How to Kill Your Wife

by James Hockings

Elaine suggested that he hold the news conference in front of Peter’s house and include Peter in the coverage. He agreed without demurring.

  Slick Willie was, in fact, pleased about the idea of holding the news conference in front of Peter’s house, with Peter in attendance. It was a nice creative touch. He had planned to use the news conference to announce his intention to seek the state senate seat left vacant by the late Robert (Buster) Brown. His dropping the charges “in the interest of justice and fairness” would get him some liberal votes. He was already solid with the conservatives from his recent successful prosecution of six outlaw bikers for the cold-blooded murder of eight of their rivals. Resolving the “Murder-by-the-Book Murder” along with the “6x8 Murders” would only add to his electability.

  While Slick Willie gloated in his office, Elaine “no commented” her way through the news media still gathered in front of Peter’s house. Peter let her in after seeing her in the peephole. He opened the door quickly and closed it even faster.

  Elaine, without preamble, said, “It’s over. They’re dropping the charges.”

  Peter, after a moment of stunned silence said, “Whaaaat?”

  “You heard me, it’s over. Is there someplace else we can talk? I’ll bet the house is still bugged.”

  “Probably. I … I never even thought to look. I forgot. I …”

  “Your back yard is fenced, right?”

  “Yeah, for Rex. We could go out there.”

  In the back yard, Elaine whispered to Peter, “Peter, your ‘client’ Frannie, or whatever she is to you, has a ‘friend’ in the District Attorney’s Office. That friend is not keen to get his name in the papers in connection with hers, and has decided not to question her credibility in giving you an alibi. You’re off the hook. The district attorney is going to come here to your front yard tomorrow to make the announcement to the press. He wants you to be up there with him, admiring his fairness.”

  A veil seemed to drop from Peter’s eyes and his voice became strong and clear for the first time in a long time. He seemed to grow larger in front of Elaine’s eyes. He looked like a man again and not a frightened boy. This sudden change gave Elaine a little jolt of electricity in an embarrassing spot.

  “I want to have my own time with the press, too,” Peter said.

  “I’m sure I can arrange that.”

  “No, Elaine, I’ll arrange that myself. You’re fired. I don’t want you as my lawyer; I want you as my lover. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Elaine didn’t know how to respond to this “new” Peter, so she said nothing. She had never seen him when he was not crippled by some calamity.

  “What do you want, Elaine?”

  She didn’t know what she wanted at that moment and said nothing.

  Peter gently reached out for her, pulled her to his chest and kissed her. She didn’t give in to the kiss fully, but she didn’t resist either. She was content to let Peter lead, something she had never allowed any man to do. It was a new feeling. She was not sure she enjoyed it.

  Peter broke the spell. “Do you have Sindra’s number on your phone?”

  Elaine found Sindra’s number and handed the phone to Peter.

  “This isn’t my phone, though. It’s a new one that I brought for you. The press doesn’t have this number.”

  Peter waded through a few layers of corporate structure but finally got through to Sindra.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Broviak, I didn’t recognize the number you’re calling from. I’m so glad to hear from you. I understand your ordeal is almost over.”

  “And yours, Ms. Dempsey, is just beginning. I will want a contract from you in writing with a million-dollar advance on sales before the end of the day tomorrow. My legal team wants to look it over.” Peter had no legal team, not even a single lawyer, since he had fired Elaine two minutes earlier.

  Ignoring his million-dollar demand, Sindra replied, “Mr. Broviak, I am sure we can come to some agreeable terms. Did Elaine tell you that we want you at that news conference tomorrow?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Peter replied.

  “Good. I’ll also fax you a list of appearances and interviews we see as critical in the upcoming few days, weeks and months.”

  “As long as that fax is preceded by a fax with a contract proposal,” Peter said, playing hardball. Peter had never in his life done anything but beg for work, gallery shows and payment when he finally did get work. All that was going to change. Peter finally had something that other people needed like a drug and were willing to pay for: his story. Peter had a sudden feeling of freedom and power that he had never felt before … and never wanted to be without again.

  “Mr. Broviak, I will have our legal team work all night and get a draft to you in the morning.” Sindra also intended to have her publicity team up for the next week of nights, coming up with ways to stir the national media pot that was going to give Bachman & Bates its next bestseller.

  Peter winked at Elaine, and said to Sindra, “Thank you. Please fax that directly to my office. See you on TV.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Broviak.” Sindra had already started to bark orders at her staff.

  Peter looked at the phone, ogled Elaine’s chest and winked at her. “I need to work on what I’m going to say for the cameras. I also need to phone a few people. I’m going to have a party tomorrow night. Oh, do you have the number of that entertainment lawyer you talked to?”

  Elaine told him that number was on his new phone under “Hersch.”

  Peter dialed him immediately. “Marvin, I hear good things about you. I’d like to hire you. My name is Peter Broviak and I am about to become Bachman & Bates’ newest bestselling author.”

  “Aren’t you full of yourself! Forty years ago I almost represented Muhammad Ali; you sound a lot like him.”

  “Except I can’t box like Ali …”

  “Mr. Broviak, no one can box like that man. What’s on your mind, sir?”

  “Bachman & Bates are sending me a draft contract in the morning. I’ve asked for a million-dollar advance. I need you to make sure they don’t screw me around.”

  “Mr. Broviak, they have every intention of screwing you, but in a nice literary way. There’s no money in publishing any more, so they at least have to try. I know what their standard boilerplate contract looks like; I have dozens in my files. I’ll get one out and review it and wait to see how they’ve filled in the blanks on yours in the morning. I charge $500 per hour and I am worth every cent. My clock is running as we speak. I’ll fax you my retainer agreement form and you can sign it and fax it back. Give me your fax number.”

  Peter and Marvin exchanged fax numbers. Peter also gave Marvin the number of his new cellphone.

  Peter looked at Elaine, who was staring at him like she had never seen him before. He asked, “Can I buy a lady a drink? Let’s go inside.” He led her to the kitchen.

  “Elaine, have a seat and I’ll pour you a cognac.”

  Elaine was about to sit, when Peter called out, “Not that chair, the back is loose. I was going to fix that old ladderback before Kathryn left but never got around to it. No one to nag me into doing it, I guess.”

  Elaine chose another chair and commented, “That reminds me of something. I know somebody who says, ‘Take any seat you like but mine’ every time I see her.”

  Peter gave her a funny look and said, “I know that same person.”

  They both took a breath and simultaneously exclaimed, “I knew you were crazy!” They looked at each other for a moment and smiled. It was the warm smile of two strangers who were becoming friends after a trying ordeal.

  Peter dug in the cupboard until he found his favorite cognac: Gaston de Lagrange XO. He poured a finger into two snifters. He sat next to Elaine. They clinked their drinks and kept on smiling.

  Elaine finished her cognac and gave Peter a kiss, warm with friendship and smelling of good booze. Then she left to walk the gauntlet of r
eporters. Peter proceeded to phone all of his friends, none of whom were home, and left some version or other of this message: “It’s Peter. Remember me? I am out of jail and off the hook for the murder. I don’t know or care what you said to the cops. We’re still friends. Watch me on TV tomorrow morning with the district attorney – he’ll be broadcasting an apology for arresting me, right from my front lawn. Then come to a champagne reception at the house tomorrow night. Get drunk with me. Hang from my chandeliers. Throw up on the floor. Take your clothes off. I’ll have limos to pick you up and take you home. Just call back, and we’ll arrange it. No dress code.” He left the number of his new phone for RSVPs.

  Peter poured himself another cognac and peeked out the front door at the TV trucks. The reporters were buzzing around like bees. Sindra and her publicity machine must have leaked some news or Elaine stirred them up somehow. Peter walked into the dining room and looked at his slashed and defaced paintings. He took them off the wall and threw them down the basement stairs, smiling all the while. He didn’t want the sight of them to ruin tomorrow night’s celebration. He knew that his best work was still to come.

  Chapter 72

  The next day, Peter got up early, checked to see that the TV trucks were still outside, made espresso for his latte and started making calls. First, Elaine to check the time of the press conference, his new voicemail for callbacks from his invited guests, and then a caterer for his party. He checked his fax machine. Bachman & Bates had sent over a small bible of a contract. He stuffed it all into the “out” tray of the machine and sent it to Marvin without even reading it.

  There was a knock at the door, which was unusual since the cops had been pretty good about keeping the reporters back. Through the peephole, Peter saw a handsome young man in a good dark suit with a briefcase in his hand. Peter left the chain on the door and asked his business.

  “I’m Greg Maslen, Sindra Dempsey’s assistant. Will you let me in?”

  Peter let him in and asked his business again.

  “I have a few things Ms. Dempsey wanted me to cover. We can start with what you are going to wear to the press conference, go from there to how we expect you to comport yourself in front of the cameras, and finally to what it would be in all of our best interests for you to say. Let’s take a look at your wardrobe.”

  After reciting what had to have been a prepared statement, Greg proceeded to take over Peter’s life for the next few hours. Peter was so flattered by the attention that he didn’t even think of telling him to get out or to mind his own business. Peter just accepted that this was how stars were treated.

  Peter was dressed - well-dressed in his most sober attire - long before the press conference and had time to practice the script Bachman & Bates had written for him. It was bland and grateful in tone, and mercifully short. The only differences between this speech and the one he would have written himself were the numerous references to the title of the book and the name of the publisher. “I am Peter Broviak, the man the press has dubbed the ‘Murder-by-the-Book Killer.’ As you have heard from the district attorney, I did not do the deed. I confess only to having written a work of fiction for Bachman & Bates Worldwide called How to Kill Your Wife. It will be published and in stores before the end of this month. How to Kill Your Wife is …” Peter read on to the end and noticed that the name of the publishing house came up three times, and the book’s title twice as much.

  Peter could do this shtick standing on his head. He didn’t care what kind of crap they made him do or what they made him say. He was going to get rich after living on the edge of poverty, or under some woman’s thumb, for most of his life. He was going to be able to paint whenever he felt like it, with a good chance of getting shows. He was going to rewrite the novel about his father he had started in his twenties. He was going to be able to hunt with Gregor whenever and wherever he wanted. He was going to get another dog. He was going to sweep Elaine off her feet. All his silly worries about witches and evil were behind him.

  He allowed himself to feel, probably not for the last time, some regret that the second woman he had married had died a violent death. She had probably died still hating him, but he no longer hated her. He told himself that he had never hated her, only her malicious acts. Maybe, he mused, these thoughts about Kathryn were self-justification, that universal human mechanism which allows most of us to sleep at night. Peter was not going to worry about the finer points of his fallibility just now.

  The press conference was as predictable as the sun rising. District Attorney William Jefferson Mancuso, with his $3,000 suit and million-dollar smile, spoke with great humility and sincerity about his belief in justice above all. “My friends, in my official capacity as a prosecutor on your behalf, I have put a lot of bad people behind bars where they belong, and where they will never again threaten you or your loved ones. However, what I am most proud of is the opportunity your trust has given me to serve the higher cause of justice. We in the prosecutorial part of the justice system must realize every day in everything we do that this is our foundation and our bedrock. Friends, it is not how many convictions we get, but how much we advance the great cause of justice that matters. Even though I have the highest percentage of successful convictions of anyone who has ever held my office, I do not measure my tenure by such a crass statistic …” And so on and so on, until Slick Willie got to his real message.

  He offered himself up on the altar of public service once again, this time as state senator, to preserve and protect the same fine American principles he had revered as district attorney. Anyone who didn’t know him or his reputation would have thought he was the very reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln, sacrificing his political career and then his life by freeing the slaves in a divided nation instead of doing anything to avoid being blackmailed by his dominatrix.

  Peter was next. His remarks followed the same path of seriousness and sincerity blazed by the senatorial candidate. Peter was a good boy and followed the script he had been given by Bachman & Bates. Peter was so confident about his delivery that he thought he might have been able to garner a few write-in votes for state senator, if he had offered himself.

  As he finished speaking, he looked out over the crowd of press and townsfolk and thought, “So this is what it’s like to be famous. I like it.” Suddenly his eye caught a fleeting glimpse of a very familiar face at the back of the crowd. The woman turned her head away and disappeared as soon as his eyes met hers. Peter wrote this off as his mind playing tricks. The woman looked like Kathryn, was built similarly, and even moved like her, but it couldn’t be. Kathryn was dead. He tried to refocus on the continuing media blitz.

  Greg had strongly advised Peter not to take any questions, and Slick Willie was more than happy to take up the slack. His people were busy passing out press kits. Other people who had arrived from the publishing house were doing the same. The Bachman & Bates kit had an old but flattering photo of Peter on it, and contained a mock book jacket that the design department must have whipped up overnight. Peter didn’t read his bio, but he assumed it was as hyperbolically flattering as the old photo.

  The meeting broke up a short time later. The crowd from town drifted off, and the techies started packing up their broadcast gear and loading their trucks. A few reporters hung around, trying to get more background for the story’s print edition. Greg said his goodbyes but mentioned he would be in touch by telephone the following day, with a schedule of interviews for Peter’s review. He stressed the need to keep the public’s attention focused on the story: it was either “hot” or it was “not.”

  Peter was about to check his messages for party attendance when a hand clapped his shoulder. Peter turned to see Detective Robinson. The cop crooked his finger and motioned for Peter to come close. He whispered in Peter’s ear, “We know about your weird fetish for fake tits. We know the sick things you did to your wife’s corpse after you killed her, you piece of shit. You should know there’s no statute of limitations on murder. That pussy prose
cutor won’t be able to protect you forever.”

  Peter returned to the house, frightened and mystified by what the detective had said. He had committed no crime and the charges had been dropped. Maybe this cop was crazy or pissed off. He didn’t seem to have swallowed Sick Willie’s spiel about the greater cause of justice. Peter decided not to worry about a sore loser cop and got back into party planning mode.

  It seemed everyone he’d invited had confirmed. It probably helped that today was a Friday. It helped even more that Peter was now a celebrity. The caterer confirmed that he was ready and able to show up at the appointed hour, as was the liquor delivery. The cleaning service he had booked was already hard at work scrubbing his toilets and baseboards. Only the jazz combo he had contacted had failed to confirm, but it was still before noon. If they were real jazz musicians, they wouldn’t even be out of bed yet.

  Peter shucked off his “funeral” suit and put on an old pair of jeans and a cowboy shirt. He fixed himself a very strong English Breakfast tea with lots of light cream and turbinado sugar, picked up a Robert Parker novel that he had put down weeks before, and resumed reading about the tough but tortured Jesse Stone, chief of police in Paradise, Massachusetts.

  There was a knock at his door. It was a very pretty reporter he had noticed in the crowd at the press conference. “Mr. Broviak, I’m Trudy Kosinski from the Chicago Tribune and I wonder if you have time for a few questions.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Kosinski. I’m tired, and my man at Bachman & Bates told me not to do any interviews today.”

  “Just a few questions?”

  “No, I’m sorry, but if you want background, come to my party tonight and you can interview my friends.”

  “I can do that, Mr. Broviak; I’m not on deadline. I’m just working part time on a series about domestic violence and your story might have a place in the series … even though I understand you’re innocent and that no violence actually occurred in your relationship.”

  “Sure. Come back tonight.”