Suicide Supper Club

by Rhett DeVane

  “Doesn’t matter. Not mine.” Clay offered a thin, humorless smile.

  “Remind me to never let you borrow my truck.”

  Clay shook his head and his eyes flicked up then back down. He stared at Glenn for a long moment before he spoke. “I’m concerned.” He swiveled his head, squinting into the sun’s glare. “Small town like Chattahoochee. You’re bound to know most everyone. I’m not altogether comfortable with that fact.”

  Glenn’s hands curled into fists. “I’d gun down my own grandma if that’s what it took. Who am I going to whack?”

  “Did you just say whack?” Clay turned to face him with one eyebrow lifted. “Never mind. Of course you did,” he added before Glenn could respond. “There will be four targets.”

  “Four?”

  “That a problem?”

  Glenn grinned. “Four times the payola, way I see it.”

  “Four . . . women.”

  Lordy, that called for a drink. Glenn wished he’d brought his bigger flask. “Now why would four gals want to off themselves, you reckon.”

  “Isn’t required that you know that, any more than a pilot has to know the end destination of every passenger onboard.” Clay paused. “We provide a simple service for a simple, yet exorbitant, fee.”

  Glenn glowed inside. Clay had said we . . . We! “Reckon, if those folks want out bad enough to pay for it, then I’m the man to make their dreams come true.”

  “You might have a promising future in this business.” Clay narrowed his eyes to appraising slits. “You can dead-center the practice dummies, but can you manage a perfect kill shot on a live subject?”

  “You got me a semiautomatic revolver. Heck, I could aim one of them in my sleep.” Glenn rubbed his palms together. “I’m raring to get started.”

  “Easy there, girly-boy.” The toothpick rolled from one corner of Clay’s mouth to the other. Menace boiled off him in waves. “First we’ll go over the plan until you can see it in your sleep. Follow it to the letter. No adlibbing. Understand?”

  “When do I get my money?” Glenn wiggled.

  Clay turned the key and the Chevy’s engine responded. “Not until I have confirmation of your success. Don’t fret. You’ll get your due.” He motioned toward the other vehicle. “Get back in that rattletrap and follow me. You and I have some time to put in at the firing range.”

  Glenn gestured to the pig-trail. “On this road?”

  “Little-known side entrance. No one sees us come or go. No questions.”

  Sheila Bruner scooped the cooked potato from the halved skins, careful not to pierce the outsides, then mashed and whipped the white chunks to a creamy texture with butter, sour cream, and shredded sharp cheddar. The trick was to achieve the perfect ratio. Though she had made Glenn’s favorite twice-baked potatoes many times, she didn’t “eye” the seasonings, but used measuring spoons for the garlic, salt, chopped chives and parsley. No worries about lumps or about competing with her mother-in-law’s masterful cooking. Stuffed twice-baked potatoes were Sheila’s own “special” recipe—copied from some woman’s magazine, then tweaked.

  Sheila chewed on her lower lip until she tasted blood. Yoga class once a week with a cup of tea at Bill’s afterwards was one thing, dinner out in Tallahassee was another. It wouldn’t cost in terms of gasoline. She and Loiscell planned to ride over with Choo-choo. It seemed right that they should do the whole thing together, but Abby had some last minute important errand. The final result would be the same: good meal, scrumptious dessert, and The End.

  She released her damaged lip and hummed an old spiritual, spooning the potato mixture into the hollowed skins and adding roofs of shredded cheese and chives. When she popped them into the oven—cozy in their baking dish—intense heat blasted her face and she wondered about Hell. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. They’d have a lot of things to clean in Hell. Perhaps, she could scrub her way up to a cooler level.

  The closer to “SSC-Day,” as the women had named it, the more Sheila prayed for forgiveness. She asked for release from earthly pain, a break from Glenn’s abuse. With so little time to go, she marveled at the lack of new bruises on her body. A miracle in itself. God was already listening.

  Now, the last hurdle. She could leave without Glenn’s permission, but the chances of his tracking her down were too high. Two Angus beefsteaks marinated in the refrigerator, and the stuffed potatoes baked. A crisp tossed salad waited in a sealed bowl. Add homemade buttermilk dressing, thick slices of toasted garlic bread, and maybe Glenn would be agreeable.

  They ate in silence, accompanied by the click of silverware. Sheila tried to judge his mood. He’d been somewhere in the deep woods. She could pick out that scent better than cologne.

  The aroma of the grilled beef—usually appealing—caused Sheila’s stomach to lurch. “Glenn . . . ?”

  Her husband speared a thick bloody chunk of meat and crammed it into his mouth. “What?” he asked around a mouthful of half-chewed food.

  “My yoga friends are planning to ride over to Tallahassee for dinner day after tomorrow. I would like to go.” She ducked her head. “That is, if you’re okay with it.” She watched him from the corner of her eyes.

  Conflict painted his features: anger followed by something else. She sent up a silent plea: Please, please let him say yes.

  “Your piece of crap car won’t make it over there. No way you’re taking my truck.”

  Sheila leaned forward, meeting his stare. “No problem there. A couple of us are riding over together.” She added before he could reply, “and I’ll have everything made for your poker night, ahead of time.”

  Glenn frowned, twisted his lips to one side. “Eating out costs money. I don’t bust my hump every day so you can waste it with your biddy friends.”

  “I can have a salad and iced water. I won’t spend much.”

  “Okay. But you eat, you come straight home. Clear?” The sheen of beef fat glistened around his mouth. Glenn returned his full attention to the meal.

  It took a moment for her to grasp. “Yes. Perfectly clear.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Suicide Day

  Monday

  Abby McKenzie moved at a crawl. A cliché popped to mind: You’d be late for your own funeral.

  If she didn’t feel so rotten, she’d laugh. All morning, she had felt rundown and a little nauseated. Fear, had to be. Who wouldn’t be apprehensive, knowing this evening’s meal would be her last?

  The menu she had printed from Bella Bella’s website protruded from her purse, unfolded and refolded so many times, some of the lines were illegible. Should she pick rigatoni, spinach lasagna, baked ziti with extra meat sauce and gobs of melted mozzarella? And bread. She could eat an entire mini-loaf of crusty Italian bread. No, wait. The appetizer Loiscell suggested was bubble bread—hot thick pizza-like crust with fresh spices and melted cheeses. Best not to overdo and leave no room for dessert. Dessert. Cheesecake? Chocolate Sin Cake? Abby pursed her lips. Tiramisu! Might as well go with the whole Italian theme. Or heck, order one of each.

  What if Italian food was all wrong? Wasn’t the traditional last meal of death row inmates steak and the trimmings? Abby shook her head. Always a chance of getting a tough cut of meat, one with more fat and gristle than substance.

  Best to stick with Italian. Dependable. Comforting. Cheesy.

  As time neared for Abby to leave the house, a deep pain lodged in her lower back along with the uncomfortable flush of a fever.

  “Great. I’m coming down with something.”

  She pressed precise creases in a pair of black pants and a white shirt: the outfit dictated by Choo-choo’s instructions. Good thing she wouldn’t be around to stress about the shirt. Bloodstains on white cotton were impossible to remove.

  Abby chose limited accessories. One ring. A watch. A small black clutch bag. Sensible flats.

  Before she left, Abby walked through the small house, pausing in each room. She filled an automatic feeder and water dispenser in the kitchen. Oreo
circled her feet with his bouncy three-legged hobble and she picked him up for one last nuzzle. “You’ll be fine until Mason Dixon takes over.”

  As soon as word spread of the tragedy in Tallahassee—she envisioned the Tallahassee Democrat’s headline—Mason would use her spare hidden key, let himself in, and rescue the little cat. She put Oreo down next to the food bowl and stroked his fur, then wiped her cheeks. Quit with the tears. No time for regrets.

  By the time she merged onto Thomasville Road from Interstate 10 in Tallahassee, her stomach pitched and rolled. Could the mayonnaise in her tuna sandwich have been spoiled? Should’ve gone with plain turkey and cheese. No matter. She could do this.

  One final stop by the attorney’s office to pick up the prepared legal packet, and she could drive across town to meet the Yoga Rat Pack. Someone would find the documents in the car later. Most important, the will. Her attorney Claire served as her executor. All would go smoothly. No problem.

  The important errand had provided the perfect excuse for taking the day off. Hey, she never took time off. She didn’t call in sick even when she was half-dead. Christine could just suck it up and cover Abby’s position. Good practice for her.

  “You should have a designated health care surrogate and living will, Abby,” the attorney had insisted when Abby called about getting her legal affairs in order. “If you’re unable to speak for yourself, someone you don’t know will make the call. You could end up on life support, hooked up to a ventilator, even if your brain is not functioning. Think about it. Is that what you want?”

  Good things to have. Abby conceded. In case the bullet didn’t meet its mark. Surely not a problem with a professional assassin, but who knew? People didn’t seem to have sound work ethics these days.

  A fresh wave of abdominal cramps struck as she unlocked her car later, outside of the attorney’s office. Her mouth watered: the precursor to violent retching. She managed to make it to the edge of the parking lot, and vomited into the shrubs. Once, twice, three times until nothing resulted beyond acid and bile.

  Back in the car, she speed-dialed Loiscell. Of the three, Loiscell was the only one with a cell phone. Amazing. After four rings, the voicemail announcement sounded. Abby pitched the phone into her purse. Might as well drive to the restaurant and ask for a postponement. How absurd, rescheduling the Suicide Supper Club until she felt well enough to enjoy her final meal.

  At the Centerville Road intersection, Abby made a quick decision and veered into the left-turn lane. The cramping—almost unbearable now—matched the intensity of the rising fever. She pulled into the emergency entrance for Capital Medical Center and whipped into the first available parking spot.

  The exit from her car elicited another round of violent dry heaves. She couldn’t stand upright, only scuttle crab-like toward the double automatic glass doors. The waiting area held a handful of people. Too early for the alcohol-prompted bar fight injuries and late enough to clear most of the morning’s maladies.

  Abby stumbled to the reception desk. “Help me, please.”

  Glenn Bruner had not eaten the lunch Sheila packed. Time oozed by. His stomach burned and growled. His skin itched all over, as if he was covered in prickly heat. He pulled up his shirt and checked. No rash. Just his excitement causing the creepy-crawlies.

  He checked his watch. Five p.m. Finally.

  Glenn couldn’t clock out fast enough. The daylight hours had decreased with the impending fall season. It would be solid dark by the time he took up position in the restaurant’s side parking lot.

  Oh yeah. Gotta call up my poker buddies soon as I step in the door and tell ’em I ain’t feeling too hot. Catch y’all next week. Beer’s on me. So many dang details.

  It took every smidgeon of control not to break the speed limit as he negotiated the few miles across Victory Bridge and into Chattahoochee. Glenn reviewed Clay’s instructions. The man knew his stuff. One day, Glenn would be able to plan as well. One day, he could walk into the prison and give ’em his resignation. Tell them to kiss his lily-white butt. Then again, maybe he would keep the state position as a front. Plenty of money in his new business, but with health insurance and enough of an income not to alert Uncle Sam. The cash, he would hide. Live too far beyond his obvious means, and Uncle Damn would come sniffing around. He could keep the extra money for fishing tournament fees and man-toys. Anything he wanted. Gravy on the potatoes.

  If only he didn’t have to share it.

  Glenn huffed. Sheila might have to go missing and he amused himself thinking of ways it could happen. He would be devastated, of course. People would feel so sorry for him. Bring him casseroles and invite him over for meals. He could hire some woman to come in, to cook, clean, and wash clothes. Better than finding a replacement wife. Sex could be hired out too. With the kind of cash the new business supplied, he could afford the best. Maybe more than one at a time. That thought thrilled him as much as the new boat. Almost.

  He pulled into his driveway and cut the engine. His senses sharpened. He luxuriated in the final minutes leading up to his first hit. Like licking the batter bowl before the cake was even in the oven. Delicious. Glenn’s lips twitched at the corners. His day of reckoning. The day he started on the pathway of a new and stellar career.

  And what better excuse to have his wife out of the way than with her clutch of hens? Not that he would have to answer to her for his absence. He didn’t have to tell her squat. But why take any chances? He could get ready for his outing without Sheila buzzing around him like an annoying housefly.

  As soon as he changed from his uniform, Glenn packed a tattered dirty backpack with supplies. Worn clothes. A light overcoat two sizes too large. The handgun, fitted with a silencer—cleaned and polished of any fingerprints. A pair of gloves. A sweat-stained baseball cap.

  Clay’s voice played in an endless loop inside his head like the words of a song he loved and knew by heart. The plan was so brilliant, so seamless. A blind hog could carry it off.

  How would he feel afterwards? Giddy. Pumped with adrenaline, better than the rush of bagging a twelve-point buck. Hearing the sirens, but taking his sweet time. Let those idiots swarm the area.

  The professional assassin’s final statements rang in Glenn’s head like a mantra. “The most important thing is that you stay calm and think. If you can do that, this business will reward you beyond your wildest dreams.”

  Choo-choo Ivey pulled the Lincoln to the curb. “Look at this! Front door parking. It’s like someone reserved our spot.”

  The small Italian eatery occupied a building facing Fifth Avenue. A set of concrete steps led to the glass door entrance. Wrought iron tables lined a narrow porch, perfect for outdoor dining when the heat and humidity didn’t drive patrons inside.

  Loiscell smiled. “Don’t know that I’ve been by here, when this space was open. Usually, I have to park on the side or clean down the road.”

  “Meant to be,” Sheila said in a quiet voice.

  Choo-choo glanced around. “I don’t see Abby’s car anywhere.”

  “Probably caught in traffic.” Loiscell grabbed her purse. “Let’s go on in and get a table. I have a feeling this place gets busy as soon as people are off work.”

  When the three walked into Bella Bella, the blended fragrance of basil, oregano, garlic, and simmering red sauce trilled their senses. The intimate restaurant held a half-dozen tables, covered with vintage linen printed tablecloths topped with glass. Each held a spray of fresh flowers and a small oil lamp. Original paintings dotted the walls.

  “This place is delightful,” Choo-choo said. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here.”

  Loiscell motioned to a table next to one of the windows. “I come for lunch every now and then whenever I’m over for a doctor’s appointment. They have the best tomato basil soup I’ve ever tasted. Everything is scrumptious.”

  A young woman appeared. “Three for dinner?” The server ushered the group to the table and handed out menus.

  Choo-choo
sat down and snapped the cloth napkin into her lap. “Supposed to be one more.”

  The server left and brought back four tall glasses of iced water. “May I bring you something to else to drink?”

  “We should get a bottle of wine, don’t you think, ladies?” Choo-choo asked.

  Loiscell nodded. “Sounds good.”

  “Count me in,” Sheila said.

  “Bring an extra glass, please. I know Abby will want one,” Choo-choo requested. “Your house merlot will do nicely.” The server scuttled off.

  Loiscell glanced at her watch. “It’s not like her to be late. I hope that car of hers didn’t break down.”

  Sheila sipped her iced water. “Maybe she decided not to come.”

  Choo-choo and Loiscell stared at her a moment before Choo-choo spoke. “She wouldn’t do that. And if she did, she would have at least called. Abby’s very dependable.”

  Loiscell dug in her purse and checked the cell phone. “No voicemail. Besides it’s only a quarter after. It’s not like she’s hours late.” She punched a button on the side. “I think I have this thing on vibrate. I can never tell.”

  “You could always let callers leave a message and call them back tomorrow,” Sheila said.

  The absurdity of the comment struck them all at once, and they dissolved into a shared fit of near-hysterical laughter.

  The server arrived and doled out wine glasses, uncorked the merlot, and poured. “Sounds like you ladies are having fun.”

  Choo-choo swiped the moisture from the corners of her eyes. “We’re just getting warmed up.”

  Loiscell took a sip. “Should we go ahead and at least order an appetizer? I’m starving. We can save Abby a bite. I’ve been dreaming about their bubble bread for days.”

  Sheila agreed. “I didn’t have much breakfast or lunch. Too excited to eat.”

  Choo-choo studied the menu. “Go ahead and bring us some of that hot artichoke dip along with the bubble bread.”