Nancy appreciated how sweet Frank had been when he’d come home from work that evening. He’d bought fancy chocolate, red roses—the works. He’d dimmed the lights when he walked into the dining room and told her how beautiful she looked.
He’d even asked her if she wasn’t too cold, and although Frank loved to walk into cold rooms on hot summer nights, he’d turned the air conditioner down just a notch for her.
“That’s the dress I bought you, honey?” he asked.
The expensive dress fit Nancy well—it even flattered her figure. She could tell Frank had picked it with care.
“Love you, honey bunny,” she told him.
* * *
They were midway through the first course when Frank’s phone buzzed. A few months ago, he would have picked it up, left the room—left the house, even. Raley, the defense contractor, seemed to have Frank coming and going at all hours, sometimes for days at a time.
But Frank seemed to know how special this evening was.
“Let it ring,” he told Nancy, and reached out to take her hand.
“I want you to know how much I love you,” Frank said. “How much I appreciate everything you’ve done, and all that you’re doing in this marriage.”
“You make my life so rich,” said Nancy.
The thing was, she meant it, even though it so awkward to say. The words weren’t hers. Like Frank’s, they were plucked from a list of affirmative sentences the minister had provided them with during one of their therapy sessions. But, Nancy thought, that didn’t make them untrue.
Was it such a bad thing, working from a script that seemed to sum up so much of what they’d told him they felt for each other?
Nancy the homemaker. Frank the accountant.
Did that mean there was no room for poetry in their lives?
“Nancy,” Frank said. “I just hope you know how much I value—”
Before he could finish, his phone buzzed again. This time, he took it out of his pocket.
“Shit,” he said. “Shit, honey. I’ve got to get this.”
Then she was alone at the table, watching the food that she’d made with such care grow cold as Frank talked and talked—the conversation seemed to go on forever—in the other room.
Chapter 22
Frank
“Jesus Christ,” Frank said to Billie, while Nancy sat alone at the dinner table.
This was not how he wanted his very last evening with Nancy to go.
“This must be the third time you’ve called me for bail just this year.”
“You promised, Frank,” said Billie. “You promised to bail me out. You said you’d post bail for Stacey. But here we are, sitting in lockup, not doing the one job you hired us for.”
“The money’s gone, Billie. And there’s not going to be any more money for jobs that never get done.”
It had been years now. Years of hearing the same old shit from Billie Earl Johnson. Years of putting up with him and Stacey—with Stacey’s knuckleheaded son, Dustin, and with Billie’s idiot nephew, Michael.
Years of this shit, and hundreds of thousands of dollars flushed down the drain in the past twelve months alone.
“The thing is, Frank, we’ve got a sure-fire plan. A plan that doesn’t allow for mistakes. But that plan cannot be executed from here.”
“I gave the last of the money to Michael.”
“And that’s money that Michael’s earned, because he’s the one who came up with this plan. But it’s like I’m telling you: the plan only works if you post bail.”
Nancy was moving around; Frank could hear it. Had she been eavesdropping on him? Or was all his skulking around turning him paranoid?
“Honey?” he hollered, poking his head out the door.
Nancy’s not there, after all.
“Just getting some water, Frank!” she called back from the kitchen. But Frank’s jittery now. Best to get off the line as soon as possible. This was why he hated it when Billie’s calls caught him at home.
“And if I don’t?” he said quietly into the receiver.
“If you don’t, Frank, I’m looking at a corrections officer right now who would be very interested in certain stories that I could tell him. Stories about a woman in Carrollton. A mighty nice lady. Church lady, in fact. And I could tell him at least a few things about the man this church lady lives with.”
“Is that a threat, Billie?”
Frank’s trying his best to sound hard while talking softly. Quiet menace was the tone he was going for.
“Are you threatening me?”
“What I’m telling you, Frank, is what things look like, to me, from the place where I’m sitting.”
Frank poked his head out the door once again, put the phone down on his desk, and walked to the window. The Japanese maple outside his home office swayed gently in the August breeze. The neighbor’s dog barked at the little girl who lived next door. The girl was bouncing up and down on her new trampoline, and Frank thought about his own children, about Suzanne and her girls, about Nancy. And now Billie Earl’s ruined his last night with the woman.
“I’ll send it,” Frank said under his breath. He was about to say it into the receiver, but when he picked his cell phone back up, no one was there. Just a few moments ago, he was prepared to hang up on Billie.
Instead, Billie hung up on him.
It seemed like an hour had gone by. But checking his watch, Frank saw it’d been just a few minutes. He peeked into the dining room only to find Nancy waiting, patiently, hopefully, with her hands in her lap and the linen napkin stained, ever so slightly, with her mascara.
Crying again, Frank thought. He knew he’d been rude, getting up from the table, leaving Nancy alone as the dinner she made for them grew cold. But if he was going to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure that he cared. Sometimes, he thought, it was as if Nancy simply didn’t notice how hard he worked for this family of theirs. And even without Suzanne in the picture, he didn’t see how he could keep on living with the woman. She’d been beautiful once. She had worshipped him. But when he looked at her now, Frank could barely see the beauty that he had fallen in love with. And instead of admiring him, all that Nancy seemed to do now was nag.
Who was this woman who’d taken the place of the Nancy he’d married?
She’d be dead anyway inside of a week. And so what if she didn’t deserve what was coming her way? What did deserving mean anyway? Did Richard Raley deserve the millions he’d made off the government—made by shipping ice to a desert? Why did Raley deserve that money any more than Frank Howard did? He was a man who had spent his whole life taking care of Nancy, the kids, and their needs. But now, with the kids grown, hadn’t the time come for Frank to look out for himself and his own happiness?
If Frank could have divorced Nancy, he would have. But the time for that was years earlier, before he’d started siphoning money out of Richard Raley’s company. Frank couldn’t risk being found out. And he certainly couldn’t stomach the thought of spending another month—much less the rest of his life—with Nancy.
Frank could admit to himself now that he’d let Billie Earl Johnson get away with every excuse because, in his heart, he had hoped for a better solution. But years had gone by, with no other solutions presenting themselves. Life with Nancy was a lie—a lie that felt worse than death. And if someone had to die, why should it be Frank Howard?
Frank was a preacher’s kid, not a killer. But ever since meeting Suzanne, he’d felt trapped—cornered like an animal—each time he’d come home to Carrollton and Nancy.
Everyone knew that cornered animals were not responsible for their actions. And that was the conclusion Frank had come to when he became aware of Nancy, still crying in the next room.
It made Frank resentful, the fact that he’d have to ask her forgiveness for taking the call, that he’d have to pretend to kiss and make up—that he’d have to spend one more night with the woman he wanted dead.
Chapter 23
Frank and N
ancy
But the next day, Frank had to admit the therapy was working—up to a point. Not enough to save his marriage. Not enough to make him love Nancy again. But enough to make him feel guilty about everything that was about to happen to her. That’s what had upset him so much about last night’s phone call. Frank had wanted to end things with Nancy on a high note. Instead, because of Billie’s interruption, he’d had to deal with Nancy’s tears. Tears at the table, and tears when he told her that he’d have to go away, the very next day, for work.
Frank’s flight wasn’t due to take off for a few hours more, and in the meantime, he was willing to play the part of a dutiful husband for a few more hours. All morning, Frank had been helping Nancy with the gift baskets she’d bring to church the next day for a ladies’ lunch. Frank knew how much Nancy looked forward to seeing her friends there. She would often take comfort in their companionship during his absences, which had grown more and more frequent.
The least Frank could do was help out one last time.
When he was done loading the minivan, Nancy leaned in for a hug. She kissed him on the lips, whispered, “I love you” in his ear.
Outside, it was raining. A break in the sweltering heat. And for a moment, Frank wondered if this trip was a mistake.
What if he did just end his affair with his California mistress, Suzanne?
If he did, what would Suzanne tell her daughters? What would happen to all the plans they had made? And had Suzanne seen the countless spreadsheets he’d been tweaking, hunched over his laptop, night after night, on nights they could have been gambling, or traveling together, or making love?
Did Suzanne have her suspicions? Frank didn’t know. But he had suspicions of his own. He knew that Suzanne wasn’t above making threats. And where there were threats, there was sometimes a fire, and could Frank really afford to take the risk? Especially now, when Billie had finally come up with a plan that was good?
Frank didn’t know what the plan was, specifically. He’d told Billie he did not want to know. “Plausible deniability”—a phrase he’d heard once in a movie—seemed like the safest way. That’s why he’d booked a ticket to California and told Nancy that he had to fly to Tampa for work. That’s why he was leaving Carrollton today.
Frank did not want to know. Especially because he’d heard something different in Billie’s voice in the course of their last conversation: The resolve it would take to actually end Nancy’s life. Billie Earl Johnson was a criminal, sure. But even for a criminal, murder would be no small thing.
It was no wonder it had taken Billie so long to work up the nerve.
But now that the moment was here, Frank looked at Nancy and felt tender—affectionate, almost. How innocent she was, in regards to what would soon befall her. How she looked at him, even now, as her life drew to its close. That look made Frank feel powerful—and why not? After all, he truly was in control and the power he’d wield, through the instrument of Billie Earl Johnson, was almost godlike.
Hadn’t Nancy promised him, years ago, to love him till death do they part?
Now she’d make good on that promise.
Standing out there in their driveway, Frank told her he’d only be gone for a couple of days. That all his traveling would wind down soon—he just knew it. When he got back this time, he’d take Nancy on a trip of their own. The romantic getaway they’d been talking about. Maybe they’d go snorkeling in St. John.
Maybe South America.
When they got home, they would have Brianna’s wedding to look forward to. And after that, who knew, maybe grandkids?
“Lord willing!” said Nancy.
She told Frank to travel safely. She said that she’d be there, waiting for him, as soon as he found his way home.
Chapter 24
Nancy
Nancy was almost done with her lunch when Frank called the next day to check in.
Lunch was more of a tea, she told him. A tea that went late, and they never did eat, and it was getting to be seven thirty! The rain was still coming down, she said—harder now. But she was going to drop by Taco Bueno on her way home, get some takeout to eat while watching television.
If there’s one good thing about all of Frank’s traveling, it’s that she gets to catch up on all of her shows.
As she drove, Nancy thought about how right she’d been to get Frank into marriage counseling. Lord knew he hadn’t wanted to go. But now—especially now, with Frank agreeing to cut back on his traveling—she really could see what a fresh start would mean for them both.
At Taco Bueno, the girl behind the counter screwed up Nancy’s order—twice. Tried to give her a can of Coke instead of the sweet tea she’d ordered. A side of salsa and chips instead of guacamole. Nancy didn’t care. She was smiling, still thinking of Frank. She was thinking of how good he’d been when he saw how upset she had gotten over the phone call he’d taken right in the middle of dinner. How sweet the make-up kiss he’d given her had been. Frank really was paying attention to her now, after so many months of seeming far away.
Nancy tipped the girl generously. Back in the car, she turned the radio on and sang along to the Christian rock station.
Six days. That’s how long Frank’s trip to Tampa was going to take. Six days of meetings. Six days she’d be lonely. But she had almost a week now to research vacation spots for them. St. John was Frank’s idea. He always did love the water. Nancy had already been to South America. But that trip had been a mission for her church, and South America was so big, and so beautiful.
Maybe they could split the difference—fly down to the Virgin Islands for a week, then spend another week in Buenos Aires. Nancy would call the travel agent, work out flights and prices, before Frank got back. She’d surprise him, too, with the new calico curtains she’d had made for their bedroom and with the carpet swatches she had picked out for the den.
It was a lot to think about. A lot to juggle. But thinking about it made Nancy happy. It distracted her from thinking about how lonely she got when Frank wasn’t around. And, as she drove, Nancy was so distracted that she did not notice the car that had been following her in the rain, tracking her from the church parking lot, down to the Taco Bueno, and all the way home, where that car sits now, engine idling, just outside Nancy’s driveway while she pulls into her garage.
PART FIVE
AUGUST 2012
Chapter 25
The Shooting of Nancy Howard
In the garage, Nancy shut the engine off, turned around, and grabbed the takeout bag from Taco Bueno from the backseat. She’d gotten her favorites—the Tex-Mex bowl, an order of cheesecake chimichangas to eat for dessert, and that supersized sweet tea. It’s Saturday night, after all. Frank’s in Tampa, and there’s time to get three whole episodes of Law & Order in before going to bed.
She checked her text messages. Nothing from Frank. Nothing from her daughters. Nothing to break her reverie as she put the phone back in her purse.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see the man walking ever so slowly up her driveway, watching her, waiting for her to step out of the car as the rain fell around his feet, muffling the sound of his footsteps.
When she did get out of her car—purse on her shoulder, takeout bag in hand—she had her back to the man. All that she heard was the sound of the rain.
But before Nancy could get to the door, she sensed that someone had come up behind her.
First, she felt his breath, hot on the back of her neck. Then she felt the man’s arm, wrapping around her neck in a smooth, snakelike motion. The arm’s thick and muscular. It pulled her backward, almost yanking her off her feet. And then, before she could think, she felt something cold, round, and hard pressing into the side of her head.
“Gimme your purse,” said the man.
It’s so sudden, this physical intrusion, Nancy didn’t know what was happening. For a moment, she wondered if Frank had come home early. If this was all some sort of practical joke. Her heart was racing but everything else had
slowed down, and she could feel her own blood as it pumped through her temples.
No. This man with his thick, snakelike arm wasn’t Frank. Nancy knew Frank’s smell. Knew Frank’s voice. Nancy did not have to turn around to know that it was not her husband standing behind her.
* * *
For a moment they stand there, two silhouettes in a shadow cast by the open garage door. Then, without thinking, Nancy wrestles free of the man, spins on one heel, and stands there—face to face with a stranger.
“I said give me your purse,” the man says again.
He’s not young nor especially old—in his twenties or thirties—white, with brown hair and blue eyes under a black baseball hat.
As if in a daze, Nancy hands him the Taco Bueno takeout bag.
“Bitch, what are you doing?” says the man, letting the takeout bag fall to the ground. “Give me that damn purse.”
Still in her daze, Nancy slips the purse off her shoulder. But instead of handing it to him, she grabs the purse with both hands and surprises herself by shoving it, hard, toward the man’s chest.
The violence of that unexpected shove startles Nancy, confusing her further. But the man doesn’t look startled at all. The flash of anger Nancy had seen when she handed the man her takeout bag seems to have passed.
Now the man simply looks cold, and determined.
That expression does not change as he raises the gun and points it at Nancy’s forehead, just above her left eye.
“Jesus!” she pleads. It’s the first word she’s spoken. “Save me!”
Murder Is Forever, Volume 1 Page 5
