How to Kill Your Wife

by James Hockings

  Peter slinked away, glad that the very forthright Elaine would never know that it was he who had interrupted her. Perhaps the phone was a better idea. Perhaps waiting for her to phone him was an even better idea. He had such a soft spot for this hard woman. Being yelled at by Elaine kind of turned him on.

  Chapter 44

  Peter returned home to work on his book. Lisa had mentioned that her sister-in-law, whose name was Sindra, wanted an outline. He had never done an outline before for a publisher. He decided to call Sindra at Bachman & Bates and ask her how to find an editor to help him.

  “Hello, Sindra Dempsey here.”

  “Hello, Ms. Dempsey. My name is Peter Broviak. I wrote the stuff about wife killing that Lisa sent you.”

  “Oh, so you’re the sick puppy who wrote that. I hated the premise personally, and you’re a terrible writer, but you have some terrific ideas in your little manuscript that - under the right circumstances - could be marketable as a book.”

  Peter thought, “Oh, shit, how did I manage to find another tough broad? This one took sounds like she took politeness lessons from Don Rickles.”

  Peter said, “Thanks, I guess. I know I’m not an experienced writer and that’s why I’m phoning you. I need to find an editor to help me with the outline you wanted. I want to send you some more writing, and I want to make it good, and I don’t know how.”

  “I’ll send you the names of some editors I like. They’re all expensive, but they’re the best. It’s a pleasure to encounter a new writer who doesn’t think he’s the next John Updike or Norman Mailer. You do, in fact, write like shit, but we might be able to sell a sick little book like the one you’re attempting. Give me your e-mail address, and I’ll send you the editors’ names.

  “And Mr. Broviak, please don’t call me again at this number. You can e-mail me at work, but only after you have cleaned up your mess of a manuscript. Please put the words ‘Lisa Dempsey’ in the subject line so I don’t delete your message as spam. I won’t remember your name, so use my sister-in-law’s name instead. Is that all? I have a meeting in one minute.”

  Peter said, “Thank you very much …” But she was already gone, not having said goodbye. Another hard case. He had an unfailing knack for finding this type of woman: add one to the collection.

  Peter hustled to his computer to look for her e-mail, but it was three days before Sindra got around to sending it. Peter kept writing in the meantime, but now that his focus had shifted to selling the book, writing seemed harder; it seemed like a job. Still, he did it, since he had nothing else to do until he met Frannie for the weekend.

  When Peter got the editors’ names from Sindra, he picked the one who lived closest so they could meet face to face more easily. Peter believed in “face time” above all else when you wanted to get something done. The advertising world was becoming more and more an online business, which Peter hated. Selling was all about people, and people didn’t exist as mere dots on a screen or ones and zeros in computer code. Peter found it took longer to read and write all the back-and-forth e-mails to clients than it would have taken to drive into town and sit down with them for a few minutes.

  Peter telephoned Dennie Hayes, the closest editor. He invited her to dinner and a discussion about editing his “rag of a manuscript.” She accepted, probably because Peter told her that she had come recommended by Sindra Dempsey. Sindra, Peter had found out in his research, was listed as Executive Vice-President, Sales and Marketing for Bachman & Bates Worldwide.

  Dennie showed up at the charming little pub in Peter’s little village the following evening. She was a dirty-talking, smart-as-a-whip, no-nonsense woman. Peter mused that he may have collected yet another tough broad, but there was something about her that Peter could not nail down immediately. She had dressed down for the occasion because she had researched the pub and knew that it was not “fine dining.” She ordered a dull domestic beer and a shot of bar whiskey and got right down to business.

  “Peter, I’m pleased to meet any friend of Sindra’s. What do you have for me?”

  “I’m not exactly a friend of hers. She’s a friend of a friend. In our one phone conversation, she told me not to phone her again and not to e-mail her unless I cleaned up my manuscript mess. Not very friendly … that’s where you come in.”

  “Typical publisher. They treat new authors like shit. There are very few publishers who make any money, and millions of authors who would like to make money. Supply and demand. If it’s not a certainty you’ll generate a profit, they’re on to the next writer. You literary geniuses are a dime a dozen. These days, you have to have a hook. You have to get Oprah to suck up to you on TV, win a major literary prize, or die in a bizarre accident on the White House lawn. Good writing and a novel concept won’t cut it. If you have a good concept and can’t write, people like me can always write for you. But the author as the frontman is obliged to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel with the wife of a U.S. senator he’s been banging – the wife, not the senator - in order to get some buzz going. What else do you want to know about writing?”

  “Well, Dennie, I have a great concept, and I have you to do the writing. Now I just need to find a senator’s wife to bang, right?”

  “You don’t have me yet, bud. I have to read what you’ve written. Then I’ll assess what you need, and give you a rough estimate of what it’ll cost. I work on an hourly basis, normally, but I’m super honest about my hours. I occasionally work hourly at a reduced rate with an arrangement to take a cut of the advance, but that’s usually with more established authors who actually get advances. Let’s drink and dine and then drink some more, and you can tell me lies about your manuscript.”

  They formed an immediate bond, and after a few more drinks, Dennie dryly told Peter that she was a lesbian, and 100% lesbian at that. This pleased Peter no end. He didn’t have to try to fuck her - not that she was his type, but the information did help them bond. Peter loved any kind of sexual deviant, even if the deviant was just a garden-variety homosexual. He felt he was with his own kind.

  Dennie seemed relaxed with Peter, too. The more she drank, the more she liked Peter’s concept - and Peter. She even allowed that she could have used Peter’s book as a reference on more than one occasion.

  The night ended in backslapping and singing on the way to their cars from the pub. Peter thought this writing gig was going to be fun. He had to find the money to pay his newfound editor after she got back to him with the estimate. He needed the money Frannie had promised him to pay some of his overdue bills. But he couldn’t worry about that now; he had to get some sleep. He planned an early morning run the next day and a hard day of writing after that. He knew he would sleep well; not just because of the beer, but also because of his newfound resolve to kill Kathryn. Resolve was a comforting feeling, one he was beginning to cherish.

  Chapter 45

  Peter spent the next few days reviewing Frannie’s file in order to get ready for their weekend meeting. The advertising work was a pleasant change from researching the ever-more-arcane ways to kill a wife that Dennie was urging him to explore. She had been working like a slave ever since they parted ways, and expected Peter to do the same. Peter was getting tired of the twice-daily phone calls and even more frequent e-mails. She hadn’t mentioned payment yet, and Peter didn’t bring up the topic either since he had no money.

  On Saturday at about noon, Peter showed up at Frannie’s “farm.” It was more of an enclave than a farm with its six buildings, three of which were houses. The main house was a fieldstone mansion built to look like the country getaway of a French cabinet minister. The grounds were immaculate, while still retaining a wildness that was so well contrived as to seem real. The grounds reminded Peter of Frannie; her art was in appearing natural and wild, while being totally contrived and fully in control. His chances of sleeping with her this weekend were slim to none, but that was where his mind was going despite his best efforts.

  “Peter! You didn’t have any trouble fin
ding us, I hope. Please stay in the car for a moment. I have to let the dogs out of the house to greet you.”

  Peter heard what sounded like a pack of large, angry dogs in the house.

  “I have to let them sniff the car and then introduce themselves to you slowly. They’re both getting old and very set in their ways. They bark like crazy whenever they hear a car. My friend bought the pair of them in Germany, fully protection trained, and has treated them like babies. They’re kind of confused as to their role now.”

  “They don’t sound confused. They sound pissed off.” But just as Frannie had said, the two big dogs came out, circled the car and after pissing on the tires, let Peter get out unmolested. Frannie gave them a command in German and they just walked away, looking back at Peter every so often to let him know whose territory this was. Peter wondered when Frannie had learned German.

  “Peter, let’s get down to business as soon as possible. I have high expectations of your advertising and design skills, and I mean to get my money’s worth out of you this weekend. Maria is making us a light lunch. Let’s eat and then we’ll get right down to work. I have some cash in my purse for you. Don’t let me forget to give it to you.”

  There wasn’t a chance in hell Peter would forget the cash, just like he couldn’t forget what it had once been like in bed with Frannie. She commanded an enormous price in a crowded market by being unforgettable. But Peter was determined to forget about that, and get through this weekend by focusing on doing some memorable design work. And work they did, until the sun went down.

  After sunset, Frannie pulled out a bottle of Peter’s second-favorite champagne, Iron Horse Russian, and poured two flutes. Maria had prepared a cold supper for them before she left for the day, which Frannie brought into the living room and put on a small table between their chairs. They ate and drank and talked with the familiarity of an old married couple. Peter felt a strange new kind of warmth for Frannie, strange in that it didn’t all center in his groin. He liked this fuzzy new feeling, even though it came and went amid a crowd of harder and sharper feelings that comprised his omnipresent, free-floating horniness. Tonight, in this situation, the horny feelings disturbed him more than excited him. He just wanted a friend.

  Frannie opened a second bottle of Iron Horse, and told Peter there were six bedrooms in the hall behind him and he could stay the night in any one he liked. Peter thought she was being unnecessarily rude when she said that she would be sleeping upstairs with the door locked. But Peter soon forgot her bedroom remark, and they carried on talking until past midnight about life and love and nonsense, just like the old friends they were.

  Peter slept well and didn’t remember dreaming. He felt uneasy, but wrote it off as an Iron Horse hangover. Peter and Frannie met in the kitchen an hour after dawn. Peter rooted through drawers and cupboards and the two side-by-side refrigerators. He found eggs and sausages. Frannie showed him how to work the huge espresso machine that looked like something found on the bridge of a starship. They cooked breakfast together in companionable silence.

  Frannie always looked great, even in the morning. Peter would happily have made love to her right there on the cold tile floor, if she had nodded her head the least bit suggestively. But Frannie was aware of her beauty and her body. She never gave off a sexual signal without a purpose. She was like a martial arts sensei who never signals an upcoming blow, but only executes it.

  They got back to business after the second coffee and stayed at work until late afternoon, when Frannie called a halt and said she had to get ready for another meeting.

  Peter wrapped it up by asking, “When are we going to meet again on this? I have enough ideas and plans to keep me busy for a week or so at the computer, but I’d like to plan another meeting now.”

  “Peter, I don’t know if I can spare any time soon. I’m literally working my ass off on this thing. I have to fly out to two big out-of-country ‘meetings,’ so I really can’t say when I’ll be free. This project is putting a strain on my cash flow, and I’m not about to dip into my retirement fund to pay for it, so I have to work a lot more than I’ve become used to the last few years. Let’s not talk about me, okay? You know I don’t like to talk about my work and I always end up doing just that with you. And then our relationship gets strained. Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. We had a good time and did some good work. I’ll keep you up to speed by e-mail and we can set up a meeting later.”

  “Peter the Great! Someday, someday, Peter, you sweet man, when we are both very old, maybe … Forget it, Peter; I’m not going to get old. Be careful when you leave. The dogs will chase you down the driveway, barking up a storm, so try not to hit them. My friend would have you killed if you hurt one of his babies.”

  “I guess I’ll try not to piss off the mobster who owns this place.”

  “Mobster? Just don’t hit the dogs, okay?”

  Peter left the estate with mixed feelings and a pocket full of cash. Seeing Frannie always left him conflicted. At one time, he had convinced himself that he could accept her couplings with numerous other men as merely part of the business she was in. He almost believed they could carry on a normal boy/girl loving relationship, as though she were a regular person. But rationalizing this in his intellect, and being able to quell the inevitable jealousy that crept up behind him and pounced when he was not looking, were two very different things. Frannie had no such illusions. Sex was her business and not her obsession.

  Peter thought that with Elaine, he had everything he wanted sexually and - it was beginning to look like - emotionally, which he believed to be minimal. He would have fucked Frannie in an instant this weekend, if she had asked. He would have lied to Elaine about it. Elaine was right. He was a cheater, and that realization didn’t please him. He had a topic for his next meeting with Lisa.

  Chapter 46

  Peter felt very alone when he got home. He thought of Rex and Marty and Dudley - all dead. While on the subject of death, he thought about killing Kathryn and only that brought a smile to his face. Thinking of killing her gave him the same warm glow as a basket of puppies.

  He checked his voicemail. He had deliberately not checked it all weekend to maintain his focus on Frannie’s business at the farm, and he also didn’t want to be taking calls from Elaine while he was with Frannie. There were six calls, all hang-ups from blocked numbers and not one message. The three-word nut who kept calling must want to speak to him in person.

  He then called all of his friends, but no one was home or picking up. He didn’t phone Elaine. Having a bit of residual tiredness from Saturday night with the two Russians, Peter turned in early, determined to get up early Monday, go for a run, and then get down to work in the morning. He had a bad feeling, the same feeling he woke up with but stronger now. He couldn’t pin it down on a single cause. It felt like “General Depression” was once again mustering his troops for a campaign against him, but there was no logical reason why that might be so.

  On Monday, Peter went out early for his morning run, and when he got back to his house, he saw a patrol car parked in front on the street. The vague sick feeling he had had since Sunday morning took a quantum leap into the reality of abject, gut-level terror. Peter thought they were going to arrest him for murdering Marty and his dog. Maybe he hadn’t been cleared after all.

  As Peter walked up the driveway, his vision sharpened. He could discern every blade of grass in his lawn individually. He wondered what kind of chemicals his body was spilling onto his optical nerves to cause that effect. Time slowed to a crawl, and even the tiniest noises registered. The ticking of the patrol car’s engine as it cooled sounded like a clock measuring out his last few moments of freedom.

  Two uniformed officers approached Peter from the rear. They stationed themselves on either side of him. Peter started laughing and grinning - his inappropriate reaction to stress.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You.”

  “Are you Peter Stanley Broviak?�
��

  “Yes.”

  “Are you married to Kathryn Dawn Stanton?”

  “Yes.”

  “We regret to inform you that your wife is dead.”

  “Dead?” Peter immediately thought of all the money he was going to get as a result of the irrevocable state-sponsored life insurance and transfer of pension funds. Then his mind flashed back to the love he had once felt for Kathryn. He remembered seeing her walk down the aisle at their wedding in her sleek cocktail dress. Peter was overwhelmed with guilt because he felt sure he had killed her, even though he was equally sure he had not. The contrast between reality and guilt, gloating greed and tender love was too much for him. Peter’s mind shut down. He felt like an automaton.

  The detective on his right said, “We believe your wife may have been the victim of a crime, Mr. Broviak. We beg your pardon during this time of grief, but we need to know where you were between the hours of 7 p.m. Saturday night and 1 a.m. Sunday morning this past weekend.”

  Peter’s mind remained blank, and he could not answer. His mouth was locked in a gaping grin and no sound came out.

  The cop on the left took over and asked in a louder voice, as though talking to a foreigner or a deaf person, “Mr. Broviak, where were you?”

  Still, Peter didn’t answer.

  In a louder voice, now tinged with anger, “I asked you a question and I expect an answer, Mr. Broviak. Answer the question or I’ll have to place you under arrest.”

  “I want to call my lawyer,” Peter managed to squeak out of the side of his mouth, tight with a huge grin.

  “Answer me, Mr. Broviak.”

  Peters mind flashed to an arrest scene in a detective movie and he answered, “No. I want to call my lawyer.” And Peter burst into peals of laughter that he couldn’t control. It was that laughing-at-funerals tick again, and his own funeral was funnier than any other he’d attended.