by Cat Bruno
I concluded, after much research (online articles, especially ones detailing forensic interpretations are readily available, especially through college programs), that it must be an ambush from behind and at a safe distance. To ensure that the gun, despite it having no real connection to me, was much like a blank slate, I had spent an afternoon preparing it. First, I rented a hotel room on a day that William would be working late. Paid for in cash, of course. With me, I had brought a small container of bleach, a roll of paper towels, latex gloves, and a small screwdriver.
After watching several hours-worth of videos on how to clean a gun, I felt ready. I sat inside the tub/shower combo with the gun between my outstretched legs, and the cleaning supplies lined up on the bathtub’s edge to my left. Once I removed the magazine and the bullets (there were five), I disassembled the pistol. Each piece I removed was wiped twice over with a bleach-soaked towel and placed to my right to dry. I did not remove every tiny piece, such as springs and pins. I did not even use the screwdriver now that I think on it. I field-stripped it, as I have heard it called, and made certain that the trigger and grip were wiped multiple times. No piece of that pistol did not reek of bleach for the next hour, and even the bullets had been gently swabbed with the cleaning agent.
Once an hour had gone by and I wore new gloves, I reassembled it swiftly. Then, I slid it into a plastic bag and zipped it closed. I took no chances that any of the fibers could be traced back to the thrift store and, subsequently to me via video surveillance. In addition, there would be no trace DNA, my own or others, on the weapon. Do not underestimate investigators or conclude that they will not track every lead or scrap of evidence. No clothing fiber is too small and no drop of blood is too dry that they cannot find much more from something nearly invisible. You might think it unnecessary, obsessive, or expensive to cover your tracks so fully, but the alternative is far worse.
It is the small details that are often one’s undoing.
But now that plan fell apart. Too many people knew that William disapproved of my work. Some might know that he had left me, even if only temporarily. What if he confided in Elizabeth all that occurred between us? Or he told DA Richardson that I was some hot-tempered bitch who would not drop the story, despite his pleas?
Now, after what had happened, it was more important than ever that his death be an accident.
A well-planned, inescapable, ill-fated mishap.
I was nearly back to square one, but I did not waver or lose hope. I researched and readied, and learned way more about cars than I ever imagined possible.
--
Eli, like any good boss, took most of the heat once the decision was made to publish my feature, and there was plenty. His momentary doubts in the hours following the phone calls he received were replaced by a professionalism and dedication to journalistic truth that I admired greatly and thanked him for often. Others might have backed off; he responded by encouraging me to finish my edits as soon as possible. In addition, he contacted colleagues across the country with a preview of what was to come. The feedback he received solidified his support, and there were dozens of papers and websites ready to run my pictorial or parts of it as soon as it went live. My own phone rang with unidentified numbers and lit up with emails seeking permission to reprint the photos. Some of the larger publications paid me, which I accepted in order to help those I met along the way.
If the DA’s office or the mayor contacted Eli, he no longer brought those concerns to my desk. When I asked him of it days later, he had mentioned how once the Turners realized the money that could be made from reprinting, they had ignored their friends’ requests to kill the story. The newspaper industry had been struggling for years, as the costs for paper copies rose and the demand lessened. Online readers increased steadily, and the Gazette was fortunate to have a young and tech-savvy marketing department capitalizing on it as revenue. However, the profits still declined. At the news that a controversial feature could expand the Gazette’s reach, the owners backed off Eli.
One night, when I returned home after midnight, I found William had come back. He woke when he heard me turn the shower on and stumbled into the bathroom smelling of alcohol and cigars.
“Dani, we should talk,” he mumbled with a mixture of booze and weariness slurring his speech.
When I pushed the curtain to the side, I eyed William slumped against the wall; his dark hair fell across his forehead and his cheeks blushed red. Even drunk, he was strikingly good-looking. I had not thought he saw me watching him, but his eyes flitted open and shined as he asked me how I had been.
“Busy,” I said as I stepped over him.
I was not angry with him, which might surprise you, and maybe even make you think of me as a liar. Even when he asked if I thought we should cancel the wedding, I stayed calm and wrapped my hair in a small towel as I thought on how to answer. As I mentioned earlier, such an occurrence would doom me for certain. His ring on my finger offered a shield against the allegations that might come after his death. A wedding certificate offered me financial security; there would be insurance policies and government assistance, as well as cars and homes to sell off. I was marrying up, I get it, if that is what you are concluding. Me, Dandelion Jackman, a poor kid from a small town in Ohio, who never had the right clothes or the right friends or the right car. Unlike William, who had grown up in a large house and attended an exclusive school and, even now, wore expensive labels and knew all the right people. Don’t get me wrong; I am pretty and quick-witted. But I am no law school graduate or trust fund kid.
I am as Ohio as Ohio gets and just what William needed.
With that conclusion ripe in my head, I listened to him speak of ending our relationship. His political career meant more to him than anything, as it always would. Even Elizabeth (and whatever whore would come after her) was insignificant when he thought of his future. With that in mind – and the realization that his drunkenness would make his memory waver by the morning – I answered.
“Why would we do such a thing? A broken engagement would not end well for either of us, William. Moreso you, admittedly. You have always reminded me that you must keep your closet skeleton-free. In weeks, we will be married. To cancel now would be disastrous on so many levels.”
By the morning, he would only recall bits of the conversation, and, understanding that, I sprinkled in what small manipulations I could.
“I do not know where you’ve been all week, but I am willing to act like last week never occurred. My story is going to print, and that is enough for me. But, surely, you must see that leaving me for a week might result in unforeseen and terrible consequences. What if the press, who I might add have been contacting me in great numbers, were to catch on that my fiancé ran out on me in the weeks leading up to our marriage and just as my career peaked? William, we have reputations to think of. With this story, I will garner some of my own fame, and Eli thinks I will be awarded heavily for the piece. I even got a call from National Geographic today. Just think on all of this. Midnight is no time to be considering such life-altering things, especially after hours of drinking.”
In such a state, he was easily manipulated, despite his aptitude for debate and love of lawyering. Do not blame me for taking advantage of him in such a weakened position.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled as I helped him rise. “I should have called at least.”
“Just don’t let it happen again,” I murmured against his cheek as I led him to our bedroom.
“I’ll help you more with the wedding in the morning,” William promised as he dozed off an hour after we had made love.
A certain peace fell over us. An acceptance, I guess. Although what we accepted was not the same thing at all. But I did not admit to him anything further that night. Instead, I thought of the golden gates and pathways of Olympus. We gathered in the feast hall to gaze upon the mortals below as we sipped on nectar and nibbled on ambrosia. A black marble table lined the center of the hall and upon it sat plates of
bronze, silver, and gold, each brimming with sweet treats. The Horae, the sister goddesses of the seasons, guarded the gates, even though only one mortal ever attempted to enter.
Such was my peace, one blessed by the gods.
Hooked
Two local news stations contacted me in the days following the Gazette’s publishing of my piece, both requesting interviews on their morning shows. As much as I wanted to decline, I realized that I could not, mostly out of a great debt to Eli. Even William found my sudden fame exhilarating and accompanied me to the early-morning appearances. This was the same man who did not travel to France with me when I was honored with one of the top international prizes for photography. But I did not remind him of that. The interviews were dire affairs, with the usually bubbly hosts wearing a mask of seriousness when my segment came about, in a poor attempt at acting.
One, a feisty blond with a toothy smile and wrinkle-free skin, asked what I expected to come from the piece, specifically in Ohio. Unsaid were those same fears that the DA and mayor had: that the shame of Ohio would become national news.
“I would only hope for some compassion, for those struggling, those in recovery, and those who have lost loved ones to this deadly addiction. This is not an issue that will go away soon,” I told her. “They are parents and brothers, sisters and daughters. They wear camouflage and they were suits. But they all share the same need, and, to me, that need is one of hope.”
On the drive back to his office, William praised me for my poise and speech.
“You will make a damn good politician’s wife,” he declared gleefully, as if he only just came to the conclusion.
Hours later, I turned on the burner phone. It had been days since I had checked it, and I was not surprised to see a message from Mickey.
Saw your feature. Thanks for keeping me from the pages.
His text was not what I had expected, however. The tone was an undeniably distant one and not one that suited him well. Passion and provocative language were his specialties, and I could not help but think that he wanted me to sense his detachment. He succeeded, of course, and I replied soon after.
It’s been a crazy few weeks. I’m not sure what I’ll do now that the assignment is over. It was a life-changing one.
As I drove to meet Toby at The Colonial Inn to talk with the event coordinator, my phone buzzed again. In my haste, I had forgotten to turn it off and hide it. After I had parked outside the newly white-washed building, I read Mickey’s latest text.
I saw the interview, too.
Of the two, I knew immediately which he meant.
I won’t expect a wedding invitation. But a head’s up would have been nice.
The blond had asked me about William and about how I had to photograph people in the process of criminal acts despite my fiancé being an assistant district attorney. She was far too intrigued by the idea of this contradiction, despite my defense of impartiality and my total commitment to non-interference. While the cameras were aimed at me, I did not hesitate or show my anger. However, beneath that mask of professionalism, I burned with resentment. How dare she bring up William? If I had obeyed his wishes, the piece would have never seen the light of day. But I played along. And, now, with Mickey’s words a vague accusation, I cursed the host once more.
He believed that I would cancel the wedding, or so I concluded from his terse replies. Instead, he listened as I lied and eyed me as I smiled. Really, how could I be angry with him? This man, who I had spent lifetimes with throughout history, had found me once again, yet, this time, we could not be together. Do you remember when I warned him that first night in the bar in Cincinnati or again in the hotel? Stay away and forget that you know me.
Now, Mickey emerged as a threat.
My focus has been on my job, I told him. And I never pretended that my life was not a complicated one.
After that, I turned off the burner phone and raced into the Inn.
“Honey, aren’t you just the celebrity now? Your makeup was terrible though. Why didn’t you have me meet you there?”
With a roll of my eyes, I hugged Toby without bristling at his passive insult and followed him into the reception hall.
“Dandelion!” a voice trimmed with money called out.
“Hello, Sebastian,” I purred as I kissed his cheek.
Sebastian Taylor was not only the owner of The Colonial Inn, but he was the owner of much of West Columbus, as one learned very soon after meeting him. His family, you would also learn, counted presidents and senators as ancestors and had been a part of Ohio’s history since its founding in 1803. The Colonial Inn, although not quite so old, had housed starlets and gangsters, lords and gamblers, and all sorts in between under its roof. Now, after a recent round of renovations, the Inn had been made to look like it had in the 1800s, and its ornate and colorful interior shined with newness despite the ancient styles. The reception area, where both the wedding ceremony and after party would be held, could easily accommodate 500 guests, although our invitees numbered slightly less than that. As I trailed behind the men, I admired the newly polished cherry-wood floors that lay in straight lines along the length of the room, gleaming with a fresh coat of wax until they glimmered like water.
For a moment, I lagged behind, staring at the 6-inch wide planks; my waving image reflected back to me in an elongated shape. With each glance, my hair, long and dreamy against my shoulders, curved and pulsed, snake-like and silent. Has Medusa come? Had the serpentine-haired Gorgon come back to life to turn me to stone as I gazed upon her? My breath paused as my feet, clad in pricey loafers, tingled with numbness. Twice I tried to step forward and beyond the reach of the demon, yet the same number of times, I failed. The prickling sensation climbed up my legs and coiled around my knees until I worried they would buckle beneath me. Medusa had been beautiful once, the only mortal among the Gorgon sisters, until she dared Athena’s wrath by lying with Poseidon near one of the war goddess’s shrines. How the gods love to rebuke mortals! Medusa, her hair once the envy of many with its luster and length, had become twisted with snakes as punishment. On top of her head, tusks sprouted, deadly and deformed. Wings erupted from her scaly back. From those tusks, Medusa’s new powers stemmed. Perseus slayed her by keeping a helm about his face and using his bronze shield as a mirror to observe the demon woman’s movements.
I had no such shield.
Toby, god-kin himself, perhaps having received word from above, rushed to my side and, like he had in days long past, tamed the snake-woman. His hands pulled at me until I blindly stumbled behind him, for my legs would not stride normally and weighed as much as the pillars that bordered a raised stage near the front of the room.
“Thank you,” I mumbled as my lower half burned with pain.
“Cold feet?” Toby whispered against my ear so that Sebastian would not hear.
“Something like that.”
His touch calmed me and warmed the iciness that had begun to take hold after Medusa’s stare paralyzed me. Mercy had been gifted to me, with Hermes as the messenger once more.
“Sebastian has suggestions on the placement of the tables, but he is waiting for your final approval. Are you still around 450?”
He eyed me with more than just an inquisitive look about the guest count.
Unable to yet stand on my own, I clasped his arm and absorbed his vitality. Ichor sped through his veins, acrid and heated, and I sipped at it without moving my lips to his wrist. With each swallow, my legs steadied as my life-blood remembered its divine beginning.
When I nodded, Toby glanced away, accepting that I could admit nothing else.
“I worry about you, Dandelion.”
By then, I had recovered and stepped back from him. With a widening smile, I told him that I had been sleeping little in the weeks leading up to the feature’s release and promised that the coming month would be an easy one.
“Visits to the spa, a weekend at the lake for my bachelorette party, days sleeping in til ten. That’s what the
rest of the summer will be until I’m married.”
It was exactly what Toby wanted to hear, as I knew, and he mimicked my smile.
“Will your friends mind that I’m going?” he asked after the mention of the bachelorette party.
“Who are you kidding?” I teased with a rising voice and energy. “They have been dying to meet you. You’ll be the real star of the wedding no doubt.”
“I mean, my suit is absolutely fabulous, and fits me as if I was born wearing it. Of course I have no feathered cape unlike someone I know.”
And, like that, the mood shifted. I spoke with Sebastian, mostly agreeing with every suggestion he made. The silver-topped tables, encircled by golden-plated chairs, would be organized in a neat pattern on both sides of the room. In between, an expansive aisle would be left open and clear, to serve as both the processional area and, later, the dance floor. Just in front of the stage would be a wedding arch, one that Toby had designed himself. I had not seen it yet, but he promised that it would match the style of my dress and the overall feel of the wedding, and I had no reason to doubt him. Remember, I cared little for any of the actual planning once I had found the winged gown. Although I did assist him in picking the band: a jazzy octet with horns and zeal. Apart from the dress, I liked them the best of all the wedding decisions.
While I imagined what the arch might resemble, Sebastian called out, “Just how tall are these centerpieces, Toby? I fear that they will impede conversation and comfort.”