The basement reeked pleasantly of cool and damp. I sensed nothing unusual, no odors, no sights that gave me cause for alarm. I crept around the corner, slipping silently through the gloom. If what the article said were true, if my friends’ gossip was accurate, I’d have ages to find all of the little passageways in this house. I think there’s one that goes all the way up to the clubhouse, but I’ve never found it.
The one I did know about was just ahead. A false wall, easily misleading without the exact knowledge of where it should be. If you looked closely, you could see a crack in the foundation, like the floor was settling. The fracture ran up the wall, and if you pushed just the right brick…
There, the wall swung open to reveal a small passageway. When the house was built, over two hundred years ago, the original owner wanted to be buried in the house. That’s right, in the house. The crypt was the logical place to look.
I couldn’t describe the emotions I felt when I saw it. It had been a sloppy job. He knew no one would ever find their way in here by accident. He thought he was safe.
So pale. I’d always loved my hands, long fingered, smooth skinned. Sticking up out of the dirt, though, they didn’t look quite as nice.
The article said it was Marie-Cecile that testified against him. She’d seen it all. Seen his hands around my throat. I wonder why I didn’t remember that part.
Son of a bitch. I hope he rots in jail.
Maybe I’ll go visit him.
WHERE’D YOU GET THAT RED DRESS?
Flashing in the Gutters 2006
I walk down South Congress, my heels tapping on the pavement. Saturday night in Austin, there’s always something for a girl to do. I stop at the door to the Continental Club, look at the marquee. Matinee, Richard Stooksbury. A Tennessee boy. I’ve missed that by a mile. Headliner, 10:00 P.M., James McMurtry. Oh hell, yes.
I walk through the doors and into the darkened bar. The first thing I notice is the red velvet curtain hanging over the stage, the oval “CONTINENTAL” sign branding the space. McMurtry is up there, making jokes about being a beer salesman and asking people to buy the new CD because he forgot to remind them last night. The mood is jovial, and I swing into it effortlessly.
I take the last stool at the bar and order a dirty martini. The bass guitar whaps in time with my heart, deep and pure. My head nods involuntarily. The song ends; McMurtry launches into another. I listen with my eyes closed, sipping the cool, salty gin.
“Where’d you get that red dress?” He croons the words and I open my eyes, look at my breasts. Well. It’s like he’s speaking directly to me. I am wearing a red dress. The refrain courses again—“Where’d you get that red, dress?” I giggle. Where indeed.
Any woman will tell you there are few purchases that stay with you forever. There is a certain dress, one meant to be worn only once, made of silk or taffeta or satin. White. Pure. Perfect. You wear it for a few hours, then package it up, stuff it in the top of a closet and hope that sometime, someone might want to wear it again.
I had a dress like that. It reached the ground and dragged behind me, pulling on my legs until I thought I’d scream. I wore it, and said the words, teared up at the appropriate moments, smiled when I was kissed. Ate food and drank champagne and danced and loved every moment of it. Then it was time to say goodbye.
He took me to the nicest hotel Austin had to offer, checked us into the Presidential suite. Had chocolate covered strawberries delivered, popped the cork on a bottle of ’87 Dom Perignon. Made love to me on satin sheets, relieving me of my virginity with care.
Now I’m lying. That’s not really what happened. I wish it were.
To be honest, he took me to the Holiday Inn downtown, forced me on the bed, ripped my precious dress and pummeled me until he came. Then he fell asleep and snored. It wasn’t how I envisioned my first time. But I was prepared for it to be like that.
I went to my little suitcase and retrieved the knife. I just wish I’d remembered to take off the dress before I cut his throat. The gods were smiling upon me though, because the corner 7-Eleven had plenty of those precious little dye packets, the kind you use for multicolored rubber banded t-shirts.
Back in the dingy hotel room, I dumped three packets of Deepest Rosso in a bathtub full of hot water. Placed my perfect dress in the vermilion water and left it for an hour. Had a nice glass of whiskey I poured from his silver flask.
It was time. A few snips with some scissors, both the dress and my hair, five minutes with the hairdryer and I was an elegant woman in a red dress, ready for a night on the town.
He was surprisingly heavy for a slight man. Getting him in the tub was a bitch. I sawed at his wrists a few times, made it look like he tried there first. I only spilled a few drops.
I kissed his forehead before I left. Till Death Do Us Part just got a whole lot shorter.
THE STORM
Mouth Full of Bullets 2006
The sky was transparent gray, the rain moving up the valley. Lightning danced, long silver white forks hitting the ground, thunderbolts thrown from Zeus’ hand. The lights flickered as I looked out the window, watching the wet blanket of virga slip closer and closer. The mountains hovered, old men with knowledge to share. The outcropping of rock known to the locals as Indian Head glowered at me. Hummingbirds raced the wind, trying to gather one last sip of sugar water before the storm drove them to their invisible nests.
He was coming for me.
You may wonder how I knew. It was the palpable sense of heaviness that hung over my house. The storm would blow in, bringing his acrid breath to the nape of my neck. He would stand over me. I would be powerless. If it got that far, if he got the upper hand, I was done for.
There was a little matter of paperwork.
The contract was sought three months ago. My previous employers weren’t happy with my performance on a singularly gigantic job. I had killed the target, in the exact manner they requested. It was my affair with the man that upset them. I wasn’t sure why they cared. He was dead, the contract fulfilled. One little roll in the hay and they got their panties in a wad. Hired someone to take me out. I was a bit upset by their overreaction.
There were ramifications to every action I took these days. I wish I could go back to the early days, where mistakes were overlooked because I was who I was. No longer. More was expected of me.
I knew who they had hired, of course I did. It was my business to know these things. He was the best, which is difficult for me to say. It’s hard to admit that you may not be the very best at what you do. But I’m a realist, and if that’s the truth, I have no reason to hide it from you. It’s not so much that he’s better than I, more a matter of his experience. He is the legend. He is the west wind. He is the assassin no one knows, no one has ever seen.
And he is coming for me.
I’d reinforced the doors and windows, put a stock of weapons at hand in each room, places I would know where to look, but he wouldn’t. I wasn’t planning on going down without a fight.
Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky. He doesn’t have the element of surprise. My agent quite humanely called ahead, let me know when the paper was produced. He likes me, would rather me be alive and making him commissions than cold and dead in the grave.
The lights dimmed, then extinguished. Light flashed in secondary increments, allowing me to see the huddled figure at the base of my ponderosa stand.
He has come for me.
I palmed two weapons and spun away from the window. He would come in through the guest room, two floors below. I’d left the window cracked to make his break-in easier. Four paces to my left was a small alcove, to the right the cavernous space of my office. The top room of the house; cool in the summer, warm in the winter. I’d hate to give the room up. I bought this house specifically because I knew I’d enjoy spending time in the bucolic space, the windows overlooking both the valley and the mountains. I stepped into the shadows of the alcove, knowing the darkness hid me from sight.
I hear
d the footsteps on the stairs. Silently climbing. The third stair from the top creaked a single screech when you tried to step to the side. He took to the middle of the riser. He’d been informed.
Two more steps and he’d been in my sights. My hand didn’t shake. The gun was steady, pointed at the man’s heart. I’d only have one chance to make this shot.
“Honey?”
I fumbled with the weapons. My husband. I was safe, fine.
“Robert? Jesus, I almost shot you. What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in Seattle.” I holstered one weapon in the small of my back, set the other on the table, covered it with a magazine. I’d distract him and slip it away in a bit—now there were two of us to keep safe. How was I going to pull that off? We couldn’t leave; the wind would chase us down. This was the spot for the last stand.
I went to Robert, kissed his neck. He buried his nose in my hair, held me tight. I finally got claustrophobic and pulled back to look out the window again.
Robert understood. I wasn’t the most demonstrative woman. Minimal touching. He’d accepted that about me early on.
“Honey, I called three times. You didn’t get my message? Are there any candles? The bloody lights have blown, the storm is here.”
I laughed, surprised when my voice came out shaky and rough. Adrenaline. That and the fact that I’d nearly murdered my very own husband.
“They’re in my top desk drawer. I didn’t get your call, the phones must be out too.” Of course they were, I’d cut the line forty-five minutes ago, after my agent had rung me, breathless and sad. “So why are you home early? Everything alright with the McGinnis account?”
There was the flick of a match. The room glowed in an eerie light. Robert, lit by the blunt stub of wax, was holding my 9 mm Glock. It was pointed at my chest. How is this possible?
He has come for me.
He is the man I love, the man I thought I knew.
“I love you,” he said, and fired.
I hardly flinched when the bullet entered my chest, pierced my heart. I felt nothing.
DREAM WEAVER
Flashing in the Gutters 2006
I squirmed in the too hard chair. I really needed a bathroom, but the judge was intoning something, and the jury was filing back in. My lawyer reached over and squeezed my hand. It just made me think of my bladder, and I wished I’d wake up already so I could drag myself through the dark to the toilet.
But this was one of those dreams that goes on and on and on, with no end in sight. I crossed my legs instead, admired my black patent Louboutin pump. The red sole winked at me. I smiled back—they had been a steal at Barney’s last season.
Judge Blowhard was talking again. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
A mousy middle-aged frump with a gray bun stood, holding out a piece of paper, which Barney Fife walked over to the judge. He started up again, his deep voice gravelly and intense. My lawyer pinched my forearm. I stood tall.
“In the case of State of Tennessee vs. Davis, we the jury in the aforementioned case find the defendant, Lisa Davis, guilty of murder in the second degree.”
There were gasps from the audience. I turned and saw my mother, weeping softly into a white linen handkerchief. On the other side of the aisle, Buck Davis, my father-in-law, was smiling broadly. He gave me one of those looks and spoke, loudly.
“You bitch, you shot my son. Now the world knows he didn’t kill himself. I hope you rot.”
He turned and swept out of the courtroom. The heat rose in my chest and I was blinded for a moment, furious. This was bizarre. I searched the crowd. Where was Troy? My golden haired boy man, the one who’d swept me off my feet, loved me true. It’s only a dream, silly, I chided myself. You’ll wake up and Troy will be lying next to you, warm and solid. You’ll make blueberry pancakes and read the paper. You’ll tell him about your dream and he’ll laugh, shaking his head like he does when he finds your excitement intoxicating. Like he used to.
I turned back to my lawyer, who was making murmuring noises in my ear. Something about minimum security, a psychiatric hospital. Promises to come see me soon. Then I was handed over to the bailiff, cuffed and walked from the room.
The panic began in a slow well. The handcuffs were tight, biting into my flesh. I started to thrash, trying to force the dream away, but the bailiff pulled my right arm down hard enough that the shoulder joint popped and I hissed in pain.
“Knock it off, girlie. We’re going for a ride.”
Before I could protest, he pushed me through the doors of the courthouse. A distant roar started in my ears.
“They’re taking her out the back!” People were scurrying about, flashbulbs started going off. A white van pulled to the curb, and the bailiff pushed me inside. I smacked my forehead on the door frame, felt the bruised lump start swelling. The guard just leered.
***
It felt like we arrived within minutes. The lawns were green and long; the building at the end of the drive looked more like a Victorian mansion than a sanitarium. At least my dream weaver has good architectural taste. The van jogged to a stop and the guard grabbed my forearm again.
“Put those panties back on, girlie,” he grumbled in my ear. “They’ll catalog your clothes and we can’t have any missing.”
I’d try the trick that’s worked so many times before. “Sure, whatever. Can I use the bathroom now?”
“Once you’re inside. Thanks for the lay.”
“Not a problem.” We exited the van, the sunlight stinging my eyes. A shadow moved across my frame. I squinted…
“TROY!” I launched myself into his arms. “I can’t wake up. Will you help me?”
“Sure, babe.” The dark, gaping hole smack in the center of his face moved again, shreds of blood and tissue fell to the ground. “You’re going to like it here. I’m sorry I can’t stay. I have to get back to the graveyard. I miss you, sugar. But everything will be all right now.”
“Don’t go.” I snuggled in close. “Troy, they tried me for murder.”
“I know. It’s perfect, isn’t it? I needed some way to keep you safe, darling. This way, you’ll always be taken care of. I love you.”
And with that, he was gone. I looked at my new home and smiled. Troy would never let me be alone.
DRIVE IT LIKE IT’S STOLEN
Flashing in the Gutters 2006
“Are you done with the mascara yet?”
“God Jules, yes already. Quit grabbing for it.” Tara handed the green tube to her best friend.
“Thank you. It’s just that we don’t have all day, you know?”
“Shhh, Jules.” Tara glanced over her shoulder. The bathroom door opened and the rush began. A line formed behind them, innocuous women and children, just searching for a little relief on the side of the road. Tara caught one woman staring at her and narrowed her eyes. The woman looked away, intimidated or uninterested. Tara chose intimidated, happier with the idea.
The truck stop was as anonymous as they came. Side of a highway, somewhere in Godforsaken Timbuktu Tennessee, a McDonald’s attached to the side. The smell of the fries made their mouth water when they rushed through the door, trying to get to the bathroom unnoticed. They’d succeeded.
Tara turned back to the mirror and watched Jules swipe the little wand across her transparent lashes, wishing for permanence. Maybe she’d help her dye them one day, when they had a little more money. Things might be tight for a while. Tara told Jules over and over again that it was going to be okay, and Jules believed her. It was the way things were with them.
Time to go. Tara pulled a brush through her hair and handed it to Jules, who scooped her long blond curls into a fist and wadded them through a tiny black rubber band. She looked older with her hair up, everyone told her that. Taking the idea to heart, she prepared complex swirls and twists and bought tortoise shell hairclips to fancy it up. They’d left those things at home.
Women were shuffling toward them now, trying to get
to the sinks, to wash up and head on. Tara glanced around as they shoved their accoutrements back into a plastic tote bag Jules had purchased at the Dollar Tree. Hairdryer, makeup bag, brushes, clothes. A woman with nappy hair and thick rimless glasses cleared her throat, impatient.
Grabbing the bag, Tara pulled Jules away from the sinks, toward the half-open door. The line was growing. She felt Jules tense under her hand, looked back through the door. The old woman was peering into the trash receptacle to the left of the sinks. Reaching a hand in…
Tara put her hand in the middle of her friends back, pushing her out through the McDonald’s entrance. “They’re looking. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Quit pushing me,” Jules hissed.
“Hurry the hell up, then. That woman saw.”
The two girls broke out the door and hustled to a mid-nineties Toyota Camry, silver, with a dented hood. Tara reached through the open window, picked up a canvas bag, and sauntered three cars down. A slate gray Porsche Boxster, ragtop down, gleamed in the sun. Tara flicked the visor down, caught the keys. Throwing her second smile of the day at Jules, she nodded to the car.
“Get in.” Tara took the driver’s side, Jules the passenger. They strapped in, Tara shoved the car into gear and they spun out of the parking lot. They were gone, north on the interstate ramp, before anyone registered the blood.
***
Detective Frank Barbary chewed on a toothpick, contemplating. The crime scene folks were milling around, done photographing and taking samples, waiting for the call to close the scene. The body was zipped into a plastic Cobb County Medical Examiner’s pouch, the protruding knife pitching an obscene tent. The widow was crying plaintively in the living room.
Sweet Little Lies Page 2
