, she was on her way out of her own volition anyway.  Nonetheless, Maria did not take the news well, slamming doors and ranting in Spanish all the way to her bedroom to collect her things.  Henry sighed and wondered if Stephanie would ever grow up or, more importantly, think of someone other than herself for a change.