Kill Me a Husband

by Tedd Thomey

  KILL ME A HUSBAND

  TEDD THOMEY

  Table of Contents

  KILL ME A HUSBAND

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1960 by Tedd Thomey.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

  CHAPTER 1

  She wanted to hurry.

  She wanted to race along the sidewalk like a schoolgirl breathless for adventure, eagerly anticipating what awaited her less than a block away.

  But she was not a schoolgirl. She was a woman, a beautiful yellow-haired woman conscious of appearances. Therefore it was necessary for her to stroll, to stop and gaze at a frock in the window of La Ronde’s, to walk a few more steps and examine blue china shelved artfully in an adjacent gift shop. And as she turned and beckoned to her seven-year-old daughter, her calm handsome face gave no hint of the ferocious thoughts which were at work behind her blue-green eyes.

  “Come on, Eileen,” she said impatiently. “Don’t hang back so.”

  The little girl pouted at some glittering rubbish in a dime store window, tossed her blond head and then walked slowly to where her mother was waiting.

  “I want a brooch, Mama.”

  “Not today. You’re not old enough for a brooch.”

  “But I just want that little one, that small one with the three little diamonds.”

  “No. Anyway, they’re not diamonds.”

  “But, Mama, I just—”

  “Ask your father.”

  “Please, Mama!” The pout became more prominent. “You know what he’ll say. He never buys me anything and if-”

  “Be still, Eileen. Do you want people to look at us?”

  “But, Mama, I—”

  “Shut up!”

  The last two words, delivered in a fierce undertone, produced the desired silence. To show her displeasure, the little girl lagged further behind. Her mother strolled on, gazing with disinterest at a trolley which was discharging passengers at the corner, then dropping her eyes to the small gold watch on her slim wrist. She saw that she was still more than thirty minutes early.

  She paused at a cigar store window and pretended to be examining a fan-like display of a new petite variety of lady cigarettes. From the corner of her eye, she watched two men seated in the shoe-shine stall next door. One was having his beige Oxfords buffed while the other smoked and read.

  She waited. Presently the man who was reading lowered his magazine and glanced at her. She did not look directly at him. She turned to examine a display of white meerschaum pipes, moving just enough to show her figure in full profile. Since it was a warm afternoon in early September, she wore her new marigold-yellow dress, a fashionably cut gown which matched the golden hue of her marcelled hair almost perfectly. It was linen, sleeveless, sufficiently tight across the bodice to achieve an effect which in profile should be quite striking.

  She was accorded more reaction than she expected. The man stared at her. Touching his companion with his elbow, he spoke some low words which he concealed behind the rim of his magazine.

  Immediately his companion stared at her. The shoe-shine man halted his buffing and turned around.

  She let them enjoy themselves for a few seconds. She was certain that when she turned and walked past them they would avert their eyes and feign interest elsewhere.

  But they did not. The three continued to gaze at her, open admiration brightening their faces. The man with the magazine sighed loudly and boldly and the shoe-shine man, an Italian with a large curved mustache, grinned at her like a scamp.

  More than satisfied, feeling her excitement rising keenly, she walked slowly past. When she was not quite beyond their line of vision, she halted and looked back at her daughter who was dawdling in front of the gift shop window.

  “Eileen,” she said pleasantly. ‘I’m waiting, dear.”

  For a delicious extra moment, she felt their eyes sliding up and down her figure, and then Eileen, who was a well-behaved child, really, joined her and they walked on.

  Again she glanced at her watch and saw that she had used up very little additional time. She was still much too early, but now that she was closer to the hotel she found it more difficult to walk slowly. Taking Eileen’s hand, she pulled her quickly past a drugstore window, even more quickly past a toy shop window, and then they turned the corner.

  Now they were on John Newton Way, the city’s most fashionable avenue, and the Newton Hotel rose before them in all its majestic, red-brick glory, its white pillars straight and immaculate in the sunlight. She glanced at the fourth floor, silently counting windows until she noted the most important one, second from the tall center pillar, and she drew in her breath with pleasure. The shade was in the right position, drawn three-fourths of the way down. Her excitement rose even more keenly and was joined by a sensation of wickedness which swirled within her with exquisite sweetness.

  “Mama, watch out!”

  It was Eileen’s voice and at the same moment her daughter pulled hard at her arm, drawing her backward, out of the path of a square-roofed Chandler which chugged past, blowing black smoke from its exhaust pipe.

  She hadn’t been in any danger, really, but she’d been concentrating so thoroughly on the window that she hadn’t realized she had stepped off the curb into the street.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said. “I was daydreaming. Silly of me, wasn’t it?”

  She laughed and Eileen smiled at her proudly. They continued across the avenue, strolled up the hotel’s polished brick steps and entered the cool, silent lobby. Now that she was this close, she was content to walk slowly, even sedately, across the thick carpeting. She touched the broad brim of her yellow picture hat and made certain it rested properly on the yellow waves of her hair. They paused for a moment, impressed by a lavender orchid plant in the doorway of a florist shop which opened onto the lobby, and then they proceeded to one of the leather armchairs grouped around a circular goldfish pool near the elevators.

  She waited until Eileen was seated.

  “Now I want you to be good,” she warned.

  “I will, Mama.”

  “And if you’re very, very good, can you guess what I’ll buy you?”

  “What, Mama?” The child’s blue eyes grew round with anticipation.

  “A brooch. A better one than that trash in the window.”

  “Will you, Mama?” Eileen pressed her palms happily to her cheeks. “Honest and truly?”

  “Certainly.”

  From her purse she drew a picture story book and two sticks of clove gum. She handed them to the child with another warning.

  “Remember, Eileen. Chew one at a time.”

  “Yes, Mama. How long will it take?”

  “Over an hour, I’m afraid, dear. I need a shampoo as well as a marcel.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “At four.” She glanced at her watch. “Possibly four-fifteen.”

  “All right, Mama. But I hope it doesn’t take as long as Monday. I never imagined it would take two hours to do just your nails.”

  The little girl emphasized her pique with an adultlike shaking of her head and pursing of her lips. “Two hours, imagine!”

  “That’s because I was late, dear. But today I’m early.” She raised her finger. “Now you’ll be good, won
’t you?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “All right, dear.”

  She purchased a newspaper for two cents at the central desk, receiving a cozy smile from the handsome young bell captain along with her change. Two other women accompanied her briefly in the elevator, departing for the beauty salon on the mezzanine while she continued on to the fourth floor.

  She walked quickly along the corridor, drawing the key to room 440 from her purse, thinking how marvelous it would be if he were already here, waiting for her. The lock turned quietly, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  “Bud?” she said softly.

  As she waited, enjoying the suspense, she realized she was breathing so rapidly the yellow linen of her bodice was alternately very taut and very loose.

  “I’m here,” she said. “Bud?”

  There was no reply and a faint frown line appeared on her smooth forehead.

  She walked to the bathroom door, opened it and switched on the light. He was not there.

  Sighing, she returned to the center of the well-furnished room and tossed the newspaper onto the high double bed. She really hadn’t expected him to be here early because Wednesday was always his busiest day, but it would have been a nice surprise. She walked to the large picture window which overlooked Newton Way and drew the beige blind the rest of the way down. Then she switched on one of the twin lamps beside the bed, adjusting the shade until a soft pink light was cast on the bedspread.

  The full-length mirror near the bed was equipped with its own light. Turning it on, she removed her hat, careful to leave the waves of her hair intact. She smiled at the face in the mirror and it smiled back, revealing clear, well-formed teeth. She recalled the cozy smile the young bell captain had given her, a smile which told her he thought she was close to his own age. She smiled again. No one ever thought she was thirty. Thanks to her Swedish parentage, she was a natural blonde, with that fair, peach-like complexion which never aged.

  Her excitement kindled wickedly again as she unhooked her dress and slid it down over her hips. She placed it in careful folds over the back of a chair and slipped from her petticoat and teddy. Stepping from her pumps, she rolled down her garters and silk stockings. She placed the yellow garters upon the dress, arranging them so the gay little black bows were displayed most effectively.

  She walked back a few steps until she could see her nude reflection full-length.

  Dissatisfied, she shook her head.

  She slipped the yellow pumps back onto her feet and re-examined herself in the mirror. Much better. The high heels gave extra length to her beautifully tapered legs. She turned to the right, then to the left, posing finally in a three-quarter view and slowly inhaling.

  The sight was impressive. No wonder the three men at the shoe-shine stall had stared for such a long time. Her body was slender except for the breasts. They were not overly large, but they were full and blessed with a lovely upward tilt at the tips. Her legs were long, the thighs full and sensuous, her hips flaring out generously, the flesh cream-colored and satin-smooth.

  Expelling her breath slowly, she sighed. It was a shame all this was wasted on Norman, her husband. Norman was such a fool. Busy with his art work, busy with his motorboat, busy with his car, too busy to take advantage of this. She raised herself on tiptoe and watched the muscles of her slim abdomen grow taut. A man would be crazy not to want this. Norman wasn’t crazy, not by any means. Nor was he too old. Not for this. Forty-three certainly wasn’t too old for this. But he could be so mean and so stubborn. He could be cruel in so many ways that she no longer yielded him the pleasure of her body, not even when he indicated he was interested.

  Her blue-green eyes filled with a cold anger. She shouldn’t think of Norman. Not now. Not when Bud might arrive at any moment. Thoughts of Norman always filled her with anger and hatred. God, how she hated that man. God, how she hated his methodical, unroman-tic ways.

  She turned from the mirror. From her purse she drew a stick of clove gum, unwrapped it and put it in her mouth. She supposed she shouldn’t indulge. Some people said gum-chewing wasn’t an attractive habit. But it had a nice taste and it helped when she was feeling nervous. Besides, it would keep her breath sweet for Bud.

  She glanced once more at her gold wrist watch. Five minutes after three. What was keeping him? Surely he must know that every moment he delayed was wasted because she would have to be home by five at the latest.

  She sat on the side of the bed and picked up the newspaper, glancing only briefly at the dark headlines which told of the dirigible Shenandoah being ripped by the wind with a loss of fourteen lives. She turned to the entertainment pages to see what would be playing at the film theaters on Friday when she would not be bothered with Eileen tagging along. She decided she would see Richard Dix and Claire Adams in Men and Women. Her girls friends, Mame and Martha, said it was very spicy.

  Tossing the newspaper aside, she lay on her back on the bedspread. She raised her feet, touched the toes of her yellow pumps together and admired her nude legs. She certainly had as much to offer as Claire Adams. She wondered what it would be like to make love to Richard Dix and all those other good-looking actors out in California. It would be wonderful to attend parties every night and sleep in a different luxurious bedroom every night, perhaps with a different handsome male every night. If she weren’t married to Norman, she could do things like that. Perhaps not on that scale, but different at least from spending an occasional afternoon with Bud and every dreary night with Norman.

  God, how she loathed that man. How wonderful it would be to get rid of him. If only she could think of some good way, some easy natural way which would be certain to work.

  She frowned at her watch. Now it was ten minutes after. What could be keeping Bud?

  She lowered her legs slowly to the chenille spread.

  “I’m waiting,” she said softly. “Bud, darling, how much longer are you going to keep me waiting?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Ward Green was definitely not a large man, but he was good-looking in a quiet way and slim enough to wear a double-breasted gray suit which fitted so well it appeared to be custom-tailored, which it was not. He wrote swiftly, filling out the order blank with short decisive strokes of his golden automatic pencil.

  “All right, sir,” he said, “that takes care of sizes thirty through thirty-four. What about thirty-six and thirty-eight?”

  “Well,” said the buyer, “I don’t know. We’ll certainly need at least two dozen thirty-sixes, maybe more.”

  The buyer placed his elbows on the counter and starect into space, concentrating. “Let me think, Ward. Perhaps four dozen.”

  Ward revolved the metal pencil nervously in his fingers and gazed at the large clock over the stairway entrance. It was after three, ten minutes after to be exact and he tried desperately to think of some way to conclude the deal quickly without offending the buyer.

  “How would it be if I came back in the morning?” he said. “That would give you time to think about it.”

  The buyer, an elderly man with baby-pink cheeks and hair white as sugar, shook his head vigorously.

  “Wouldn’t think of it, Ward, my boy. How many size thirty-sixes did we buy last September? Four dozen?”

  Opening his leather sample case. Ward drew out his record book and turned the pages.

  “You have a very good memory, Mr. Trimble. Four dozen is correct. Shall I put down the same figure this time?”

  “No, let me think.”

  Mr. Trimble placed a forefinger against one of his white eyebrows and stared at the floor.

  Ward tried not to fidget with his pencil or gold-framed glasses. By exerting extra effort, he kept his features pleasant and relaxed, but inwardly he seethed. He’d promised Alma Chrysler he’d be on time, even told her he might be a little early. Already he was fifteen minutes late and by the time he finished his other errands he would be at least half an hour behind. He dreaded to think how angry she’d be.
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  “The quality’s still the same?” asked Mr. Trimble. “Extra stitching in the larger garments?”

  “Yes, sir. And extra stays. There’s no better corset made. Shall we say four dozen?”

  “Maybe. Let me think.”

  Mr. Trimble touched his thumbs together thoughtfully Then he touched his little fingers together and pressed even more thoughtfully.

  Cursing silently, Ward drew in his breath. He clenched the pencil so tightly his fingers ached.

  “All right,” said Mr. Trimble. “Four dozen.”

  Ward scribbled the figure on the order blank and pushed the pad across the counter for Mr, Trimble’s signature.

  The old man’s snowy eyebrows arched with surprise.

  “Not yet,” he said. “We’re not finished yet.”

  “Sorry,” Ward said, more abruptly than he’d intended. “I’ve got to leave.”

  “What about the thirty-eights? And the fortys?”

  “I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “This is a fine how-de-do—” the old man poised the pencil over the order blank but did not sign it. “What’s gotten into you, Ward? You sick or something?”

  “I’ve got another appointment. Are you going to sign it?”

  “Maybe I won’t.” Mr. Trimble’s pink lips compressed into a peevish line. “I’ve never seen you act like this, Ward. Do you want this sale or don’t you?”

  “Of course. I’ll be back in the morning. You can sign it then.”

  He reached for his golden pencil, but the old man pulled it sharply away.

  “Not so fast. Not so fast!”

  He scowled at Ward, scowled at the paper, then filled in his signature with slow, deliberate motions.

  Ward retrieved the pad and his pencil. He removed the carbon copy clumsily, ripping off one corner. He handed the sheet to Mr. Trimble, closed his leather sample case and turned away from the counter.

  “See you in the morning,” he said.

  He ignored Mr. Trimble’s mumbled remark that he might not be available in the morning and plunged past a throng of women fussing around a table covered with cheap sale corsets.