Murder, She Did

by Gillian Roberts

  She did have a stubborn streak, though. Might not leave quietly. It would be about money. His money. The woman had been an economics major, after all, and she knew things. All through their marriage, she’d invested and rolled over and planted whatever portion of his income was possible in places where it was almost sure to grow. Even apart from stocks and real estate—even the art she’d selected—he’d have to work on getting that all in his own name—had appreciated to the point where it was worth a small fortune. She had the touch. He just didn’t want her touch in his wallet.

  Besides, it was high time she did something for herself, quit the pro-wifing circuit. She should be grateful to him for terminating the marriage. Thank him for setting her free so she could finally find out what it was she’d rather do. Lord knows that once upon a time she muttered about lost options. Of course, he blamed that on the damned women’s movement that had to come along during his marriage. No man in history had to listen to his wife demand “more” or “it all,” whatever that meant. Why, then, all of a sudden, when it was Richard Hackett’s turn, did everything have to change? But even that was long ago, and Hannah hadn’t wanted anything since. He’d jog her memory, remind her about wanting more, wanting it all.

  His reverie was interrupted by Susie Waters, the newest of the new crop of wives. She was smiling at him, but not with your basic cocktail hour smile, or the warm but respectful one given the boss. Susie was making major eye contact. Massaging him with her eyes.

  Her husband Sam was talking to someone about golf. The man should keep a better eye on his little woman. His job wasn’t good enough, high up enough, to allow for an acting out wife. She was not an asset to the corporation.

  As for being a private asset, one he might enjoy, well, that was different.

  Besides, whatever happened was Hannah’s fault. She should be here if she didn’t want this to happen. In return for the easiest life on the planet, the very least she could do for him was show up when she was expected to. If ever he’d needed proof that Hannah was tired of this life and its duties, would be glad to be rid of it, this was it.

  Setting her free would be doing her a favor.

  He walked over to where Susie Waters was accepting a fresh martini from the waiter. She took a second one off the serving tray and held it out to him.

  He accepted her offer. All her offers.

  *

  “You know, science has proven it is humanly possible for a person to survive twenty-four hours without talking to her mother,” Jared Tomkins said.

  Betsy Hackett Tomkins screwed her face into a mock-pout. “Mom’s the exception to the rule. Her family’s her entire life. She’ll be upset if I don’t tell her right away.”

  “Is this worth interrupting her vacation? She’s in the Caribbean, for God’s sake. Tell her when she gets back.”

  Betsy shook her head with loving exasperation. “She isn’t like us, hon,” she said. “She doesn’t have anything to interrupt. A vacation’s from something. What would that mean to her? She’s there because Daddy’s there. She’s Mrs. Richard Hackett here, and Mrs. Richard Hackett there. On the job. I feel sorry for her.”

  “She’d be Hannah Hackett if it didn’t sound like a coughing disease,” Jared said.

  Betsy mock-scowled again and dialed the long-distance number her mother had left with her. Jared didn’t really mind the call. He couldn’t afford to. Her mother, whispering, “Don’t tell Daddy. If he knew I was managing the money this well, he’d reduce my allowance!” had been astoundingly generous to the two of them and to all her children and grandchildren.

  “Besides,” Betsy said, covering the mouthpiece, “they’ll be out for the evening, and I’ll leave a message. Won’t actually have to talk.” The truth was, her mother had nothing to say, but said it at length.

  The phone rang only once in the far-away hotel room before she heard her mother’s eager, “Hello? Yes?”

  “Mom! I’m—you okay?”

  “Of course—who is—Betsy? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, Mom. It’s just—what are you doing in your room at this hour?”

  “Waiting for your call, obviously. What is it, darling? What’s wrong?”

  “Mom? Cara took her first step today.”

  “The dear! She didn’t! But she’s so young!”

  “We were shocked, too.”

  “A prodigy. An athlete. She’ll be an Olympic star.”

  Her mother always spun the simplest achievements into signs of stratospheric triumphs where her children and now, her grandchildren were concerned. Never, however, for herself. She was not an achiever beyond the kitchen.

  A month earlier, at a conference—Betsy was a lawyer, working part-time on the Mommy-track with a large firm—she’d been introduced to a guest speaker, a Superior Court judge, who, it turned out, had gone to college with her mother. “And how is Hannah?” the woman had asked. “What’s she running? We voted her most likely to be the first woman president. Haven’t seen her name in the White House, so where is she?”

  It was embarrassing answering that, no matter how many euphemisms she used. Her mother wasn’t running the world or running for office. Her mother was running a household. Housewife, plain and simple, emphasis on simple. “But she’s the happiest person I know,” Betsy had said in her defense, and unbelievable as it was, it seemed true. Hannah Hackett always seemed contented, although her daughter couldn’t imagine why. Devoting your life and energies to a selfish, cold man didn’t seem the world’s most gratifying job. But for reasons unknown, her mother had settled down and hunkered in and never looked back or out.

  “Excuse me? What’s that?” Her mother’s telephone chatter apparently required a response.

  “I can barely hear myself thinking—there’s a helicopter over the ocean. Wait, there’s actually two—no, three of them. Searchlights on the water. Oh, dear.”

  “I’m glad you’re safely back on shore,” Betsy said.

  “You worry too much! I had a lovely long sail today, and I expect to have an even lovelier, longer one tomorrow. The men will be playing golf for most of the day, so I am free of wifely duties and I can be out on the ocean forever. And I am a very, very cautious woman.”

  “Know what?” Betsy said. “It’s probably not a rescue at all. It’s a drug bust. To add a little excitement to your trip.” She chuckled.

  “Betsy! This is a respectable— Anyway, I’m late for cocktails. Daddy will be looking for me.”

  “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Betsy said. “Sorry. I was joking because you get so uppity when we suggest water safety. So be careful, okay? The water looks calm, but things happen, as you can hear.”

  “Stop worrying. I’m an excellent sailor, and you know it. After all, Daddy trained me.”

  That wasn’t true. Betsy’s parents had taken lessons together, and Hannah had excelled, had been a natural. Betsy’s father hated it, could never figure out which direction the wind came from. He wanted motors and noise and gave up on sailing almost instantly. But as always, Hannah deferred to her husband, insisted he was the best, asked him for help when none was needed. It wasn’t worth mentioning Hannah Hackett wore rose-colored blinders. Always had and always would.

  After again marveling at the baby’s amazing agility, mother and daughter promised to talk the next day and said good-night, with hugs and kisses to all and sundry.

  “I’m sure they’ll find the sailor,” Betsy said by way of closing. “Don’t worry, Mom, and be sure and wear your life jacket all day tomorrow.”

  “I always do,” Hannah Hackett said. “Daddy would be upset otherwise.”

  *

  Liz Evans was about to go stark raving mad listening to these insane, politicking, stupid women! She would have said you could rip her tongue out before she’d trash her sisters, but she didn’t want these women as siblings! She wanted…wanted what she and her husband, David, were supposedly having. A vacation. Piña coladas and margaritas under the beach umbre
llas. Romance, soft breezes. Tropical paradise. Dancing under the stars.

  Not this. This was work. Except that she liked her work, and hated this.

  Liz felt her chin push out, like a pouting child’s, until she realized it and realigned her face.

  Ungrateful bitch, she told herself. Half the world’s starving to death, living in hovels, and even most of the lucky ones are enduring winter, while you’re in paradise, compliments of your husband’s employer.

  But she knew that wasn’t true. A nice stage, yes, but she was working on it, performing in a play set in paradise. It was all an act—the setting, the lush room, the complimentary bathrobes and breakfasts and all her lines. Her gestures, her moves. Not even improv—all pre-scripted. This is how a junior executive’s wife acts. This is what she wears. Drinks. Laughs at. Discusses. And worst of all, the play was a farce. Was Liz actually supposed to care about Mitzi’s remodeling job and precisely how long and tedious her extravagances could be, let alone the exact shade of tile she picked for the guest bath after an agonizing, heart-breaking hunt? Did Liz need to care about how magnificent Violet’s son had been as Hamlet in his ninth grade production of same? Thank God her corporate wifely duties hadn’t included attending the show.

  On the edge of the patio, Susie Waters was ignoring the script, writing her own. Where had the woman left her brains? Maybe they were down in her cleavage, where her spandex dress had squeezed them to death. In any case, Susie wasn’t playing her part as written by Hannah Hackett, the perfect corporate wife.

  The two women on the other side of Liz were doing their bit. Their jobs, like Liz’s, were to look good, admire anyone who worked for the company, and to demonstrate the worth of the company’s paychecks by becoming expert consumers. The two wives sounded in ecstasy because designer wear was less expensive on the island, and they breathlessly described every name-brand piece of attire they hoped to find the next day. “The Calvin Klein that—” floated across the terrace. “Manolo—”

  “Prada!…”

  “…tiny purse shaped like a peacock, that—”

  Women were supposed to be part of the greater world now, not standing in separate clumps talking about kids and bathroom tile and how most efficiently to spend money somebody else earned. Women weren’t supposed to be parlaying their bodies, climbing the corporate ladder via new mates. Women had evolved. At least half the women on this patio had jobs, but it was company policy to treat such activities as time-fillers, inconsequential and somewhat embarrassing hobbies.

  Liz kept her daily activities almost a dirty secret at company events. She wanted to fit in for David’s sake. Not that she could understand why a wife who wasn’t a clone of the CEO’s other half made a man unfit to construct engineering projects, but so it seemed. This was supposedly one big family and dad, the CEO himself, didn’t like his female kids to be distracted by their own concerns. So far, she and David were successfully faking compliance. David was the official whiz-kid, the youngest senior executive in the firm. Soon enough, he’d be able to either break from here or take it over. It was in her own interests to help him reach that goal. Play the game, no matter how she felt about it.

  And, damn, there she was. Hannah Hackett, looking flushed. What on earth had penetrated the fogbank she lived inside? Hannah spent a whole lot of time out at sea, both figuratively and literally. “Mrs. G.,” Liz said warmly. “You look like you got some sun today. Your cheeks are pink.”

  Hannah put a fingertip to her face, as if testing its color in Braille. “I was out for a long time, but I thought I used enough sunblock, but…you know, I’m just excited, is all.”

  “About the drug bust?” a red-haired woman asked.

  Mrs. Hackett looked confused. “The what?”

  “Didn’t you hear it? Helicopters all over the ocean. A policeman told me they were tipped off that smugglers were dropping drugs off this beach, this hotel.”

  “For heaven’s sake—my daughter made a joke and I—but—are you saying they’re doing this now? While we’re here?”

  The woman could be amusing, Liz decided. The dimwit thought Colombian drug dealers should check Hannah Hackett’s travel plans before making their own.

  “The policeman said the beach might be closed tomorrow if it isn’t all wrapped up tonight.”

  The red-head shivered. “He had this enormous gun or rifle or bazooka, I don’t know what it was, but I wasn’t about to protest!”

  “But since it’s news to you, Mrs. H., that obviously wasn’t what had you excited,” another gushing middle-management wife said. “So what was it?”

  Hannah Hackett smiled. “You’ll think it silly after news of a drug bust, but my daughter phoned to say our youngest grandchild just took her first step.”

  Liz smiled, as if that were the biggest news she’d heard in years. The other women cooed and ahhed. Astounding that a human child had decided to walk.

  Another five minutes of this and she’d run screaming into the sea. Helicopters or no helicopters.

  The hypocrites asked if Hannah had any photos, knowing full well that Hannah always carried gigantic handbags, bags large enough to contain a bulging photo album. “This is Jason in his kindergarten Halloween parade. He was dressed as a clown, isn’t that dear? I just love old-fashioned costumes. Actually, I sewed it up for him. Such fun! And this is Terry when he lost those teeth—

  “Haven’t they grown, though,” the women murmured. As if that were surprising.

  “Looks like he’s going to be a basketball player!”

  Liz knew she ought to come up with her own inanity, but her mind was blank, which in turn produced panic. Your mind wasn’t allowed to go blank until you were the CEO’s wife. Until you were Hannah Hackett. Which meant, perhaps, that it was an inevitable transition, which was terrifying in itself because Liz had noticed a Phi Beta Kappa key on Hannah Hackett’s charm bracelet. “Oh, that,” Hannah had said when Liz commented. “That was long ago. You know, I earned my M.R.S. degree and that was that. Not that I’m saying it was a waste. Not at all. My major, economics, has helped me be a better wife, better at managing a household.” And then she laughed, dismissing her past achievements, dismissing herself.

  “But don’t you—did you—do you ever think about—” Liz was a partner in a landscape design firm. If David said she had to give it up—well, that was unthinkable. He wouldn’t, and if he did for some sick reason, she’d refuse.

  “We decided that one career was all this family could handle, and I agreed,” Hannah had said, not noticing her own words. “We” decided, but then she agreed? Who was the “we” then? Liz was sure that was the way Richard Hackett practiced domestic democracy. He was the majority, and that was that.

  “You know, we moved seven times,” Hannah had continued. “How could I have any kind of job? Moving, plus taking care of the house and the family, and doing it right was my job and it was more than full-time.”

  Liz understood this as a warning and polite rebuke, but something in her insisted on following the thought through. “Even now that the children are grown up and you’re in one place?” she asked. She smiled, as if all this talk was inconsequential chit-chat, not at all disapproving, not at all real.

  “Who has the time?” Hannah asked lightly, all wide-eyed innocence. “My calendar’s full between the household maintenance, our social obligations, the grandchildren, the dogs and volunteering for the Foundation.”

  Ah, the Foundation. Second only to the grandchildren as a topic of staggeringly boring conversation. Not that it wasn’t worthy—just achingly uninteresting. Trust Hannah to have founded The Shadow Foundation, a hands-on, unglamorous aggregate, Liz assumed, of professional Mommies like Hannah who volunteered their time cooking and reading and sewing and tutoring. Extremely worthy, extremely dull listening. Very Hannah.

  “Several years ago, I committed to provide three dozen apple pies a month,” Hannah said. “Two for the homeless outreach program, and one for the women’s shelter. That’
s a lot of baking, but how could I give it up? I hope I don’t sound like I’m bragging but I’ve been told my apple pie is their most popular dessert. They’ve put my recipe in the volunteer newsletter this month. I didn’t want my name involved, so I asked them to call it “A Nonna’s Apple Pie.” Nonna’s Italian for grandmother, did you know that? I like how it sounded—almost like ‘anonymous,’ get it? I’m not Italian and neither is apple pie, so it makes it funnier, I think. Maybe now, with the recipe in print, maybe some other people will help with the baking. Which would give me more time for the grandchildren.”

  Liz gave up. Anonymous’s apple pies, which Liz had to admit were exceptional, went out in miniature versions in homemade Christmas baskets to all employees each year. Plus tiny tarts, miniature loaves of tea breads and intricately designed and decorated cookies. Liz was grateful for small mercies—Hannah didn’t weave the baskets herself. Liz watched as Hannah’s glance floated toward the edge of the patio, where Susie Waters and Richard Hackett appeared to be having an intense conversation. Except that Liz had spoken with Susie long enough to know that the woman couldn’t spell conversation, let alone make it. But whatever the words were that passed between the two of them, Susie Waters and Richard Hackett’s body language was as easy to read as if it had supertitles translating it in enormous print.

  Hannah’s glance floated on without pause, as if all she’d seen was another piece of the landscape. She was one oblivious woman. You could hardly blame Richard Hackett for seeking stimulation elsewhere, although the sort of stimulation Susie Waters could provide was not what Liz meant. But even a woman as dull as Hannah should feel a spark of indignation. Or maybe Susie was welcome—a relief shift to take care of an onerous wifely duty and give Hannah more time for baking for the homeless and playing with her grandchildren.