The Cheater

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Here we go,” she said, handing him the drink as soon as he sat her suitcase by the door. “Cheers.”

  Stan sipped his drink as he glanced around the room. The cabin was an A-frame, so the room had a pitched ceiling, and there were two sofas with fabric displaying hunting scenes and a well-worn brown leather recliner. Next to one of the sofas was a large rattan basket filled with magazines and newspapers. The fireplace was made out of stone and reached to the ceiling. A stack of wood and kindling rested beside it. “Cozy place,” he said, downing the last of the liquor. “Where’s the bedroom? I think you owe me an appetizer. I’ve been riding around in one box or the other all day.”

  She left her drink untouched on the kitchen counter. The glasses were marked, but she had confused them once and passed out. The son of a bitch she’d been with had dropped her off at the emergency room and taken off. She’d thought of tracking him down to finish what she had started, but it wasn’t worth the effort. She hoped he would be the only man to ever survive her. She thought of herself as a disease. You couldn’t fault a disease for doing what it was created to do. If she didn’t kill men like Stan, she would be defeating her purpose.

  Removing her clothing as she headed toward the bedroom, she put on a short striptease for him. She threw her belt over her shoulder and kicked off her shoes. “Be a doll and bring my bag to the bathroom for me, will you?”

  “Later,” Stan said, seizing her arm and pushing her down on the bed. Something crinkled and he sat up, feeling the bed with his hand. “What in the hell is this? Shit, it’s plastic or something. I don’t want to sleep on a damn plastic sheet. Is your uncle incontinent? Why didn’t you rent us a room at a Hyatt like I said? I didn’t go to all this trouble to—”

  “Hush,” she said, placing a finger over his lips. “There’s a brand-new set of sheets underneath. Sometimes a squirrel manages to get in, and my uncle doesn’t want it to ruin the bedding. If you hadn’t rushed me, I would have made sure everything was perfect.”

  Satisfied, Stan tugged at the front of her dress. He then flopped onto his back and let out a long sigh. “I’m so . . . sleepy. God . . . I . . . what’s wrong with me?”

  She sat beside him, flicking the ends of her fingernails until his head fell to one side. She should have insisted he take her bag to the bathroom. The bag wasn’t that heavy, but she enjoyed watching her victim carrying the weapons she would use to kill him.

  On the off chance that he might wake up, she went to the bathroom and locked the door. Removing the auburn wig, she used soap and water to scrub the heavy makeup off her face. Her natural hair was blond and cut close to her head. They made wigs so good now that it was impossible to detect them. After she stepped out of the blue dress, she pulled on a Black Sabbath T-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans, along with a masculine-looking belt. The finishing touch was a key chain that she clipped to her belt. It was tacky, but effective.

  The image in the mirror was now that of a slender young man. Of course, it was more than the clothing and haircut. She had learned to hold her jaw in a certain way, and had studied men’s walks and gestures. Although she hadn’t brought it this time, she’d even designed a prosthetic Adam’s apple. Men had told her it was one of the things they looked at when they questioned a person’s sexual identity. Cigarettes were repulsive, but they were good props, and just the smell of a cigarette denoted masculinity.

  Inside the suitcase were two boxes of heavy-duty garbage bags, a bottle of Clorox, several packages of latex kitchen gloves, a yellow raincoat, a pair of plastic goggles, and two electric carving knives with replacement blades. She opened a rolled-up towel and removed two handsaws and a buck knife. Even though the carving knives sliced through tissue fairly well, she needed the saws for the bones and cartilage.

  Picking up one of the electric knives and a box of garbage bags, she went into the other room, sweating profusely in excitement. She lined the floor with plastic bags so she could simply roll Stan off the bed once he was dead. Being prepared made the cleanup easier. Once he was chopped and bagged, she would burn his clothing, his personal belongings, and the bedding, scrub down anything he might have touched, jump in the rented Hummer, and take off.

  Donning the yellow raincoat and goggles, she went to the other room and straddled Stan like a horse, pinning his legs down with her knees. Pulling her hand back, she slapped him hard in the face until he regained consciousness. “I thought you wanted to fuck me,” she said, seeing his eyelids flicker and open. His body buckled and thrashed, but it was a futile attempt. The drugs had turned his muscles into spaghetti.

  “Why . . . are . . . my . . . God . . . help . . .”

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a snack-chip clip. “Pucker up, sweetheart.” One of the more pleas ur able moments should be listening to her victims blubbering and begging, but all it did was give her a headache. Grabbing his lips between her fingers, she snapped on the clip. “You know what you look like now, Stan? You look like Donald Duck. I bet your kids would think Daddy is really funny if they could see you now. Oh,” she added, staring into his terrified eyes, “I guess no one would laugh at a sad little duck that can’t even quack.”

  She reached down and unzipped his pants, feeling his erection. “How much Cialis did you take? You’d have to take a whole bottle to be hard at a time like this.” She pressed his penis between her fingers. “You’re always ready to fuck, aren’t you, Stan?”

  She stopped and wiped her hand on the bed. “Since we’re on the subject of your children, would they still love you if they knew you came here to cheat on their mother?” She grabbed a handful of his shirt in her fist. “You had everything, but it wasn’t enough. You’re a greedy son of a bitch, Stan. A beautiful wife, children, success, none of it satisfied you, did it? You wanted more money, more women, more excitement, more power!”

  She stopped and took a deep breath, picking the electric knife up off the bed. “You know what I want to be your last thought, Stan? That you threw it all away.”

  Turning on the knife, she flashed it in front of his face. “You like that, Stan? Can you hear it? Does it remind you of Thanksgiving?” Her tongue swept across her lower lip as she watched his terror intensify. Adrenaline would course through his bloodstream now, keeping him awake until she silenced him. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Stan. I’m going to slice through your carotid artery, then you’re going to bleed to death. While you’re dying, remember what I told you. You flushed your wife and family down the toilet for a piece of ass!”

  TWO

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27

  VENTURA, CALIFORNIA

  Lily threw her towel over her shoulder and jumped on a treadmill at the Spectrum Health Club. She never had a problem getting a machine, as most people preferred the ones in the front that allowed them to watch television.

  Tessa Prescott came walking toward her. Tessa was an elementary school teacher at Our Lady of Mount Carmel, a local parochial school, and her short dark hair was wet from perspiration, as was her black warm-up suit. Overweight by at least twenty pounds, she tried to hide it under dark-colored loose clothing. Smacking her gum, she said, “Hey, slacker.”

  “I’m not a slacker,” Lily told her, setting up her program on the machine, then pressing the start button. “I’m here working out, aren’t I?”

  Tessa frowned. “Yeah, but since you became a hotshot judge, you don’t have time for your friends.”

  Lily felt a stab of guilt. “That’s not true. Bryce and I went to dinner with you and Fred just last week. And I always return your phone calls. Maybe not the minute I receive them, but as soon as I can.”

  “You’ve lost track of time. We went to dinner over a month ago.” Tessa paused for effect, then laughed, a delightful throaty sound. “I’m kidding okay? I just hate you because you’re tall and skinny. Look at me, I’m a toad, for Christ’s sake. Thanksgiving was a disaster. I ate enough for five people.” She tilted her head toward a young blonde standing beside her. “T
his is Anne Bradley. I hate her, too, but unlike you, she has to work at it. We’ve been taking the six-thirty spin class together, since you can’t seem to get your butt here in time. Anne, this is Lily Forrester.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Lily used her towel to wipe the sweat off her forehead. “I told you a dozen times that spinning hurts my back, Tessa. I sit all day, remember? You chase kids for a living.”

  “Excuses, excuses. Anne is an attorney. She just moved here from Manhattan.”

  Lily didn’t mind small talk when she was on the treadmill, as it made the time pass faster. She didn’t really care for health clubs and public places. The press of humanity was bad enough without a room full of sweaty bodies. But she endured, as exercise cleared her mind and alleviated stress. “Are you setting up a practice here?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Anne responded in a smooth, measured voice. “Right now I’m unemployed and loving it. I’m working out so I’ll look good in a bikini this summer.”

  “I think you’re already there,” Lily said, her eyes roaming over her toned, shapely body. “What kind of law do you practice?”

  “I was with Wharton, Cannon, and Byerman.” She got on the treadmill beside Lily as soon as an older gentleman stepped off. “They specialize in navigation law.”

  Lily found Tessa’s new friend engaging. Her blond hair was cropped close to her head, a fresh, flattering look. Lily wasn’t about to chop her hair off. Her hair was one of the last remnants of her youth. Although it was impossible to discern age these days, Anne appeared to be in her mid- to late twenties. She was certainly attractive, particularly to the opposite sex. It was obvious from the looks she was getting from the men and women in the room. No wonder Tessa wanted to hang out with her.

  “See you guys tomorrow,” Tessa said, about to take off. “Get here around the same time as today, Lily, and we’ll wait for you. We don’t have to take a spin class. Anne likes aerobics better, anyway. If you insist, we can even do the treadmill.”

  Once Tessa was out of earshot, Anne said, “She’s a fun lady, just relentless. She managed to get me going, though, so I can’t complain.”

  Lily looked over and smiled. “Tell me about it. She knows I work late. Last night I didn’t get to bed until three. I think Tessa shows up here before five. I’m sorry, you were telling me about the firm you were with in New York.”

  Anne had her cell phone hooked to her gym shorts. When it rang, she grabbed it, jumped off the treadmill, and walked a few feet away. “I should have left my phone in the locker,” she said when she returned. “That was one of the partners. They’ve been driving me crazy ever since I left. The attorney they hired to replace me isn’t that familiar with navigation law.” Once she was back on the treadmill, she added, “There’s not a lot of competition in my field, which is surprising because it’s so lucrative. Boats sink all the time, even cruise liners. Settle a few cases a year and you’re pretty much set.”

  “Why did you move, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Manhattan is awful. I was always sick. You’re stuffed together like sardines.” Anne stopped speaking and sucked in a deep breath. “I’ve already done the spin class, so I’m a little winded.”

  “Maybe you should call it a day?”

  “No,” Anne said. “I do this every day. As for Manhattan, the whole city feels like a huge moving sidewalk, every inch crammed with people. I managed to save some money and decided to get out. Enough is enough, you know.”

  Lily checked her pulse. As pretty as Anne was, she didn’t look healthy. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her skin had a dull finish to it. Lily wondered if she had moved due to an illness. Even if she was financially solvent, why would such a young, successful attorney not want to resume her career right away? It took years to build up a successful law practice. “Do you have family in this area?”

  “A brother, but he travels most of the time. All my life I’ve wanted to live at the beach. Most of the areas on the water are outrageously expensive, so I had more or less given up. Then the firm sent me to represent one of our clients who had a yacht in Ventura, and I checked out real estate prices. Since housing was fairly affordable here, I decided to get out of Dodge.”

  “Most people complain about the price of California real estate,” Lily commented. “Compared to Manhattan, I guess it’s not so bad. Where do you live?”

  “I’m renting an apartment until I find a house. Ventura is like Santa Barbara for a fraction of the price. Of course, the beach isn’t as nice, but only God and Oprah can afford Santa Barbara.”

  Lily smiled, not wanting to mention she’d formerly resided in Anne’s dream city. But Anne was right about Ventura. The city had grown up around the historic San Buenaventura Mission, founded in 1782. On one side were miles of sandy beaches, along with multimillion-dollar homes with boat slips. The rest of the city had sprawled upward into the foothills, where many of the residents had panoramic views of the ocean.

  Unlike Santa Barbara, a similar city approximately twenty miles north, Ventura hadn’t developed into a playground for the rich and famous. New shops and restaurants had slowly appeared throughout the years, but most things had stayed the same. Lily thought there was a tired feeling to Ventura, as if a dusty bubble had been placed over it, trapping it twenty or thirty years into the past. The nearby farming communities didn’t help, especially with all the avocado fields.

  The Spanish influence was still present, yet it hadn’t been cultivated as it had in Santa Barbara, where lovely mission-style homes and buildings had been built to harmonize with meticulously renovated existing structures.

  Lily’s tension was beginning to ease. She turned the speed up on the treadmill so she could jog, and noticed that Anne had done the same. After fifteen minutes, they both got off and walked to the locker room together.

  Once they dumped their towels in a basket, Anne told her, “I’m wiped. I think I’ll shower and jump in the Jacuzzi. It was nice talking to you. I hope we’ll run into each other again.”

  Lily glanced at her watch. She didn’t have to be in Hennessey’s office until nine. “Sounds good. I’ll see you in there.”

  The steam rose from the large whirlpool, clouding the glass on the heavy door. Lily’s nostrils were assaulted by the smell of chlorine. Anne was already in the water. She must have decided to rinse off in the shower inside the room. Because of her position as a judge, Lily wore a bathing suit. Anne, like most women, apparently felt comfortable going in nude.

  As soon as she stepped into the water, Anne scooted closer so they could talk. They soaked awhile until the two other women who were there got out and they had the Jacuzzi to themselves. Lily submerged herself up to her neck, repositioning herself until the jets hit the right spot on her back. “It takes guts to start a new life on your own. You should make friends fast if you hang out at this place. Tessa will introduce you to everyone.”

  “She already has.” Anne pushed herself onto the ledge and let her feet dangle in the water.

  “Can I ask you what those are for?” Lily asked, pointing at her feet. She was wearing some kind of mesh slippers that went all the way up to her ankles. It seemed odd that she would go in nude and yet feel the need to wear shoes.

  “Athlete’s foot,” she said. “I picked up a case in New York once, so I got into the habit of wearing these. I think they’re made for scuba divers or something.”

  “Did you work out in the city?”

  “Yeah,” Anne said. “But I really have to work out now that I moved here. There, you walk everywhere.” She fell silent for a while, then asked, “What’s your take on the Lucinda Edgar case? You know, the preacher’s wife who shot her husband.”

  “I think she got away with murder.” Lily didn’t normally pay much attention to crimes outside her jurisdiction. She had followed this case, though, as people in the courthouse had been talking about it. Although she averted her gaze, she couldn’t help but notice Anne’s youthful body, her long l
egs, perfect breasts, not too large or too small, and what every woman dreamed of: a flat, unmarked stomach.

  “I don’t know if I agree with you,” Anne said, slipping back into the water. “I have a theory. First, tell me what you think.”

  “She shot her husband in the back while he was sleeping,” Lily told her, moving away from the jet. The thought of a bullet in the back made her wince. She was already in pain and the day had just begun. A disk had herniated in her lower lumbar region, and it seemed to be getting worse every day. Her doctor had referred her to an orthopedic surgeon, but Lily didn’t have time for an operation, and there was no guarantee it would work. Anne was waiting for her to continue their conversation. “There were no signs of physical abuse,” she told her. “I don’t recall all the particulars, but I think the woman’s defense was she killed him because he made her wear a wig and provocative clothing. She even claimed she tripped on a pillow and that caused the pump to move into place on the shotgun. I’ve never heard of such an asinine defense. When the verdict came in, I was appalled.”