Chesapeake Crimes Page 6

“My lousy husband is addicted to this store. People talk about women spending money shopping, but compare women’s closets to the gear stuffed into men’s garages. They’re the shopaholics.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, honey,” I said. “My husband was a selfish bastard, too. You’d better head off yours before he spends more.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I’m here. I’d bet the down payment on our house he’s here looking at new hunting equipment. We’re damn close to losing the house anyway.” She looked straight ahead at the store as if assessing a battlefield.

  Just then, the crossbow customer strolled across the parking lot, holding his bagged purchase and admiring the ATVs along the edge of the lot, as if the one he had bought wasn’t enough. When the woman saw him, she took off, her heels clacking with speed and intensity as she approached him.

  “Evan!”

  “Jackie, what are you doing here?”

  “Checking up on you, that’s what.”

  “Who do you think you are, my mommy?” He turned to face her.

  So the crossbow customer was her husband, I surmised. Poor woman.

  “I can’t believe you came back here after buying the ATV.”

  “Hey, you aren’t the boss. I’ll do what I want.”

  “You selfish bastard.”

  She’d used my own words, making me smile, and continued her tirade.

  “After wiping out our savings on a stupid ATV, you’re in here buying something else?”

  “Yeah, I am. It will save us money.” The customer opened his bag and pulled out his crossbow, fresh from the target range. The sales receipt fluttered to the ground, and the woman grabbed it.

  She gasped and said, “$700. How will spending $700 save us money?”

  “We can save on groceries when I bag more deer.”

  “You idiot! The kids won’t even eat venison. How can you even try to justify spending money on yourself when we barely have money to buy Christmas presents for the kids?”

  “You don’t have to buy me a gift now. Let me show you how it works.” He loaded an arrow and wound the pulley to ready the bow for firing, but his wife ignored his demonstration.

  “Buy you a gift? Let me give you a reality check, Evan. I hadn’t planned to give you a gift. We just have enough to buy a few clothes for the kids. We’re behind on our mortgage payments. Give me that thing. I’m taking it back right now.”

  “The hell you are!”

  They struggled, and she succeeded in pulling the crossbow out of her husband’s hands. Unsteady from its weight, she turned it around to balance it. The arrow shot out of the crossbow and hit her husband in the chest. He immediately crumpled to the ground.

  She reared back and blinked. I ran over and yanked the crossbow from her hands.

  “Oh, my God, is he dead?” She stared at him, frozen.

  I leaned over and checked his pulse. “Looks like the arrow went right through his heart. He’s not breathing.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill him. It just went off.” She put her hands over her eyes, as if she couldn’t bear seeing him. Her shoulders heaved, and her breathing came in gulps.

  Putting my free hand on her shoulder, I told her the truth. “Doesn’t matter, honey. A jury will decide whether you meant to kill him or not. His ATV purchase could be reason enough for them to convict you when they realize you’re behind on your mortgage payments. Money’s a common motive for murder. Now get out of here. No one will know.”

  She looked at me in disbelief. “You’re kidding?”

  “I’m dead serious. With your husband gone, your children will need you more than ever, so go on. Get!” I knew because my daughter was now a struggling single mother.

  She hesitated. “You’ll cover for me?”

  “Honey, I’ve been in your shoes and feel your pain. Now get out of here. Don’t speed. Just get in your car, go home to your children, and wait for the police to call you. You weren’t here and will be shocked to hear about your husband’s accident. Don’t volunteer anything. If they question the accident, reluctantly claim that he was upset and despondent about your finances.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she focused, clearly understood my reasoning, and then looked around the parking lot and at the storefront. Both were empty. “Thank you,” she said, and left.

  I watched her car disappear down the road, then scurried to open my car trunk and put on the gloves I kept there. I grabbed the package of bleach wipes and obliterated any fingerprints on the crossbow.

  Looking around, I hurried back to the husband. The lot was still empty. This would work. Once the husband loaded the arrow, he could have turned the crossbow around and hit the pulley release accidentally. Or even on purpose. I bent down and placed the crossbow backward into the man’s hands, pressing his lifeless fingers around the bow and on the pulley release so he looked like the total idiot he was.

  I stashed my gloves and wipes in my trunk, then repositioned my beach chair between the cars so I had no view of the ATVs. When the police arrived, I could easily say I didn’t see anything.

  When Joe died, I was lucky. I told his doctor how he grabbed his left arm before keeling over. Given Joe’s heart condition, which his physician had been treating, attributing Joe’s death to a heart attack was no problem. After his physician said Joe’s heart attack wasn’t surprising, the authorities hadn’t performed an autopsy.

  Joe had no remorse about wiping out my grandchildren’s college fund, so I’d had no remorse about lacing his nightly bourbon and soda with some extra doses of his heart medication. If they had done an autopsy, I’d have blamed his suicidal overdose on his ProTrout spending spree. I was prepared to tell them how distraught he’d become about his inability to control his spending. But I was lucky. I didn’t need those explanations. Passing on my luck to that young mother, who had also reeled in a dud for a husband, seemed like the right thing to do.

  And this time, without Joe, my college-savings plan for my granddaughters would work.

  An author and beach bum of note, E. B. Davis writes short stories and novels in the mystery and paranormal-mystery genres. After graduating with a master’s degree from George Washington University, she continued to degrade her writing skills working as a government-contractor analyst and as a construction manager. When she is not writing or blogging, she can be found at the beach, the setting for many of her stories. She is a member of the Short Mystery Fiction Society and Sisters in Crime. She blogs at http://writerswhokill.blogspot.com. Look for another of her stories, “Daddy’s Little Girl,” at http://voicesfromthegarage.com/story/daddys-little-girl.

  MURDER BY MEDIATION, by Jill Breslau

  Rainey drummed her fingertips on the polished conference table. She looked at the clock on the wall, and then at her watch, as if that would make a difference. Her mediation partner and their clients were all late. She drummed some more, listening to the soft click of her nails against the wood, and then glancing at her right hand. The French manicure looked perfect. Actually, she thought, leaning forward to admire her crossed legs, the shoes were perfect, too—expensive cobalt blue leather with four-inch heels. They matched her silk blouse and looked stunning with her classic black, barely knee-length suit.

  Her own admiration was appropriate, she thought, unlike the sleazy admiration of certain judges she knew. When she’d been a trial lawyer, before she discovered mediation, one judge actually told her in open court that he couldn’t hear what she was saying because he was so busy looking at her great legs. She wanted to use one of those great legs to kick him, hard, but she smiled sweetly and said, “Your Honor, I hope that isn’t true, because we’re on the record here, and I’ve just offered Document Eleven into evidence.” She liked to look good, but she detested the cloying, hypersexual way that some men interpreted her style.

  Lawrence, her mediation partner, was different. He was a truly nice man with good boundaries—and a great ass, thanks to all his bicycling. The thought popped into her mind unbidden, and she c
rushed it quickly, like squashing a bug, with a brisk reminder to herself: And a wife and two children. Cute, short, round-faced. He wasn’t really her type, anyway.

  She looked at the clock again. Usually Lawrence arrived promptly for their pre-session meeting to make sure they were on the same page, tuned in about the agenda. They had been a team since they’d heard of divorce mediation. It worked well for them, Rainey, who had been a tough litigator, and Lawrence, a social worker. Lawrence was gentler, more relaxed; Rainey was crisp, organized, and thorough. She enjoyed the intellectual quest for common ground as much as she had enjoyed skewering witnesses on the stand, which was saying something.

  The door opened and one of the clients, Henry Linnet, stuck his head in. “Hi, Rainey. If they aren’t here yet, I’ll just pop into the little boys’ room.”

  Rainey nodded and smiled, though she felt a spike of annoyance whenever adult males referred to the “little boys’ room.” For God’s sake, do they ever grow up?

  “Fine, Henry,” she said.

  Henry’s wife, Barbara, and Lawrence still hadn’t arrived when Henry returned. He sat in the swivel chair across from Rainey, gripped the table edge, and leaned forward, frowning. His wispy brown hair was disheveled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. He wore a Hawaiian shirt, as usual, and the buttons strained across his chubby torso. Rainey had privately agreed with Lawrence that wearing Hawaiian shirts was probably the most daring thing Henry had ever done.

  “Rainey, can I speak to you in confidence?”

  She shrugged. “Everything in mediation is confidential, Henry, unless it has to do with abuse or anticipated violence.”

  “No, this isn’t about that. This is about Barbara.” He paused, and his eyes widened, as his head bobbed affirmatively. “I can’t shake the feeling that she’s having an affair.”

  Rainey’s eyebrows lifted. “Barbara?”

  “Don’t be deceived by her demeanor, Rainey. She may look sweet and bland, but she has a wild, passionate streak.”

  Rainey struggled to keep the disbelief off her face. Barbara was the least sexy woman she had ever met. She had flat brown eyes, light brown hair, the same color as her husband’s, and very small, white teeth that looked as if she’d never lost her baby teeth. She spoke in a girlish, breathy voice, like Marilyn Monroe. Unlike Marilyn, she wore long, baggy earth-tone-colored skirts and loose tops that she didn’t tuck in, as if she had done all her clothes shopping sometime in the ‘60s. Rainey referred to her privately, and to Lawrence, as “Miss Mouse.”

  “What makes you think she’s having an affair?”

  Henry frowned again and looked at her. “She’s too happy. We’re in a divorce. We’re arguing about custody of the children. We’ve got to divide up all our property, and she won’t have as much money as she’s used to. She’s going to have to start tutoring, as well as teaching, to make the budget work. But she’s happy, almost giddy.”

  He paused and then continued, “And she’s coming on to me all the time.”

  “She is?”

  “It’s confusing.”

  “So, Henry, are you sleeping with her?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course I am.”

  Rainey felt a rush of disgust that twitched the corners of her mouth downward. She looked away, hoping he was too self-absorbed to have noticed.

  “But you think there’s someone else, too?” Rainey crossed her arms as he nodded again, and then she leaned back in her chair. “Well, how can I help you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to tell somebody. And I wanted to know if it’s a legal problem.”

  “Maryland’s only a no-fault state if people can swear they’ve lived apart for a year before a divorce, without cohabitation. That means without sleeping together. So every time you sleep together after separation, you push the date for a divorce back. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah. Well, I don’t want the divorce, anyway, so if it takes longer, that’s fine by me.”

  “Well, Henry, I’m not a therapist, and I can’t second-guess your feelings. But from a legal perspective, Maryland allows adultery as grounds for divorce, so if Barbara is having an affair, you could get into court whenever you want on those grounds.” Rainey had repeated similar words so many times in her career, they rolled out automatically.

  Henry nodded. One side of his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I can’t prove anything. It just seems strange to me, her mood.”

  Rainey leaned forward, encouragingly. “Henry, divorce is difficult. It hits people different ways. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  While she spoke, she noticed his gaze falling to her cleavage, and she sat straighter in her chair. It had been annoying enough to be the object of sexist remarks in the courtroom, but in her own conference room? She took a deep breath and set her jaw tightly.

  There was a knock on the door, and Barbara opened it without waiting for an invitation. Rainey glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes late. And where was Lawrence?

  Barbara settled herself in a chair, swiveling toward Rainey. “I’m sorry to be late. Something came up.” Then a red flush made its way from her neck up to her forehead. It made Rainey wonder if breasts could blush. Maybe Henry was right. Maybe Barbara was having an affair.

  “It’s all right. Lawrence isn’t here yet,” Rainey said, “and I haven’t heard from him…” The door opened again.

  “I apologize,” Lawrence said. He was red-faced and out of breath. “I had some bike problems. I’ll be just a moment more; I need some water.”

  As he left the room, Barbara gazed after him as if he were something edible. Rainey watched the expression on Barbara’s face. She sighed. Lawrence had counseled Barbara before she decided to divorce Henry, and then he changed hats, so to speak, and brought the couple into mediation. Rainey had learned it could be a pain to work in mediation with clients Lawrence had seen before as a therapist; their therapeutic transference and silly fantasies about Lawrence didn’t make her job easier. Rainey began shuffling through the file, and Lawrence came back, holding a water glass, his hair damp around his face. As he reached across the table to shake hands with Henry, Rainey glimpsed Barbara’s expression. Her adoring look warped briefly, her upper lip curling in a silent hiss.

  “Are we all ready to begin the session?” Rainey asked, taking control.

  They began discussing parenting arrangements for Henry and Barbara’s two young children. Barbara hadn’t wanted to share custody, claiming they were too young; Henry, however, was terrified of losing his children. He fretted about whether his relationship with them would be healthy if he saw them infrequently, and he wasn’t reassured by Rainey’s assertion that he would always be their father. Then, to Rainey’s surprise, Barbara suddenly turned to Henry and said, “You know, I’ve been wrong. You’re a good dad, and you deserve to have the children half the time.”

  Rainey found herself moved by Barbara’s acknowledgement of her husband. A tear darted to her eye, followed swiftly by a thought darting through her head. Sure, more time with the lover if Henry’s got the kids.

  At the end of the session, Barbara and Henry left together, closing the door behind them. Lawrence grinned at Rainey.

  “Good job, partner!”

  He jumped up and headed for the door. Rainey frowned. Usually they debriefed their sessions, but maybe he needed to fix the bike? She caught a whiff of a sweaty, musky scent as he dashed out of the office, jogging toward the bicycle he always parked at a meter on the curb. The bike still had the little buggy attached that he had used to cart his children around when they were small. Five years later, he said it worked fine for carrying groceries home, even though the kids had outgrown it.

  She watched him cycle away, still vaguely charmed by his refusal to drive a car (his environmental statement, he said), his involvement in transporting his children, and his willingness to go food shopping, before she turned back to the conference room. She was less charmed by the sweat that came with the cycling. N
evertheless, he’d done a lot to grow this business, she thought. It wouldn’t have happened without him. As she tucked her notes in the file, gathered coffee cups from the conference room table, and ran a cloth saturated with furniture polish over the table top, familiar images ran through her head. Pre-Lawrence, and pre-mediation, her life had been a series of infuriating events:

  Rainey standing outside a courtroom, breathing deeply to lower the register of her voice. She’d realized early on that the good-ol’-boy judges tuned out their wives’ voices and, thus, the voices of women lawyers. If she didn’t speak in a deep voice, she literally wasn’t heard.

  Rainey, during a party, pushing open an unlocked bathroom door in the fancy home of a big-firm lawyer to discover one of the judges snorting cocaine. Great, a cokehead was making vital decisions about people’s lives.

  Rainey, coming up the courthouse inside stairwell to beg a judicial assistant for hearing time, since the judge she had been scheduled to appear before had canceled the day’s docket. Then, seeing that same judge rushing down the stairs, his robe billowing around him to disclose white tennis shorts. Clearly, he couldn’t wait to get out of the courthouse and onto the courts.

  She had first been disappointed and then disgusted that these shallow, sexist, selfish men were making decisions that changed people’s lives forever. She hated being in a courtroom where they held the power. She had complained bitterly to her friends. And it was her friend Lawrence who called her one day, excited, to tell her about a brand new concept for divorcing couples called mediation, where couples worked together to find shared values and common ground. They had rushed out to California for training and set up their business. Their slogan was simple, but they believed it: “Finding Win-Win Solutions!”

  Rainey chuckled to herself, remembering their talks to the ministerial association, the local psychologists, and anyone else who would listen. Even professionals were so clueless that they thought Rainey and Lawrence were coming to teach them mediTAtion, not mediAtion. Coincidentally, after observing Rainey’s short fuse (wasn’t he kind to call it that, instead of an “anger management issue”?), Lawrence taught her mediTAtion. Sometimes they would sit together, breathing quietly, until her jaws relaxed and her shoulders eased.