by West, CJ
Jo wandered into the great room and slid behind the piano to pass the time while Bill dressed. Her hands flicked over the keys, tinkling out the beginning of “Fur Elise” with unusual precision, stumbling only when the tempo rose and the finger combinations became difficult. She finished with a flourish and let her fingers hover over the keys, pleased with her performance.
The last four years with Bill had been like a second trip through college. She lived in a resort-like home with plenty of time to study piano, cooking, tennis and anything else that caught her fancy. The luxurious lifestyle was financed by a legal marriage, an eight-year string of public appearances at Bill’s side, and continuous cohabitation. Bill’s only private demand was her celibacy during their eight-year union. In the end she’d be thirty, not necessarily wealthy, but comfortable.
Jo shined at social events, making Bill the envy of neighbors and business associates alike. She wore the revealing clothes he chose, flirted with him incessantly, and supported his professional and social agendas. Playing the devoted wife came easily without the emotional confusion that surrounds traditional relationships. Both were satisfied with the arrangement, although she knew Bill longed for more intimacy than the agreement required her to provide.
In the blurry periphery of her vision, she spied something black creeping across the wooden floor. She snatched a tissue from the side table and followed the carpenter ant as it marched onto the beige-and-maroon Oriental rug. She lost track of it among the darker patches, but captured it when it ventured onto a lighter part of the design. She pinched the black skeleton until it crackled and committed it along with the tissue to a small basket by the window.
Standing there, she smelled something foul. She sniffed the air and examined the job the housekeeper had done. The fireplace had been prepared for summer. The smell was more chemical than ash as if from a powerful cleanser. The wooden floor shined; no sign of a spill anywhere. The trim around the arching plate glass window shined glossy white, without a speck of dust even in the corners. The thick pane of glass was completely smudge-free, yet the ammonia smell was stronger in front of the window. The walls were clean all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. Jo turned in place, puzzled by the horrid odor.
The doorbell rang and she took a step away from the window, still scanning the floor and walls. The bell rang two more times. It seemed the early-morning visitor couldn’t wait for her to finish investigating.
Jo swung the door open and found the porch empty. The driveway was empty as well. She stepped down onto the walk and looked toward the second front entrance, which also had a bell. She couldn’t imagine a delivery person had walked up the drive, but she called out anyway.
“Hello,” she sang. “Over here.”
No one answered. She guessed it might be a prank, though she heard no running feet and no rustling in the bushes. The street was quiet; the neighbors inside their houses. Jo climbed the stairs with an odd feeling to start her day.
Inside, Bill trotted his way down the stairs.
“Morning, Jo. Who was that?”
“No one. Kids joking around, I think.”
“Kind of early for that.”
“You’d think they’d do that sort of thing at night. What kind of kid wakes up and runs around ringing doorbells before school?”
“I thought we’d be immune from that here,” Bill said and walked to his breakfast.
…
Two days later, Charlie meandered the Volvo through sprawling developments filled with cookie-cutter McMansions. His conscience hadn’t stopped nagging him since he saw the holes Randy had drilled in the roof. Since then, he kept imagining a middle-aged woman shrieking in panic, pursued by red-eyed, sadistic mice. At night, he dreamt he was submerged in his bedroom; his possessions floating away as he lay trapped several feet below the water line.
His self image was in turmoil after the fire in Piolenc. His conscience cursed him vehemently for destroying the farmhouse and concealing the murder. Charlie reasoned that the building was uninhabitable and he’d done what he could to save Henri, but he’d never feel the same about himself. Randy’s moral burden seemed much lighter. He enjoyed talking about how cool the fire was and he dragged Charlie right into another prank that threw his conscience into a state of high-alert. Charlie had known the stunt was wrong from the moment he pulled on the gloves. His participation wasn’t eager, but he’d done nothing to stop it. If he didn’t do something soon, he’d be a party to the destruction of a multi-million dollar home. The gnawing guilt was driving him to make amends. He remembered his father’s warning that Randy’s pranks would get him locked up. His bid to help Randy’s victims might bring that prophecy to fruition.
After thirty minutes, he found the street dominated by massive brick homes that he and Randy had visited. It was a bright, sunny afternoon when he eased to a stop in front of the brick home with pear trees and a wide slate porch. Things looked peaceful from the outside, not at all the chaotic scene he expected.
Charlie looked at the number on the mailbox and scribbled down “70” on the paper by his side. He’d get the street name from the corner then look up the people’s names online. His plan was to type a warning letter and mail it anonymously. But he had sheets of paper on the passenger’s seat and the mailbox was only ten feet away. Hand-delivering the note would save these people two days. If they covered the roof now, they might save tens of thousands in water damage. Two days’ delay for postal delivery might be a luxury they couldn’t afford. Charlie scanned the house and grounds for movement. It looked like no one was home. If nothing had gone wrong yet, they wouldn’t be suspicious of his quick trip to their mailbox.
Charlie grabbed a pen and wrote as neatly as he could in large block letters.
SOMEONE IS PLAYING A JOKE ON YOU.
CHECK EVERYTHING – ROOF, CELLAR, FURNACE, DOORBELL
SORRY I COULDN’T STOP HIM.
Charlie folded the note and swung his legs out onto the pavement. As he took his first step to round the hood, the front door of the house swung open. He froze. Even from two hundred feet away, she was stunning. Her long lean figure and short blonde hair demanded closer inspection. Charlie waved unconvincingly and looked around the neighborhood as if he were lost. When his back was to her, he slipped the note deep into his front pocket.
When he turned back toward the house, his jaw dropped. She strode right out into the middle of the lawn. She looked agitated and Charlie could only imagine what was going on inside. He wondered how long she’d been watching him from the window. He wondered if Randy was somewhere nearby toying with her. If he was, he’d seen Charlie and he knew he was trying to spoil his fun.
She kept coming, only a hundred feet away now, a trophy wife if Charlie had ever seen one. She couldn’t be more than twenty-seven. Charlie couldn’t imagine how a man her age could afford to live here. She could be an actress or a model.
Hopefully a single one, he mused.
“Can I help you?” She asked in an irritable tone that didn’t suit her.
The ocean gleamed a few hundred yards behind her.
“Is there a public beach nearby?” Charlie indicated the direction of the water as if she might not know the ocean was directly behind her home.
The woman stopped and gave an annoyed look as if she’d answered this question a thousand times. She pointed Charlie back the way he had come.
“Go to the main road and turn left. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” Charlie waved and climbed back in, minimizing his limp. He turned around in the driveway and headed off toward the beach.
She walked back inside, uninterested in his departure.
He took the note from his pocket, wondering if he could mail it now.
Chapter Seventeen
Randy passed nearly two weeks alone in his house, watching and waiting for the climax of his three-year surveillance. Nothing was happening next door, so he turned his attention to the photo tacked up in front of him.
&n
bsp; Thick blonde hair waved at just the right length to accent her high smooth cheeks and wide smile. Jo Caulfield stood facing him in a red mesh top that revealed the white skin of her arms all the way up to her bare shoulders. A band of crocheted flowers draped across the front, covering her exquisite figure. Tight spaghetti straps held a matching red tank underneath that kept the appropriate degree of mystery between neighbors. This photo, from a spring cocktail party, was Randy’s favorite. He remembered the other men hovering nearby, neglecting their wives and abandoning their friends for a chance to see something special through the mesh. This was Bill’s finest hour. She’d sachet over to him for a kiss, fill his drink and wander off to wait for the crowd to form around her in a new location.
In the course of the evening, she’d flashed that devilishly sultry smile at every man in the room except Randy and the waitstaff. Bill loved to watch them melt when she teased them. It wasn’t merely long lean legs and a gorgeous face that attracted them. She created the illusion of interest and attainability, just like she created the illusion of a loving relationship with her husband. She played the sexy young wife to perfection and the other men convinced themselves that someday Jo could be theirs. When the Caulfields threw a cocktail party, schedules were cleared.
To the left of the red-mesh photo was another favorite. Jo stood at the back of the tennis court in a short white skirt and matching top talking to Rick, her tennis instructor. There wasn’t any flirting going on with Rick or anyone else at the club. Same for the pool man, the landscapers, and the other workmen who came to the house. No man ever stayed inside for more than ten minutes unless he was fixing something. When that happened, Jo made herself visible at the piano or by excusing herself to the beach or the pool. For anyone paying as much attention as Randy was, it was clear that Jo was playing by the rules. That didn’t stanch the flood of gossip in the neighborhood, but Randy needed more than gossip. He had dozens of photos of Jo with various people at the gym, at the pool, and in a few choice restaurants. But he never found anything he could use, not in three years of living across the street with his surveillance cameras pointed at their house.
Jo was a rock.
She expected to be watched because the marriage was legit even if their relationship wasn’t. Jo had to be promised a fortune to live with a short, flabby, bald guy more than twice her age. For this much money, the pre-nup had to be solid and specific. She wouldn’t risk violating the terms and missing her payoff.
Randy had found the safe in the bedroom, but the hardware was too good and he couldn’t guess the combination. None of the usual numbers worked. He had tried birthdays, anniversaries, the address, the phone number, everything. He scrambled them up, mixed them up, nothing. He’d spent over ten hours working the dial and the damn thing never clicked, never rattled, never opened. But the pre-nup was there, he was sure of it. He’d guessed two of the major stipulations: she had to stay in the house, and she wasn’t allowed to fool around.
Randy was desperate to understand the separation provisions. He’d hinted and joked far beyond the bounds of decorum, but Jo never uttered a syllable to help him. Discussing the pre-nup might have invalidated her claim. He wondered what she would have shared if he told her his story and how he planned to get even. It wasn’t love holding her back, but if she had some overactive sense of morality, she might turn him in. He couldn’t be sure how she’d react, so he hadn’t betrayed his motive.
He took a quick scan of the monitors at each end of his desk. The view on the left showed six closed garage doors and an empty driveway. The monitor on the right showed a tight zoom of the now-repaired gable vent. A few days earlier, a cloud of bugs had swarmed around it, packing themselves in the attic tighter than the crowds at Mardi Gras. The center screen showed the Caulfields’ front door. Randy instinctively moved for the remote, but he’d already called her to the door four times today. She’d smacked and pounded the little button so many times that Randy was sure he had the only working control for their doorbell. He hoped they wouldn’t repair it and spoil his fun.
His eyes shifted up to the corkboard and the ranks of photos from his surveillance. Jo appeared four times in early-morning attire, opening the front door in response to Randy’s incessant ringing. He never got her to come straight from the shower to the door, but he had fun trying. The best he did was tussled hair and a plush, white robe—that one took thirty-four rings. He felt for her frustration. The worst was on its way, but Jo would be well compensated for her trouble.
Another group of photos displayed an array of vans and workmen between rows of blooming pear trees, which proved they were all taken within a week or so if anyone was smart enough to notice. The first photo showed a blue van with “Riley Plumbing” stenciled above a large red pipe wrench. The next showed an identical van behind the first and four men in blue coveralls talking. In another photo, the same men carried armloads of copper pipe across the lawn; that was the first one he’d send. They were lugging enough copper to replace every water pipe in the basement, which is exactly what they did for the next four days. The disturbance must have uncovered some of the mice or sent some scurrying upstairs because the next photo was a white van from “Barry’s Pest Removal,” another keeper. They toted in all sorts of traps for the mice, but somehow overlooked the bugs, because they didn’t bring in any sprayers. Two days later, the Barry’s van was back and two burly men spent six hours spraying the house from top to bottom. Jo slept in her room that night in spite of all the chemicals.
Randy let them sleep until about eleven-thirty then he turned the heat on and left it on. At two, lights blinked on all around the house. It had to be ninety in there. Randy stayed awake to get a picture of the heating van, but they never showed. When Jo left for tennis at ten, Randy snuck inside and found the emergency switch for the furnace turned off. They must have taken cold showers or none at all.
He worried they were catching on. One of the workmen might have pointed out that some of their misfortune wasn’t accidental. Maybe they found one of the fish! Whether they suspected sabotage or not, the furnace technician would find the remote in about two minutes. Randy wished he’d been more subtle; toying with the heat could have been even more fun that the doorbell. Disappointed, he removed the wires from the furnace and took them home.
He was watching when Jo returned from tennis. Soon after, the furnace technician arrived and Randy got his photo of the heating van. Apparently, the technician didn’t find the problem with the furnace. He only stayed seven minutes.
Randy looked back at the red-mesh photo and wondered how much she could take. He wasn’t surprised that the million-dollar promises in the pre-nup were keeping her there, but the doorbell, the pests and the plumbing were minor inconveniences compared to what would happen when the rain fell. She was primed for the rain to push her out. He hoped the courts would award her enough money to leave Bill penniless when everything was settled.
Randy collected his work and stuffed it in the envelope. The timing of the package would be the most damning evidence of all. The agent would be skeptical when he read about the repairs that were troubling Bill. He would disregard a random accusation against such a fine citizen, but when the house caught fire, it would be an insurance man’s dream come true.
Randy sat back and looked squarely at a close-up of Bill with two tufts of hair framing his shiny head. He admired Bill’s cunning to arrange a marriage to a glorious woman like Jo. Like most men who knew them, Randy fantasized about having her for himself, but Randy would have her on his terms. Caulfield screwed it up by allowing their marriage to be platonic. Randy would never have stood for that, but then he would never live like Caulfield. Appearances were everything to Bill. Jo was the ultimate trophy wife. To her, Bill added an impressive title at the bank, a fancy home, membership in an exclusive country club, and a long list of fine things Bill would never quite know how to enjoy. He was a sleazy cretin dressed in silk and his day of atonement was fast approaching.
&nbs
p; Randy had enjoyed watching Bill’s aggravation build from across the street. He slammed doors and yelled loud enough for anyone in the neighborhood to hear. The action was reaching a fever pitch. It was time for the finale; time for the clouds to rain down the next level of suffering. If the weather forecast was right, it wouldn’t be long.
Chapter Eighteen
A dense tangle of shrink-wrapped pallets packed every square foot of the warehouse, making the forklift nearly useless. There were batches of sparkling to disgorge and new wines to bottle, but nowhere to store them for shipment. Charlie extricated himself from the warehouse and stepped into the processing room determined to sell some wine, make some space, and prove he could handle this operation. Standing there, he felt a change within himself. Charlie had just completed the transition from tight-end to winemaker and suddenly he was a businessman.
Charlie’s nerves bristled and he stopped in the center of the processing room to survey the machinery. The bottling line that filled, labeled, and corked the white wines hadn’t been used since his return from France. The disgorger sat silent and idle too, but there was a mechanical hum somewhere in the room. Charlie pivoted until his eyes settled on the glowing power indicator for the chiller. He walked over and pulled back the cold metal handles to find four cages of dark bottles lined up, riddled, chilled, and ready for disgorging. Charlie didn’t remember them going in and he’d been in the barn every day for a week. “Four days,” he said to himself. “It’s definitely been more than four days.”
He turned and made the long walk past the bays filled head-high with aging bottles of sparkling wine, capped with bottle caps to keep the carbon dioxide in. There was a row of cages in the aisle, filled with upside-down bottles angled at forty-five degrees, the very first stage of riddling. They’d be shifted back and forth, a little more upright each time, allowing gravity to slowly settle the yeast down into the neck. The Marston sparkling wines were aged en tirage (with yeast in the bottle), but no customer wanted yeast in his glass. This batch had been in the aisle for over a week, which meant the batch in the chiller had been there too long.
