Deadly Anniversaries Page 2

  Marcy called store security and in the confusion that followed, Marcy admitted with embarrassment that they’d had a rash of purse snatchers working in the store. Lucy scarcely listened because the contents of the journal had just popped into her head. She could feel dampness forming at the nape of her neck. How explicit were her notes? The only items she could remember with absolute clarity were her name, address, and phone number neatly printed on page one. Anyone finding it could read the lengthy scribbled debate about the virtues of electrocution versus miter saws and other woodworking tools. Dear god. Marcy was chattering away, apologizing for not warning her, but Lucy was intent on the possible ramifications of the theft.

  The answer came soon enough. The next day, the phone rang and a man with problem adenoids introduced himself as Mr. Puckett. He told her he’d found her purse in some shrubs and he thought she might want it back. She assumed he’d swiped the bag himself, removed all the cash, and would be angling for a reward for returning the very bag he’d stolen. He didn’t sound very bright, but neither did he sound sinister. She suggested they meet at the public library, where there was no danger of running into anyone in her social circle.

  She waited in the reference department, as agreed. At the first sight of him, she nearly laughed aloud. He was such a bandy-legged little jockey, he should have been wearing silks. He couldn’t have weighed more than 122 pounds. He was in his fifties, his sparse hair combed straight back, widow’s peak kept in check by a malodorous gel. He seemed perfectly at ease as he passed the bag across the table. She murmured a word of thanks, wondering if a twenty-dollar bill would suffice, when he pulled the journal from his pocket. “The name’s Puckett,” he remarked.

  “So you said on the phone,” she replied with all the chill she could muster.

  He smiled, leaning toward her. “Mrs. Burgess, I’d cut the attitude if I was you. What you got here ain’t nice. Doubtless, you’ll intuit the subject matter to which I refer.” He opened the journal and read a few telling lines in a theatrical tone. Two patrons at nearby tables turned to stare.

  “Please keep your voice down.”

  He dropped into a whisper. “Excuse me. I must’ve forgot myself in my haste to communicate.”

  She held out a hand. “I’ll have that now.”

  “Not so fast. You got a real problem here, judging by what you’ve wrote.”

  She tried to stare him down. “There’s a very simple explanation. I’m writing a play.”

  “You ain’t writing a play.”

  “Well, I’m thinking about one.”

  “You’re an amateur at this, right?”

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  “You’re gonna blow it big-time. Just my opinion as one who would know.”

  Voice low, she said, “Not to contradict you, Mr. Puckett, but I’ve done years of community service, and my planning skills are highly regarded. Once I’ve made up my mind to do something, I never fail.”

  “Mrs. B, it’s dirty work whacking someone. Much trickier than puttin’ on a charity lunch. Murder’s a serious crime, in case you hadn’t heard.”

  “You’re a purse snatcher. You’re a fine one to talk.”

  “Correction. You left said reticule on the counter at Saks. Thinking it was lost, I sought to return the alleged bag to its rightful owner. In casting about for some means of identifying same, I inadvertently disinterred some data that would suggest you’re formulating a plan that might be expeditionary to your hubby’s untimely end.”

  One of the two nearby library patrons gathered his belongings and moved to a table some distance away.

  Lucy said, “You made copies, I’m sure.”

  “Strictly for my own protection. Any individual who’d ponder such acts might decide to eliminate a person like myself, who now has advanced and intimate knowledge of same. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what’d hubby do to generate such rage?”

  “Why is that any of your business?”

  “Because I’m in possession of certain tangible information that I’d be distressed to see fall into the wrong hands, namely his. Such an unfortunate turn of events might result in a failure to activate.”

  “I’m sure we can come to an understanding. I’m willing to pay you...within reason...if you’ll return the journal and any copies you made.”

  “You misunderstand. My taking your money in return for this here would constitute the corpus delecti of the crime of blackmail. You’re hoping for a corpus of another kind, or so I surmise.”

  “I wish you’d just say what you mean.”

  “I have a suggestion.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  Her sarcasm seemed to go right over his head.

  He said, “Keeping my remarks entirely famatory, every matrimonial association is defeasible, am I right? So why not take that route? I’m talking divorce here, in case you’re not getting my drift.”

  “Thank you for the clarification. Divorce has a cost attached that I’d prefer not to pay. California is a community property state. Most of our assets are tied up in real estate. Burt’s ruthless. If we divorce, I’ll be crushed underfoot.”

  “So what I hear you saying is that you and him are engaged in a parcenary relationship of which you’d like to see his participation shifted to the terminus.”

  “Precisely. He’s a drunk and he’s had numerous affairs. He’s also on the verge of changing his will. He had a chat with our estate attorney, who happened to mention it earlier this week. I pretended I knew what was going on, but that was the first I’d heard of it. If Burt cuts me out of his will...”

  “Lady, I’m way ahead of you. You’re hoping the turd will expire before such changes are made.”

  “Close enough.”

  “I think you might find me a valuable ancillary to your ruminations. Once we come to an agreement, you show me a picture of the man you want severated, and I’ll handle it from there.”

  “Severated?”

  “You know, like his head from his neck.” He drew a line across his throat.

  “Decapitated? That’s vile. I couldn’t live with myself.”

  “I don’t mean to sound misapprobative, but you’re favoring a claw hammer. I seen it on your list.”

  “It was the only thing I could think of at the time.”

  “If you wouldn’t take unkindly to some direction, I have at my disposal a certain pharmaceutical substance which if mixed with a certain foodstuff or perhaps inculcated into a common household product changes from inert to extremely ert. It’s like a certain particle of speech that in itself may not look like much, but in conjecture with its opposite can have a deleterious effect.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Ingest one iota and the recipient susperates his last. The only known unction is extreme.”

  “If he’s stricken, why wouldn’t he use his cell phone to dial 9-1-1?”

  “Easy. Turn off the ringer and toss it in the trash. Next question.”

  “Will he suffer?”

  “Not that much. On the other hand, you wouldn’t want to be there. This form of expiration is often accompanied by encopresis.”

  “Enco...”

  “...presis. Victim shits himself.”

  “I see.”

  “A further advantage to this toxic substance? There’s no known anecdote. And the best part is this—no one will ever know. It looks entirely natural, like a sudden heart attack or a massive stroke.”

  “You mentioned putting this substance in food. Won’t he taste it?”

  “Negatory, but if it worries you, I can add a dollop to one of his personal hygiene products, like maybe his shaving gel.”

  “Or maybe the container of wet wipes,” she said, helpfully. “He’s always swabbing down the counters because he’s phobic about germs.”

&nbs
p; “Now you’re thinking like a champ. So what do you say? Are we in this together or are we not?”

  She considered his proposal, quickly assessing the pros and cons. As crude as he was, she could see the virtue of delegating this particular job. She was a capable woman, but she wasn’t at all certain she’d be good at murder. She might get rattled and betray herself. On the other hand, if Puckett was experienced and had access to an undetectable poison, she could avoid doing anything distasteful.

  Cautiously, she said, “The police are thorough. How can you be sure the poison will defy detection?”

  “Because I’ve seen to such situations in the past. The forensic experts can expiscate all they like. They’ll never cop to this.”

  “And you’d do this in exchange for what?”

  “Why don’t we say equipotent compensation.”

  “Which is how much?”

  “Ordinarily, we’re talking five grand...a bargain, even if I say so myself.”

  “I’m sure it is, but if my husband dies—”

  “Correction. When hubby dies...”

  “Suppose I come under suspicion? The police will examine my bank accounts. I can’t afford to show a large cash withdrawal. How would I explain?”

  A flash of annoyance crossed his face. “I’m not asking for dough. Did I say a word about that? Jesus, lady. That would be unpropitious, to say the least.”

  She put a finger to her lips, shushing him again.

  He lowered his voice. “You’re an educated woman, am I right?”

  “I graduated from Smith. I assume you’ve heard of it.”

  “Of course. With a common name like that? So what it ain’t Harvard? It’s nothin’ to be ashamed of. Now me, I’m a self-educated sort.”

  “I never would have guessed.”

  “It surprises a lot of people, but it’s the truth. I’ve been studying you. Just while we been sitting here, I’m picking up clues. You may be hoity-toity, but you’re not a bad egg. You got a good life that you’re just trying to protect. If hubby don’t treat you right, you gotta take the situation in hand. I got no quarrel with that.”

  “I appreciate your support.”

  “So I’m thinking there’s more than one woman in your position. We could make a deal on the if-come. I do for you and in exchange, you give me a referral should another housewife of your acquaintance express an interest in the process of spousal peroration.”

  “Like a loss leader.”

  “Right. I’m out the bucks on this one, but the deal will be effective at bringing in the trade.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “How do I know I can trust you? Truth is I do. You know what I sense about you? You’re a nice lady. I mean, aside from your desire to take a lead pipe to hubby’s skull, I’d say you’re a peach.”

  She studied him briefly. “I leave on Tuesday for two weeks in India. Our anniversary trip. If you can take care of this while I’m away, I’ll have the perfect alibi.”

  “Good move.”

  “So how do we proceed?”

  “Simple. You have an alarm system at your place?”

  “Yes, but we hardly ever use it.”

  “Fine. You give me a house key and the code. I already got the address off your driver’s license, so I know where you live. I’ll keep an eye on the place, and at some point when hubby’s out, I’ll let myself in and insinuate a generous serving of the you-know-what where it’ll do the most good. And don’t pin me down. The less you know the better. When the time comes, you want to be able to fake your genuine surprise.”

  “And my genuine horror and grief.”

  “That, too.”

  “Perfect. I’ll give the housekeeper the time off, as well, so you won’t have to worry about her.” She removed the house key from her key ring and dropped it in his palm. “One more thing. How will I know when the job is done?”

  “Easy. I’ll leave the key underneath the doormat in front. The key ain’t there, you know the job ain’t been done. It’s there, then all your troubles evaporate.”

  * * *

  For Lucy Burgess, the cruise was magical. Knowing the pesky business with Burt was finally under control, she felt lighter and freer than she had in years. She slept late, alone in the luxury of her stateroom. She made friends, sunned herself, danced, played bridge, and sat in the bar drinking pricey champagne. On the various shore excursions, she scarcely noticed the loathsome lepers and crippled children begging her for coins. She was dreaming of what awaited her when she got home: the properties, the house. She could get a dog, now that she didn’t have Burt’s allergies to worry about.

  She did entertain the faintest whisper of uneasiness where Puckett was concerned. There was no guarantee that he would do what he said. She believed in backup plans, keeping a little something in reserve. Delegating work was all well and good, but if the other person failed to perform, you had to be prepared to step in. She pondered this for days with no clear sense of how to protect herself. Then in Goa, on the final day ashore—her silver anniversary of marriage to Burt, by happy coincidence—she went on the tour of a local factory, and the answer presented itself.

  * * *

  On her return that Saturday, when Burt wasn’t at the airport to meet her plane, she was thrilled. Wonderful! Divine! He was doubtless d-e-a-d. Giddy, she took a taxi to the house. Once her luggage was on the porch and the driver had pulled away, she lifted one corner of the mat. There lay her house key, glinting in the sun. Hallelujah, she thought. It’s over. The deed was done.

  She unlocked the door, breathing in the familiar scent of the rooms. The house felt gloriously empty. Colors seemed brighter and every surface shone. The very air seemed sweet. She made a cautious circuit, knowing the body was somewhere on the premises. She hoped he wasn’t sprawled on the bedroom floor, where she’d have to work around him when she unpacked her bags. She was also hoping he hadn’t been dead so long that putrefaction had set in, though they probably had cleaning services to eradicate the ooze. She found herself tiptoeing, as though playing a game of hide-and-seek, peeking around corners to make sure the coast was clear. Guest room, hall, foyer bathroom. Really, how aggravating. She was running out of rooms.

  “Hey, babe. Why didn’t you tell me you were getting home today?”

  She whirled, shrieking.

  There stood Burt, alive and well, and apparently in perfect health. In addition to looking fit, he seemed rested, probably from screwing his brains out the whole time she was gone. Her heart was pounding and she thought she’d weep from disappointment, but she had to carry on as though everything were fine.

  She recovered sufficiently to fake her way through the rest of the day. Sunday came and went. She waited, but there was no sign whatever that Burt was on the brink of death. He must have spent every minute at his girlfriend’s place. Clearly, he hadn’t ingested or applied poison of any kind. She wondered where it was. Puckett had mentioned food, personal hygiene items, and common household products, but he hadn’t said which. How could she avoid poisoning herself by mistake? He could have put the fatal dose in anything. She realized with dismay she had no way of reaching him. Originally, he’d called her—and had neglected to give her a contact number in return. Whatever he’d done, wherever he’d put the poison, she was now as vulnerable as Burt.

  When two more days passed and they continued to coexist, her anxiety began to mount. Burt showered and shaved, slapped cologne on his face, and went merrily off to work. When he came home, he’d fix himself a drink while she prepared dinner as she usually did. While his appetite was hearty, she couldn’t eat a thing. The only products she used were those she removed from her own suitcases, sitting in the bedroom still packed and kept under lock and key. She bathed with newly opened bars of soap and ate all her breakfasts and lunches out. She avoided room fresheners, laundry soap, and scouring cle
anser, even though the sinks were turning gray. No shampoo, conditioner, or styling spray for her. She made certain no toothpaste, dental floss, or mouthwash crossed her lips.

  Meanwhile, Burt was in the best of spirits. Lucy was mystified. What if he’d already been exposed to the poison and somehow managed to avoid harm? Maybe he was naturally immune to whatever it was. Occasionally, she thought he might be toying with her. He’d start to eat a handful of nuts, and then change his mind. Or he’d fix himself a sandwich and end up throwing it in the trash. The suspense was getting on her nerves.

  By the weekend she decided it was time to move on to Plan B.

  Saturday night, the two retired early. Lucy read the paper, catching up on the news while Burt lay beside her, watching one of his boring TV shows. She noticed him wincing as he cleared his throat. “Scratchy. I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

  “Poor you,” she said.

  “Yeah, poor me. There’s all kinds of shit going around these days. Client came in yesterday and coughed all over me. Office was a cesspool of germs. I sprayed everything as soon as she left.”

  Lucy snapped the paper, folding it back so she could check the weather page. “Highs in the nineties tomorrow. How unpleasant is that?”

  “What’s the pollen count?”

  “Way up,” she said.

  He looked over at her. “They’re talking weeds?”

  “Weeds and grass. Molds are moderate, but trees are off the charts.”

  “Shit.” He got out of bed and padded barefoot into the bathroom where she heard him opening the medicine cabinet. Lucy rolled her eyes.