The spinster, Eleanor Dawson, held a peculiar tic. She'd finagled ownership of her mother's cosmetic company upon her admittance to the Arkham Ridge Mental Institute in El Paso.

The administrative office of Doctor Thaddeous McGraw adjoined a filthy mop closet. The putrid aroma permeated the room. Inside, two old acquaintances brokered a deal as dirty as the janitor's rancid bucket.

Eleanor plopped a briefcase full of crisp green bills on top of a secluded desk and hissed, "I want her permanently institutionalized."

The comment brought a moment's hesitation.

She surveyed the room and smiled. "Will two million in your pocket guarantee the proper results?"

A gleeful chortle crossed her cohort's face as the sound of a cash register echoed in the psychologist's mind.

Eleanor laughed. "Under the table, of course. The modern way of conducting business."

"This, my dear lady, calls for a celebration," Thaddeus McGraw beamed. He snapped the case closed and suggested, "Bernardo's at eight for Bakaliaros?"

Eleanor recalled the succulent fritters accompanied by their thick, garlicky, sauce and nodded agreement. She enjoyed a hearty Greek Retsina. Served in a wide-open chilled glass, her favorite wine delicately fermented in fine Aleppo pine resin. The fruit of the vine tasted better than any muddled balderdash that made her tight as a tick.

How do I know this happened? It is not hard to pick tidbits up in Brubaker, especially when you are as inquisitive about the private affairs of others as I am. I filed the particulars away in my memory banks. I never knew when insider information came in handy.

On the prowl, Daphne, with her elongated body, albino fur, and triangular head, slinked outside one velvet--soft paw after the other. A bird, a squirrel, or other small game, even Elizabeth Anderson's tailless Manx kitten next door, would foot the bill. They all became targets for the mighty hunter.

Eleanor did not notice Daphne's disappearance act or care. The cat would not roam far, only the confines of the complex. As far as Eleanor was concerned no store bought or manufactured food, with its added man-made by-products or preservatives, were good enough for her Seal Point. She refused them all.

At noon, as her habit dictated, Eleanor sat her Lungo mug, full of its dark chocolatey espresso contents, on the desk and positioned herself behind her Dell. Invoices, and other menial pursuits, were for underlings. A hot and heavy tryst awaited her transmission. Her tic kicked in.

She read the awaited message and wrote, "Sebastian, Darling, say it is not so, for I am painfully in love with you."

His cold tone obvious, Sebastian Cavanaugh responded, "On several fronts this dubious affair must reach an inevitable conclusion."

Rumors circulated Eleanor had been a high-end call girl before she gained sole proprietorship of her mother's estate. Doubts filled Sebastian. His vaunted social circles would never accept such an unwarranted enigma. In addition, Malachai and Melika, his chic twin toddlers, must be considered. The question remained, was Eleanor proper material for them? Unsure, Sebastian could not risk the stigma.

"Do you aim to marry me?" She asked.

"NO! That is one thing I am certainly over. You were always the prettiest sight in Brubaker, but now you are not," came his callous response. "That is the whole trouble with women. You do things that make no sense. If romance is what you are starved for read about the fantasy in a magazine!"

Eleanor spent many lonely hours in her palatial manor. Locked in its case, her Ruger 9mm often whispered her name. She shut down her computer. Jilted by her lover, Eleanor trembled and retrieved the weapon. She caressed its shiny barrel with her dainty feminine fingers and dropped the pistol into the Louis Vuitton strapped over her elegant shoulder. A symbol of her upper crust status, the purse empowered her. With a silent hush, Eleanor slithered out the door.