She's Kill Crazy

by Tina Laningham

  Hunter is six feet tall. So is Venus. And when her eyes slowly move back up, they lock with his.

  “I’m fascinated with your bold theory,” she says.

  Hunter wants her. Now.

  No! Cancel that thought.

  He won’t become a cheater like his father.

  “What?” he says.

  “You asked what I thought of your book. I’m fascinated by your theory on Romulus and Remus.”

  Hunter climbs into the robe and pulls the belt taut. He crosses the hall and turns on the jaguar head shower. And each time he thinks he’s ending the arousal, he’s not.

  He tries visualizing his wife, Vanessa, but all he sees is this new Venus. The authentic Venus. And it takes twenty minutes under the shower before Hunter can put on his pants again.

  Finally, he makes it back to the lobby. As he’s about to go out the door, Rayna says, “Would you like to set up your weekly massage, Dr. Flynn?”

  Hunter freezes. “I’m giving the membership to my wife. She’ll call and set up a regular time.”

  He climbs in the Fiat and sinks into the seat. With one hand, he holds the membership card between his thumb and finger. With the other, he flicks the card and makes it spin.

  Nothing happened. He flicks it harder and the card spins faster.

  His mind is telling him one thing and his gut is saying another. He’ll keep it in the friend zone, that’s what his mind is saying, and he and Venus can discuss ancient Roman music, décor, and theories. After all, Venus is highly knowledgeable in his field and Vanessa is not. That’s what he and Venus have in common. Nothing more. And as stressful as his new job is becoming, he desperately needs a friend.

  Hunter tucks the card back in his wallet and turns on the soothing melody of a Roman lyre for the rest of the ride home.

  CHAPTER 9

  VANESSA

  HUNTER’S ACTING WEIRD. Normally, he comes home tense and I fix it, and then he tells me I’m his Venus. That’s our routine, but tonight he’s already relaxed. Very strange.

  It’s happened twice. It’s a pattern. Something’s up and I don’t like it.

  “My dad called today,” I say to him.

  Hunter acts like he’s half listening.

  “He wants us to come over. He’s having a barbeque with that wife and all those kids they had.”

  Hunter’s still not listening.

  Finally, I say, “Since your dad is dead, I thought we’d go.” That got his attention.

  “When?” He pours a glass of Pinot Grigio.

  We never drink white wine. Always red. Blood red. I watch him take the glass upstairs. I don’t like this. Not at all.

  I pour myself a glass of red and wait. When he finally comes down, he’s in his swim trunks. Without even a glance, he goes through the back door and wades into the pool. I peek through the shutters. He sits on the ledge, submerged from the chest up and sips the wine. He’s ignoring me.

  I go outside and set my wine glass on the table by the pool. Hunter’s back is to me, so I walk around the pool and position myself right in front of him. He’s wearing shades, so it’s hard to tell if he’s even looking at me.

  I unbutton the top two buttons of my black shirt and pull it off over my head. I turn my knee in and pose in my white denim shorts and my lacey bra.

  Hunter grins.

  It’s about time he notices.

  I unbutton my shorts and slowly pull down the zipper. The shorts fall off and I step out of them. I always go commando, so now the only piece of clothing I’m wearing is my bra. I reach around, snap it off, and toss it aside.

  Hunter’s little grin is now a full-fledged smile. Reaching underwater, he pulls the string on his trunks.

  I sashay toward him and he hops off the ledge. His swim trunks fly out and slap the tile walkway beside the pool.

  I step in and wade to the opposite end. Let him come to me.

  He picks up the white wine and moves toward me.

  I wait.

  When he finally makes it over, he gives me a quick little kiss on the lips.

  I look down. Hunter’s not excited.

  I wrap my arms and legs around him. He sets the wine glass on the edge of the pool and places his hands under my butt. We’re moving around, but I don’t feel anything.

  I breathe hard and whisper in his ear, “Now.”

  And just like that, Hunter lets me go. He drops me. “What is wrong with you!” I shout.

  His eyes widen.

  “Is that thing not working or have you already used it today?”

  Quietly, he says, “This has never happened before.” And then he turns his back to me and wades away.

  I’m losing control.

  The urge is rising.

  The urge to kill.

  CHAPTER 10

  DETECTIVE CANDICE BLAKE pours a stream of powdered creamer into a cup of coffee and stirs it with a tiny plastic straw. She takes a sip and sets the ceramic cup on her desk. The cup reads, Real Girls Have Guns. A Mother’s Day present from her oldest daughter, Sydney, who’s only eight.

  Mother’s Day. They went camping in the Sierra Mountains. Her husband Peter. Her daughters Sydney and Alex. After hiking all day, they cooked the trout they’d caught over an open campfire. Slow roasted in foil with onions. And then they stuffed themselves with s’mores. That was two months ago. Seems like yesterday.

  Candice lifts the framed family photo. Thank God for Peter. How did she get such an understanding husband? Ever since their two daughters could talk, they had no restrictions based on gender. Even today, they tell their daughters they can do anything a boy can do. Anything.

  But today, Candice’s feeling of inadequacy makes her question that belief.

  Candice reads the email again. The message from FBI Agent Greg Hansen sheds a whole new light on the Napa Valley murders.

  First, he apologizes for taking so long to respond and explains that he’s been in Florida working on a case.

  Next, he verifies that of all the murders in the United States on May ninth of this year, none match the method of operation of the Napa Valley killer.

  Finally, he writes:

  I ran a search for that M.O. without a year range and discovered a similar kill thirty years ago.

  Location: Napa County.

  Murder weapon: Plastic bag with a white gathering string.

  Cause of death: Asphyxiation.

  Only two differences: the victim was a woman, not a man, and during the autopsy, semen was found.

  The case was closed, unsolved.

  Check out the date.

  Candice vacillates between hope and complete incompetency. She feels incompetent about missing this monumental piece of information, yet hopeful it may lead her on the path to identifying the Napa Valley Killer.

  The records for cold cases prior to 1990 are kept in the county archives. Candice pulls up the database that holds the archives and enters 1987. There is no search box other than the year. She scrolls through every record and stops at the only one that’s classified as both murder and rape.

  The victim’s name. Rose Giovanni. She scribbles it down

  Her address. Vincent’s Vineyard, Giovanni Road, Napa County.

  And when Candice scrolls to the date of death, her heart leaps in her throat. Rose Giovanni, killed on May ninth in 1987. Thirty years ago. May ninth. Same date as the four unsolved cases sitting on her desk.

  Todd never makes eye contact with Candice. When he’s talking to a man, he looks him square in the eye. But with Candice, he always seems to be multitasking through the entire conversation. “This unsolved case from thirty years ago might be the same Napa Valley Killer,” Candice says.

  Todd rummages through a pile of papers on his desk.

  “It happened on May ninth,” Candice continues. “The same date. The killer used a plastic bag with white string. We need to reopen the cold case.”

  More papers get shuffled on Todd’s desk

  Candice rolls her eyes and sh
oots out of the chair, straight for Sheriff Lee’s office. But before she opens the door, Todd shoots out of the chair and says, “Let me do the talking.”

  Sheriff Lee waves them in and Todd says, “Hey, we found a cold case that might be linked to the Napa Valley Killer.”

  The Sheriff takes a drink of coffee.

  “We need the semen from the evidence room,” Candice adds. “They didn’t have DNA evidence back then.”

  Even while Candice is talking, Sheriff Lee keeps his eyes on Todd. When his eyes finally slide over to Candice, he smirks. “Sure, go ahead. Have five unsolved cases instead of four. You’re doing a real bang up job out there.”

  Without saying another word, Candice makes a B-line for the elevator.

  “You’re welcome,” Todd shouts from behind.

  Candice presses six. All the archived evidence is stored at the far end of Wing C.

  Finally, a break in the case.

  CHAPTER 11

  VANESSA

  I FOLLOW HUNTER for the rest of the week. I need to know if he’s cheating on me. But after four days, I discover nothing. He goes to work and he comes home. And every evening, he needs me to relieve his stress. And then he says that, “My Venus” crap and we go about our own business. So what happened on Monday that was different?

  The other thing that doesn’t make sense is the wine. He’s permanently switched to white. When I mention it, he shrugs.

  I don’t care. It’s Saturday and we’re going to my dad’s for a barbeque. And, oh yeah, I’m pregnant. Even though I’m only a few days late, I’ve tested myself three times.

  I’m going to be a mom.

  I’m not mentioning it to Hunter though. He can find out with everyone else at the barbeque. If Hunter can have secrets, so can I.

  “We’re taking my car,” I tell Hunter. “I’ll drive.”

  I pull my red Mercedes Roadster around to the front of the house and push the button to let the top down. Where is Hunter? I slam the horn and hold it down.

  Finally, he comes out. He looks good in blue jeans. He doesn’t wear them often enough. After he straps himself in, I peel out of the driveway. We get on the road and Hunter rests his arm around me. “Let’s stop in town and pick up some flowers,” he says.

  When we get to St. Helena, I pull up in front of a florist and Hunter jumps out. Tourists swarm to the wine train, like sparrows to San Juan Capistrano. How boring. You’ve seen one winery, you’ve seen them all.

  A woman in a sun dress pushes a stroller on the sidewalk in front of my car. I place my hand on my belly. I can’t wait to be a mother. I want a girl. And I want her to be just like me. Nobody’s fool.

  Hunter gets in the car with an armful of flowers. He used to fret over what to bring my dad and his replacement wife. In these parts, the normal gift for a host is a bottle of wine, but not when your host owns a vineyard. Bringing wine from another vineyard is like treason.

  We drive another five miles north and turn off on Giovanni Road that runs along my family’s vineyard. Sunlight glows through fresh new grape leaves, giving them a neon green hue. A breeze wafts through the vines and the leaves seem to wave as we pass by.

  “Gorgeous,” Hunter says.

  “Me or the vineyard?”

  His hand embraces my leg. “You, of course.”

  Liar.

  We pass the sign that reads, Vincent’s Vineyard. That’s my dad’s name, Vincent. And my oldest brother’s name, too. We’re Vincent, Vernon and Vanessa, and we were heirs to our family vineyard, until that bitch came along.

  “Your brothers coming?” Hunter asks.

  “I doubt it,” I say, turning into the drive. “The bitch drove them away, but she’ll never get rid of me.”

  Hunter gets a sympathetic look on his face. “You need to stop calling her that. She’s your father’s wife.”

  I’m not having that conversation with him again. I slam my car in park and get out. Dad is opening the door of the house I grew up in. Not her. Me. This is my house, bitch.

  I’m hugging Dad when Hunter appears with the flowers. I snatch the flowers and push them into Dad’s arms. “These are for you.”

  He laughs. “Thanks lovebug. Let Sarah put them in some water.”

  I start to say they’re not for the bitch. But I stop because I promised myself I’d have fun today. I squeeze Hunter’s arm and smile.

  “I smell barbeque all the way up here,” Hunter says.

  “Come on, son,” Dad says to Hunter. “I’ll show you my new wood fire grill. Lovebug, take these inside for me.”

  Just like that, Dad leaves with Hunter and I’m standing there holding the flowers. I storm up the steps and go inside without knocking. It’s my fucking house.

  The bitch is in the kitchen chopping onions. I ignore her and open the cupboard where we’ve always kept the vases. It’s full of plates. I swing around and give her a have-you-lost-your-fucking-mind look.

  She eyes the flowers that aren’t for her and says, “Looking for a vase? They’re in the pantry, hon.”

  Who puts vases in a pantry? The woman is a nut case.

  “Bottom shelf on the left,” she says.

  The food pantry is a room in and of itself. It used to be the room where we stored all the wine that was ready to go on the market. We had wine racks from floor to ceiling around the entire room. But Dad built a bigger storage building and turned the wine room into a food pantry.

  Back then, the door had a blue curtain that we opened and closed to control the temperature of the wine. Now it’s a solid wooden door. I open the door and a shiver runs through me.

  It’s the room where I watched my mother die. A clear plastic bag over her head, tied at the neck with a white string. The same bags we put over the feet of tourists when they would get in a barrel to squish grapes.

  My mother was lying on a cold steel table that sat in the middle of the room. The table where we’d always boxed bottles of wine for shipment. Her pants were wadded up in the corner. She suffocated to death while being raped. I hid behind the blue curtain and watched. I was four.

  I remember nothing about my life before that day. It was as if my life began on May ninth.

  May ninth. My mother’s death date and my new birthdate. No one knows this but me. I have my own private ritual on that night each year. I take a pillow and a blanket and I spend the night on my mother’s grave. Mom and I are close. Nothing can change that.

  Five years ago, I took it up a notch. It was time to avenge my mother’s murder. But things got out of control when I killed someone I knew. And this year, it felt too risky.

  Now, becoming a mother is the best way I can honor my mom.

  “Did you find it, honey?” The bitch’s voice rips through my ears. I look down, grab a vase and shove the flower stems in. And then I push the bitch aside and turn on the cold water to fill the vase.

  The bitch is crying over stupid onions and I’m the one who lost my mother. You don’t see me crying. She makes me sick.

  I take the flowers out to the back yard and place them in the middle of the big wooden table under a shady tree where we’ll eat later. Dad and Hunter are down at the huge wood-fire grill Dad built out of stones. Dad’s stupid replacement kids, three boys, are playing soccer in the grass. They stop and wave at me.

  I wave back and shout, “Isn’t this a perfect day for a barbeque!”

  CHAPTER 12

  MONDAY FINALLY ARRIVES. Hunter spent Sunday shopping for baby furniture with Vanessa. A crib, a chest of drawers, a rocking chair, only the best for his baby.

  Now it’s five o’clock on Monday and Hunter is waiting in the pool at the spa for his new friend, Venus. While resting his head on the side of the pool, he gazes up at the Venus di Milo statues that overlook the pool from above. The westward sun shines in his face and the statues cast long shadows over the pool.

  A server hands Hunter a glass of white wine. Hunter takes a swallow and rests his head back again. And then the oddest thing happens. On
e of the statues moves.

  He doesn’t know if it’s the wine or the sun playing tricks on him, but one Venus statue seems to become two. With the sun shining from behind, they’re just silhouettes. Two dark shapes, like a cell splitting in half. Hunter turns around to see if that particular statue is casting one shadow or two.

  It cast two.

  And when he looks up, the two statues meld back into one. Hunter swallows more wine and hears Venus say, “Dr. Flynn, I’m ready.” He shakes his head to snap back into reality and pulls himself up out of the pool.

  Venus hands him a robe.

  Hunter polishes off the wine and follows Venus down the hallway to their usual room. This time, he tells himself, I will not get aroused.

  But that doesn’t happen. From the moment Venus smooths her hand over his back, Hunter wants her.

  Venus goes through her usual massage steps, so it surprises Hunter when at the end, she says, “Turn over.”

  Hunter hesitates. But really, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. He’s always been aroused by the end of the massage.

  It’s not like she hasn’t seen it.

  He rolls over and positions himself in the middle of the massage table. “I’m getting mud on your sheets,” Hunter says, trying to distract her from the obvious.

  Venus smiles and rubs a musky scented oil into his chest.

  Hunter wants her. He wants Venus to slide her hands down.

  But she doesn’t.

  She massages his shoulders, his arms, his hands, his stomach, his hips, his thighs, his calves, his feet. Every part of his body, she rubs deep, except one. Hunter moans in agony. “I want you,” he says.

  “Not here,” Venus replies. “Come with me.”

  Hunter puts on the robe and follows Venus out a back door. Against his own will, he wants her.

  Hiking at a fast pace, Venus says over her shoulder, “I live in one of the guest cabins of this old vineyard.”

  He follows her on a path of stepping stones that meandered through herb gardens. With each step, he’s wide awake. Fully alive. The path leads them to a simple cabin. Hunter follows her inside.