Made for Murder

by Julie Hyzy

  “Thought I’d stay home for a change. Not disappointed, I hope,” he said, leaning down over the back of the kitchen chair to plant a kiss on her cheek.

  “No…Of course not.”

  “So, what did you do today?” Keith walked over to the beverage dispenser and poured coffee into his favorite mug, the big orange one with his University logo on it.

  “Do?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled, with a cookie in his mouth. He sat down across from her and grinned as he chewed. “I mean, after work, till I got home. Anything you want to talk about?”

  Come on, Margaret, he urged silently. Tell me about your Travelogue. I know you bought it. I watched you today.

  “Not much,” she said, “Deirdre stopped by. Didn’t stay long.”

  “Come on,” he said, “tell me about your day? Did you go anywhere? See anyone?”

  “Why?” she asked. Her voice was sharp.

  Keith blinked, surprised. “I just wanted to share your day,” he said, confused, “that’s all. I’m sorry.”

  “No. No, I’m sorry,” she said, fluttering her hand his direction, “I don’t know why I reacted that way. I guess I was so deep into my book and you startled me when you came in.”

  Keith leaned, pulling the book over to his side of the table, “This one? Again? Haven’t you read this before?”

  “Yeah, but I like it.” Margaret got up from the table, “Are you hungry?” she asked, moving toward the refrigerator. “I am.”

  “Nah, I grabbed a late lunch today. These cookies will do me fine.” Keith paged through the book, “Isn’t this the one where she leaves her husband and takes up with some other guy in Scotland?”

  “Well, yeah, but there’s more to it than that.”

  “I hate that story,” he said, shoving the book away.

  “You’ve never even read it.”

  “I know I wouldn’t like anything about a woman being unfaithful to her husband.”

  “She’s not unfaithful. Not really.”

  “Does she have sex with the Scot?”

  “Yes, but she’s married to him at the time.”

  “So being a bigamist makes it okay.”

  Margaret closed her eyes for a moment. “Let’s change the subject, okay? It’s just a book, after all.”

  “I can’t believe you like this tripe.”

  With her back against the refrigerator, Margaret massaged her eyes. “Fiction, Keith. It’s a work of fiction.”

  “But it puts ideas in women’s heads.”

  Margaret didn’t answer. And that made it worse.

  He grabbed the book again, and flipped through it, trying to look unconcerned. “You wouldn’t leave me, would you?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. But she didn’t look at him.

  Keith sat back in his office chair, and glared at the visi-phone as it rang. It was probably his boss, asking for the project update. Again.

  “Answer,” he said.

  It was Margaret.

  “Deirdre and I are thinking about seeing a movie tonight,” she said. “I was wondering what time you thought you’d be home.”

  “You’re going to a movie with Deirdre?”

  “We’re thinking about it.”

  “But you usually go to the movies with me.”

  “There are lots of movies out there, Keith. We can see a different one.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I guess.”

  Nearly half a minute ticked by as they watched each other.

  “So,” she asked, “what time do you think you’ll be home?”

  “What time’s the movie?” Keith kept his voice calm, his face passive. His foot tapped staccato tension.

  “I don’t know yet. I don’t even know if we’re going for sure,” Margaret said. Her teeth might have been clenched.

  “Maybe if I get off on time tonight, I can go with you.”

  Margaret’s eyes flashed with exasperation. “Tell you what, Keith. Call me when you’re ready to leave work and we’ll figure everything out then, okay?”

  Brightening, Keith nodded. “You won’t go until you hear from me?”

  “No,” Margaret said, “I won’t go.”

  “Okay then,” Keith agreed. “I’ll call you later.”

  Going out with her friend. Geez. After he’d let her buy the Travelogue and everything. Keith turned to the paperwork on his desk. He’d work late. Call late. Then there’d be no chance of them going out without him.

  “We haven’t gone out in a long time,” he said a few days later.

  “No,” she strung out the word. “We haven’t.”

  Keith tried to think of the most expensive restaurant in town. “I know,” he said, like a kid who just thought up a new game, “let’s go to that fish place. The one downtown that gets all the great reviews.”

  The fish place, as Keith had called it, lived up to its hype. An old style restaurant, the wait staff still visited tables to take orders and deliver entrees rather than relegating those chores to cybernetic drones. Keith thought it would be perfect for a romantic dinner for two, and was dismayed when they literally bumped into his biggest client and his wife, who’d come to town just that afternoon. Within moments it had been decided, mostly by the client, that this was a fortuitous meeting indeed, and they should take the opportunity to dine together.

  Keith wondered how much the evening was going to cost him.

  They’d been seated for only moments when their waiter stopped by to introduce himself. Middle-aged, with a burnished complexion and graying close-cropped hair, he wasn’t particularly tall, a fact that was exacerbated by his habit of bending at the waist to talk to them. He wore a white tuxedo jacket and shirt, with a black tie and black pants. Keith wondered aloud what era the restaurant was attempting to capture.

  Their dinner companions, Stewart and Sally, offered eager opinions.

  “Definitely twentieth century,” Stewart said, looking at his wife, “wouldn’t you say?”

  Sally nodded, “Nineteen forties. Fifties maybe. Very elegant-looking.” She grinned at Margaret, “We don’t have anything like this in Spaulding. Everything’s ultramodern.”

  Though Stewart could only be a few years older than Keith, he looked more mature and carried himself with an air of success that Keith had never mastered. Putting his drink down on the table, Stewart reached up and scratched lightly at his shiny-bald head, patting down imaginary hairs when he was finished. “My great-grandparents were born in the nineteen fifties. In Russia. And let me tell you, the stories that have been passed down paint a much less elegant picture than what we see here.”

  Keith picked up on the opening. “Russia? How interesting. I’d heard that there was genuine strife there in the last century. And now it’s the center for world trade. Do you still have family there?”

  “No,” he sighed, “haven’t even visited.”

  “I have,” Sally said.

  Stewart patted his wife’s hand. “You’ve visited places I only dream about.”

  “Oh?” Keith said, his elbows on the table. He looked from Sally to Stewart and back again, “Jet-setter, eh?”

  Sally chuckled. “Not quite,” she said, with a glance to Stewart who was draining his glass and gesturing to the waiter to replenish everyone’s drinks. Keith smiled through clenched teeth, mentally totaling the bar tab.

  Sally’s brown hair, smooth as silk, was pulled back in a tight chignon, adding a touch of severity to her very freckled face. She looked like a woman in charge and Stewart deferred to her with a nod.

  “Travelogue,” she said.

  Margaret gasped. They all looked at her. “Travelogue?”

  “Surely you’ve heard of it, Marge,” Sally leaned forward. “You don’t mind that I call you Marge, do you?”

  “No,” Keith said, reaching to squeeze Margaret’s hand under the table, “she loves being called Marge.”

  Sally smiled at them. “It’s life-changing. I mean it.”

  Stewa
rt nodded.

  “It’s hard to explain, but I’ll try,” Sally said, with a sip of her second glass of wine. “Travelogue is a way to see things, to experience things,” she shot a meaningful glance Margaret’s direction, “that you might not otherwise have a chance to try. One of my friends visited Niagara Falls. I went there on Travelogue. Everything she saw, I’d seen too. But…” and here she smiled and lifted her eyebrows in an odd way, “I think I had a better time.”

  Margaret squeezed the lemon into her iced tea.

  Sally’s words weren’t slurred, but they began to sound less clear than they had earlier. Her gestures became more expansive and she tended to giggle.

  “So,” she said, her eyes widening with the careful pronunciation of the word, “I tried out this Travelogue thing, what? Stew? About two years ago?”

  “Two years,” he said. His eyes turned to Sally for a second, but didn’t seem to focus entirely.

  “It starts out with just travel, you know. Just travel.” Sally raised her eyebrows in a conspiratorial way, “but it’s so much more. Stew and I were having, I don’t know, problems. Weren’t we honey?”

  “Two years ago,” he nodded.

  “I thought we were going to get divorced for sure. But boy, would that suck. Everybody I know who’s divorced says the process sucks. I didn’t want to do it. And besides, Stewart isn’t so bad.”

  Stewart smiled as though she’d complimented him.

  “Instead, I bought the Travelogue Deluxe Set. Didn’t even know what I was getting into, just listened to my girlfriends, is all. Most people just buy one—and hey, that’s great. Probably good enough.” She held two fingers to her mouth as her body shuddered and a tiny hiss escaped her lips. “‘Scuse me. But if you have the Deluxe set, you can have lots more… adventures.”

  Keith smiled, “So traveling to other places helped your marriage?” he asked, nodding his head, trying to understand.

  “Just like in life, Sweetie, it ain’t the places you visit, it’s the people you visit them with.”

  Margaret took another sip of her tea, and bit the straw as Sally talked.

  “You take virtual tours together?” he asked.

  Stewart, who had been staring at the bread plate in front of him, his chin nearly on his chest, did a little body lift that could have been a laugh.

  “You’re cute,” Sally said with a flip of her hand that just grazed Keith’s arm. “Travelogue isn’t just about travel. That’s the name they came up with because there are so many places you can visit. It’s about experiences. And meeting people.” Sally turned her attention to Margaret, “You’ve heard of it, haven’t you, Marge?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Really?” Keith said, scratching a fingernail back and forth on the white linen tablecloth. “You have?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” she said with emphasis, “but from what I understand, it’s about fulfillment. A virtual ability to do the things that you feel you’ve missed in your life. But from what I understand it’s all very aboveboard?”

  “For some people,” Sally said, “yeah. People who just need their chance to climb a mountain, or discover some ancient artifacts in some godforsaken country, or…” she flittered her hands, “…whatever. Couple of my friends are like that. Works for them.”

  Margaret cleared her throat, “I hear the medical community is looking into it as an alternative treatment for depression. You know, for people who feel trapped in their lives.”

  Stewart was staring at the bread plate again. “Sally meets men,” he said in a thick voice.

  Keith sat back, as if to physically distance himself from the conversation.

  “Men?” Keith said.

  Sally shot a look toward Stewart, then turned and offered a smile again, her lips tight. From anger or embarrassment, Keith couldn’t tell. Either way, she’d been ruffled. “Well,” she said, with a self-conscious giggle, “I guess I’ve found out what my heart’s desire is, haven’t I?”

  Sally wasn’t finished. She gave an apologetic smile, then whispered to the group, “Not that a little virtual sex ever hurt anybody….”

  “Give me one of those viewer option attachments,” Keith said to the girl behind the counter. It wasn’t Clarisse.

  Keith had called in sick today, to search the house for Margaret’s Travelogue. It had taken him the better part of the day, but he’d finally found it tucked carefully inside the electronic access panel in a far corner of Margaret’s closet. He’d nearly forgotten the hollow section was there. He’d have to give her credit, it was a clever hiding place.

  The contraption in hand, he remembered needing the view-only attachment in order to access Margaret’s adventures. He didn’t want to use the Travelogue without it, and risk messing up the memory, just in case. He looked at the watch on his wrist. Margaret was due home from work in an hour. There was just enough time. If this girl would just move a little.

  The heavy blonde girl turned and raised her index finger with a smile. “I’ll be with you in one second,” she said, in a high, silly voice. She was sorting through a pile of papers, obviously looking for something and having no luck.

  Keith’s leaned on the countertop. It was bright blue with apple-green speckles. He drummed his fingers as he watched the girl in her wrinkled and sweaty khaki pants, move from one end of the opposite counter to the other, with slow deliberation. Her fat feet were jammed into soft white shoes and she swayed from side to side as she stood. Keith sighed loudly, “Excuse me?”

  He read her nametag when she turned this time. “Bonnie?” he said, with dramatic politeness. “Could I please get some service here?”

  She shrugged and giggled in a helpless way. “I have to find something real important for my manager. It’ll just take a minute.” She smiled again, as if that solved everything.

  “I don’t have a minute!” He banged on the counter with both fists.

  Fear jumped into her eyes. “Okay,” she said, moving toward him. “I’m sorry to make you wait, sir. What was it you needed?”

  “One of those view-only attachments,” he repeated through clenched teeth. “Please.”

  “Sure, right away.” Bonnie moved toward the large storage cabinet to her left. Just as she got there, she picked her head up as if remembering something. She lumbered back, and reached around the payment register, “Keys,” she said, with a shrug.

  Five minutes later Keith walked out of the store. He took a deep breath. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe Margaret’s Travelogue was nothing more than trips to London, Paris, or Rome. She’d always wanted to go to Italy. He sucked in another breath and quieted himself. Sure. That was it.

  Across the street the dark wooden façade of the bar beckoned. Looking away, he started down the street toward home, but stopped. Just one, he thought. He stood there a moment, his hand clenched on the little apple-green bag, making it crinkle. Just one. He needed help to get through this. He pivoted and crossed the street.

  He was handsome. Very handsome. Big, brawny and smiling, he looked directly at Keith and said, in a thick Scottish brogue. “Hello, Maggie.”

  Keith ripped the gear from his head and bolted to the bathroom where he was violently sick. He blew deep breaths out, facing the toilet bowl, and propped himself up with one arm against the wall. Cold beads of sweat popped out all over his face and he didn’t trust himself to move just yet. Scotland. Of course. Just like that book. He wiped his free hand over his face, then he spat. Thank God he’d had the drink.

  He forced his shoulders to relax, then stood up and blew out another breath. Okay, he could do this. He could go back. He had to. He needed to know.

  But before he went back, he needed a shot of courage. And he remembered exactly where he’d hidden it.

  Margaret’s fantasy man was over six feet tall, with reddish-brown hair fastened with a leather strap into a ponytail of sorts. Muscular and large, he showed the beginnings of a red five o’clock shadow and had deep blue eyes. As he talked, h
is face reacted as though Margaret was there, responding. It was surreal, like watching a movie, with the camera being the main character.

  “No,” Keith heard himself say aloud.

  By turns repelled, fascinated, and terrified, Keith watched the interplay between the man, who referred to himself as “William”, and a phantom version of Margaret. They did nothing more than talk, or so it appeared, and walk through the shaded woods and next to bubbling streams with breezes so real and cool that had Keith been less focused, he would have been overwhelmed by the sensory stimuli.

  When the playback ended, he removed the gear. Her heart’s desire, eh? Keith wasn’t good enough for her, anymore. This was what she wanted.

  He’d been willing to give her anything. Anything. All he ever wanted was her fidelity. And though she’d not crossed the same lines that Sally seemingly had, he knew it would just be a matter of time.

  He took a long drink from the bottle he’d found.

  She was his wife. Not William’s. This wasn’t right.

  It wasn’t right.

  He’d kill the man.

  His fist clenched around the cylinder, the ‘heart’ of the Travelogue. He looked at it. Then, he laughed.

  Keith stood in the extra bedroom, his leg twitching in anticipation. The lights were off. He waited, alert.

  Eventually he heard her come in through the kitchen. Scrape a chair against the floor, flop her jacket down, and clanking, drop her purse on the table. “Keith?” she called, “Are you home?”

  He didn’t answer.

  He listened as she kicked off her shoes, sighed about something, riffled through the mail and then finally—finally—started up the stairs. He blew a raggedy breath, hoping to quiet his breathing even as his heart pounded with each of her footsteps. His eyes were adjusted to the dark and he stood in the shadows and watched her as she stopped at the top of the stairs. “Keith?” she asked again, softer this time. “Are you here?”

  He breathed through his mouth to keep quieter, his hands gripping the fabric of his pants. He sensed her hesitation. Then watched her walk into the master bedroom with a shake of her head.