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Birdie was distracted as she sat in the estate attorney’s outdated office, while he droned on concerning her questionable behavior.
Thing was, she was distracted by sheep.
At least that’s what she saw when she squinted her eyes at the outdated border pasted below the thick crown molding. The paper covered with repetitive curlicues that resembled horns.
Like you would see on sheep.
Angry sheep.
Below the hostile border, the walls were covered in a plum and eggshell paisley print, circa 1982, the wainscoting at the bottom, a dark polished wood. The room was extremely warm and smelled funky. She caught a whiff of mold with subtle notes of self-importance and pretense.
The tinny voice of Mr. Braniff, the attorney who had just painstakingly noted a laundry list of her transgressions, asked, “Mrs. Shepherd, are you paying attention?”
Birdie drew in a breath. Channeling her inner bored socialite, which was quite the stretch, she replied, “Of course I am. This is all quite riveting. Please, continue.”
Wearing the Chanel suit she reserved for funerals, and an overly large pair of Maison Bonnet sunglasses, which had been worn only once by her daughter Mia the year she had insisted on dressing up as Jackie O for Halloween, she left the house that morning appearing wealthy and aloof.
Perfect for the meeting at the estate attorney’s office, despite nothing being further than the truth.
She armed herself with layers of decadent wealth in an attempt to establish a stronghold in the only language her stepsons would bother to acknowledge, the language of gratuitous affluence.
She tried to pay attention. She really did. But her eyes kept gravitating toward the angry sheep glaring down at her from above. What in the world did sheep have to be mad about? A less than stellar pasture on which to graze? An inattentive shepherd?
Maybe it was time to develop better coping mechanisms.
At one time, distracting herself during a tirade had become an indispensable skill. One that was less about distraction and more about self-preservation. If the men in this room thought their accusations damning, they knew nothing of the fire and brimstone power of an unstable mother.
She swallowed at the memory, their accusations so mild and predictable in comparison.
There was no use debating their allegations. As far as crimes went, the room’s regrettable design and her two stepsons sitting next to her in suits, that cost more than most people’s monthly mortgages, were in direct competition for worst offenders.
Mr. Braniff was still working through his list. The latter and more bribable of The Babcock and Braniff estate planning firm, cleared his throat for what seemed like the hundredth time. Looking as if he were battling his conscience in addition to an outdated design aesthetic and an acute iron deficiency.
That was one pasty man.
And corrupt.
Birdie thought about the bribes Braniff must have accepted from her stepsons prior to the meeting. Likely scheduled to hit his bank account minutes after delivering the scripted allegations and coercing her signature.
Seriously, it had to have been a truly vulgar amount of cash to convince him to recite such absolute drivel.
“Mrs. Shepherd, I understand, as a matter of record, aside from the list of claims against you that we have already outlined, you have also been battling drug addiction for quite some time.”
Well, that was a new one.
“Have I now?” She turned her attention from Braniff and the sheep horns to Errol and Flynn, her stepsons, sitting on her left and named as such by their psychotic mother, and her husband’s ex-wife, Ariana Shepherd.
Birdie pictured the vile woman, lounging in bed wearing a pink peignoir, anxiously awaiting confirmation of Birdie’s ultimate capitulation, while feeding her French pug kibble and sipping the blood of tiny kittens from her Waterford champagne flute.
She stared expressionless at the two men who shared the same features. Neither of them resembling a 1950s swashbuckling actor during the Golden Age of Hollywood, or Marshall for that matter, her recently deceased husband.
Errol, with his beady eyes and gaunt face, didn’t even bother to hold back an arrogant smirk. His expression a repulsive mixture of vindication and lust.
While Flynn, who carried an extra fifty pounds and likely cirrhosis of the liver, looked bored as he inelegantly picked his nose, twirled, and flicked.
She turned her attention back to Braniff. “I see my stepsons have been busy spreading rumors about me.” She crinkled her nose, along with a shake of her head. “The little scamps.”
