counter, where the Hernandezs stood waiting, deep concern carved on their faces.
She stayed with them for only a day before deciding she couldn't bear to stay in Arizona. Maria helped her pack up her things. She fetched Kate's clothes from the bedroom so Kate wouldn't have to. The gore had been cleaned up, but still. Too painful.
Kate sighed, ragged and weary, as she picked up her worn leather satchel.
"Maria? Would you mind waiting here? I'd like to take my walk. Gather a few rocks. One last time."
Maria patted her back with soft sympathy. Kate admired her gentleness. She imagined her mother may have treated her the way Maria did. The woman waved tearfully as Kate departed for her final desert walkabout.
She went to her spot, exhumed the pouch, and tucked it into her satchel. She gathered rocks on the way back, too, in case Maria asked to see a few of her 'treasures,' to be polite. And to give poor Kate something pleasant to chat about for a moment.
Goodbye Arizona. I will miss you.
Lars's body was shipped back to California. After the funeral, Kate sold everything. She told her California friends the memories were too much for her to bear, and she wanted to make a fresh start someplace else, probably far away. She put the business and both homes up on the market, and played the fragile, grief-stricken woman to full effect. The properties sold quickly, and off she went.
A month later she was on the other side of the country.
Kate Schillinger was a newly liberated divorcee who came from money. In fact, she suspected her leech of an ex-husband only married her for her pocketbook. The scoundrel.
Kate liked Boston. It was a town full of cheerful bluster; lively, and sturdy. She bought an automobile, and rented an apartment in an exclusive part of town. It didn't take her long to become a fixture in the city's high society. She always went to social events dressed in fine silks, furs, and the kind of jewelry meant to advertise importance. The windfall from her time with Lars was substantial enough to support her for two whole years--it could have lasted her longer, but Mr. and Mrs. Lars Simmons were modest business types despite their substantial money, and Kate was done with modest. She wanted to taste extravagant living. Not just a taste. A big, chocolate covered bite.
When she realized it was time to go hunting again, she quickly learned her time with Lars had spoiled her. Granted, he was ultimately a means to an end, but that wasn't his fault. Besides providing her with an even larger fortune than she'd expected, he was good company. Kind. Fun. Worthy of the quick and painless death she afforded him. It was the least she could do.
Enter George Gleason.
He was a big-time cash flasher, and a world class peacock. The type who thought of himself as the most impressive man in the room, regardless of what room he was in. You could send him to the White House and he would come back remarking on the weakness of Teddy Roosevelt's handshake.
With a head as empty as his coffers were full, he seemed like a perfect meal ticket. All Kate had to do was gasp and swoon at all the right times. She was Mrs. Gleason in even less time than it took her to become Mrs. Simmons.
Being Mrs. Gleason was an unpleasant chore.
George's marital skills were so lacking, going to bed with him raised the pulse no more than a brisk walk. He also had terrible taste in art, food, theatre, nearly everything to be honest. But the straw that broke her (steel-sturdy) back was his constant blathering. It never ended, and she was a captive audience. Her unfortunate plight might have been tolerable had he been an interesting person, but he was a spectacular dullard. Bright as a campfire's last dying ember.
And a star has no use for an ember.
They were still newlyweds when she found herself already teetering on the edge of her breaking point. She began frantically planning the end of her darling dunce, but good sense kicked in at the last minute.
He was well known, despite his glaring personality flaws. His death would loom large in the headlines. If he were to die suddenly (or even develop a progressive illness) so soon after taking a new bride, it might strike people (and the police) as suspect. Especially when one considered the youth and relative health of her husband.
She'd thus far avoided fleeing any state marked as a wanted woman, and she planned to continue the trend.
Even though it broke her heart to do it, she stowed away the rat poison and braced herself for the long, boring years ahead.
No more than six years. She promised herself. I'll never survive more than that.
Two years later, she thanked her lucky stars she hadn't gotten rid of the rat poison.
She was thumbing through the newspaper; her imbecile blessedly away at his favorite Gentleman's Club; when she saw a small story on page three.
It seemed Officer Colby in Arizona had never given up on his suspicions, and must have swayed the others to his way of thinking, because there she sat, staring at a small, not-so-precise sketch of herself. Or at least the modest, buttoned down woman Mrs. Simmons had been.
Right under the headline "Female Killer On The Loose" was a smaller sub-heading, "could be anywhere in US." Colby and another officer were quoted throughout the article.
"We now believe Lingerfelt, her maiden name, was an alias. She's a shrewd, sharp-minded lady. Not to be underestimated. At this time she could be anywhere. So this department, and myself personally, are doing everything we can to see that this story runs in papers throughout the country."
The article went on to request readers take a moment, closely examine the sketch, and promptly contact authorities if she looks familiar. The article also made a point of how little authorities had to go on, so any tip would be an enormous help.
Time to move on.
She gave herself a small dose of rat poison once every day for the next week. The experience was painful, but necessary. Her husband would soon come down with a much worse case of her illness.
Once she felt better, she made plans to meet several friends that Saturday at an upscale tearoom in their neighborhood.
Her husband got his first small dose on Tuesday. As soon as the symptoms came on, though mild, Kate cautioned him against going out or taking visitors, lest he pass on the wicked thing. For once, George saw sense. Kate informed everyone he was laid up with whatever illness she had suffered, and they accepted the story without question. Her luncheon friends asked if she'd like to postpone their weekend engagement to stay and look after her husband. Mrs. Gleason said she would indeed prefer to stay home for her own piece of mind, but George insisted she not alter her plans. "You know how George hates coddling."
The small doses continued. Enough to keep him too sick do much. Not enough to warrant fetching the doctor.
A few hours before she left for her tea, she served George a cup of hot tea with extra sugar and a fatal dose of rat poison. Kate had done her research. She knew exactly how the day would progress.
When his stomach irritation escalated, he ascended the winding staircase to their bedroom, promising he'd feel better by Monday.
"It's just a matter of willpower, my dear. Sheer willpower."
"Of course, George."
For the next several hours, she listened to his soft moaning grow to loud moaning, the loud moaning grow to begging her to summon a doctor, and the begging turn to cursing her for her deception.
Guess he wasn't such a dunce after all.
By the time she put on hat and gloves to leave for her tea, all she could hear was soft mewling, and a wet, gurgling cough.
Unlike Lars, whom she'd made an exceptional effort to dispatch painlessly, Kate relished the sound of George Gleason dying. The few years she'd spent married to him had felt like being chained to an anvil. In retrospect, she almost wanted to thank Officer Colby for his dogged determination to catch her. If not for him, she would have suffered through hundreds more tedious days and unsatisfied nights.
A month later Kate Larson arrived in Florida with a trunk full of cash. An inheritance from her reclusive, eccentric Uncle. Though she'd recen
tly stepped over the fearsome red line of 30, all she wanted was to find a the perfect husband and have children. Her new friends fell over themselves to help her achieve the dream. They adored her after all, and her unshakable faith in true love was inspiring.
Eventually they brought her Charlie Bowemont. A full twenty three years older than her, but he longed for children, and believed in true love. Just like Kate Larson.
Poor Charlie.
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Books and Series by R. Smith
Pop Culture Sucks, Manifesto Of A Vampire
Everything Sucks Series
Knights Of Albion
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Everything Sucks #7, Win Page 3
