The Dispensable Wife (The MisFit Book 5)

by AB Plum

  “Ab. So. Lute. Ly. I’ve always wanted to write a novel. The idea of a serendipitous meeting between a poor girl and a prince grabs me. That story has universal appeal.”

  Not quite universal. I take my espresso from the barista. “Was your package enough you can write your novel?”

  She pushes out her bottom lip, swivels her gaze to her feet, and shakes her head—the poster girl for dejection. In case I misunderstand her show, she sighs. “’Fraid not. I have to jump into the job-hunt frenzy soon . . . I still have this bad habit of eating three times a day.”

  My first impulse is to open my mouth, stick my finger down my throat and puke on her chest. Instead, I make a sound like a chuckle, then say, “You have some bad habits.”

  Her laugh—her bray—tests my anger-management skills. Unable to punch her in the mouth, I fill AnnaSophia’s cup. Tracy radiates sparks like a downed electrical wire. Any thought of avoiding electrocution is magical thinking.

  Indulging in any thinking besides hard logic reflects the tactics of a fool. No one has ever called me a fool. Tracy, I deduce from the fuck-me body language, throaty voice, and aura of sex has met and bested her share of male buffoons.

  “I’m surprised your wife nixed cream and sugar in her coffee,” Miz See All, Tell All says. “When she’s with her friend, she uses at least three creams and sugars.”

  My, my. What a big mouth you have, m’dear. I clench my jaw, put a lid on the coffee cup, and the plan for neutralizing Tracy Jones falls into place.

  Chapter 6

  SHE

  Heads turn, and eyes follow Tracy and Michael walking side by side, from the pick-up counter toward where I sit. Golden and beautiful and bigger than life, they float in a private bubble of sunshine. Her smile is bright. Flirty. Secretive.

  No one but me recognizes Michael is wearing a concealed gun inside his two-thousand-dollar suit coat. No one but me recognizes something has detonated his hair-trigger fuse. No one but me recognizes his outrage, and an icy finger jabs me in the ribs.

  A petite, young Asian woman at the adjacent table pushes her chair backward. It bangs into my table. Michael’s briefcase—left there for the sole purpose of reminding me of the nightmare that could unfold in an instant—slides toward the table’s edge. Mouth dry, heart yo-yoing, I lunge. My hand—slippery with cold sweat—clamps onto the handle. My breath catches. I inch the case back into the middle of the table. My whole body trembles. Time slows, contracts, and loops in my brain. Dozens of images explode behind my eyes.

  The briefcase slams onto the floor. A bullet ruptures the buttery, hand-tooled leather. A hole appears in the back of the Asian woman’s doll-like head. Brain tissue sprays my face.

  She turns, smiles, and says in a voice so soft I think I’m dreaming, “Sorry to be so clumsy.”

  The cobwebs in my mind disintegrate. I grip the side of the table. Courtesy demands a response, but my tongue sticks to the roof of my parched mouth.

  A slight blush rises at the woman’s throat, spreading to her cheeks. Blood drips from a gaping hole between her eyes. Oblivious to her fatal wound, she waits.

  Her smile wavers, losing some sparkle. Her thin eyebrows come together. “Did I hurt you?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Michael closing the distance. I shake my head and lie. “Everything’s fine. Thank you.”

  She opens her mouth, but I cut her off. “Have a good day.”

  “You too.” Dismissed, she replies with more courtesy than I deserve.

  “Who was that you were talking to?” Michael demands.

  “Another coffee-drinker. She bumped our table and apologized.”

  “People are so rude,” Tracy chimes in, setting a Danish on top of the briefcase.

  “That leather is very expensive.” Michael sets down my coffee cup and bottled water.

  “Sorry. I didn’t realize . . . I was offering to share my roll with your wife.” Tracy snatches her paper plate off the briefcase and swipes a napkin over the surface. Her tone blames me for her misplaced generosity.

  “AnnaSophia doesn’t eat junk. She rarely uses sugar. But she loves vintage wine. Isn’t that right, Darling?” He exchanges a we’ve-got-a-secret glance with Tracy.

  Tracy smiles, lowers her eyes, and cuts her Danish.

  Goosebumps march lockstep under my long-sleeved Tee. I flick my gaze from his face to Tracy. What has she told him? What does she know to tell? I open the coffee with hands surprisingly steady—despite his barely concealed hostility.

  “I don’t plan on giving up my lattés anytime soon.” I shrug, a gesture he hates, a gesture I love to mock his intimidation. “I have been known to use sugar in my coffee.”

  “So I’ve heard.” His Moses-on-high tone scrapes my exposed nerve-endings.

  “Sugar’s not heroin,” I counter, ignoring the warning gongs in my head. I speak in a rush—afraid I’ll shut up if I think about what I’m saying. “Sugar’s not illegal. Or illicit. Or immoral.”

  Tracy swivels her blue saucer-eyes from me to him.

  He snaps, “Thank you for that insight, Darling.”

  Tracy pats her mouth, gazing at him over her napkin as if he’s announced a cure for cancer.

  The single sip of coffee sours in my stomach and I recap the cup. God, what I’d give for a glass of Chardonnay.

  “Shall I get you some sugar after all?” Tracy’s fake concern elicits a brief nod from Michael despite my head shake.

  “No, thanks,” I say to Michael, emphasizing no. “I’ve already drunk too much caffeine.”

  He opens his hands, palms up, nostrils flared. “Fine. Have it your own way.”

  Silence in this kind of situation is golden. I tap my index finger against my bottom lip so I won’t smile or shred my napkin or shake Tracy till her teeth rattle and her brain kicks on.

  Whatever game my husband and she are playing, she has my sympathy. She smiles at him as if she’s back in high school waiting for a glance of recognition from the class stud.

  Except she’s far from high school. She’s standing on the brink of hell with each foot on its own rotting banana peel.

  Convincing her Michael’s dangerous would be like convincing her she’s a fool.

  The silence elongates, hums, begins to feel awkward. Too bad. I refuse to speak. Michael invited her to share the table. Let him carry the conversational ball. Or not.

  Her cell phone blares out some godawful noise that could deafen half the customers. One glance at Michael tells her his feelings about such rudeness. Her mouth forms a perfect scarlet O. She digs into her purse, takes out the phone, and presses a button. The noise stops. She excuses herself and pushes through waiting people to the back entrance. She reaches the door at the same time as one of the two women John met.

  A neuron fires inside my head, and I have a flash of John and Tracy meeting at the exit. She would never let him leave without speaking to him. It’s too much to hope she’ll rejoin us without a full report on their encounter.

  A shiver rolls down my spine. I tap my bottom lip faster. My imagination weaves the innuendoes and lies she shared with Michael while they waited for the coffee orders.

  “You’re frowning,” Michael says.

  “I have a headache. The sun.” I switch from lip-tapping to massaging my temples.

  “Shall we leave?” He reaches for his briefcase.

  “What about Tracy? She left her purse . . .” When he picks up his damn briefcase, the gun goes off. Blows his kneecap to a million pieces. Knocks him to the floor, writhing in agony.

  “I’m not the keeper of Tracy’s purse.” He stands and ignores the saddlebag on her empty chair. “Carry it to her on our way out.”

  “I’m going out the front.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a foot from the front door.” And because John is coming our way. Staring at me. Telegraphing his concern.

  Weakness pours into my legs as I stand. The sun blinds me, but I take a step away from the table—frantic
to keep Michael focused on me alone. “Are you coming or waiting?”

  “I thought we might leave together. Go home. Enjoy half an hour alone.”

  My scalp crawls. Did he just propose a quickie? My eyes feel hot enough to reduce his cojones to ashes. Afraid he’ll read my rage, I whip around, catch a glimpse of John entering the men’s restroom and inhale a faint breath of hope. “Elise picks up Magnus in half an hour.”

  “Elise won’t come into our bedroom.” His certainty allows no disagreement.

  Primal fear uncoils in my stomach and surges into my throat. As if half-asleep, I shake my head and grasp at words jittering in my brain. “I have errands—”

  “Send Elise.” His face is impassive, his voice quiet, but his eyes flash and a shadow moves behind them.

  “Excuuuuse me.” Tracy hustles toward us as if we’ve been longing for her return. She speaks to Michael as if I am invisible. “I am sooo sorry about the interruption. A friend I haven’t seen for a long time wanted to meet.”

  “Take our table. I have to leave.” I hitch my handbag over my shoulder, leave the full coffee cup in the middle of the table, and step toward the door. “Thanks for the coffee, Michael.”

  He’s there, hand on the door, mouth tight. “You are more than welcome, Darling. We’ll have to meet like this more often.”

  Letting him have the last word offers me escape. Dizzy from the heat, I scoot through the door seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing.

  Chapter 7

  HE

  “I hope I didn’t scare off your wife.” Tracy smiles as if no man would even see AnnaSophia if both women entered the room at the same time.

  Still mulling over AnnaSophia’s daring, I ignore Tracy’s comment and focus on my agenda. “What about my offer?”

  “I’m thrilled. And flattered. And so interested.” She thrusts her chest forward and reverts to her lounge-singer contralto—out of place in the sun-filled coffeehouse.

  “I’ll leave your name with the receptionist. My secretary will come down to get you. If you’re late—”

  “Punctuality is one my strengths. If anything, I’ll be early. I value your time.” She slings her huge purse over her shoulder. “I’ll go home, wait for the employment application to show up in my In-Box and shoot it back to you before our . . . three-o’clock appointment.”

  Her mouth says appointment; her half-closed eyes say date. I manage to keep a straight face—even when I see the friend coming out of the restroom with his yoga mat riding high over his shoulder. Tracy is too busy running her mouth to notice him or notice the rage humming through me when the bastard dares study me and purse his lips. He reminds me of my first university physics teacher. That same snooty expression conveyed his contempt. The professor loved confrontation. Unimpressed by my name or by my father’s reputation, the pedant created moments to berate me for my shallow thinking. The friend hesitates as if debating a skirmish or an all-out attack.

  In either case, I am ready.

  The Magnum in its custom-made holster requires use of my right hand. I shift my briefcase to the chair in front of me. Tracy blithers on and on and on. Her inability to read my body language will work to my advantage later tonight. For now, her non-stop chatter fades into the background noise. The friend stands still, body taut, bald head cocked as if listening to inner voices. I curl my bottom lip. What’s he waiting for? An introduction?

  Just as I unbutton my jacket, his trance-like movements speed up. Body turned toward the back entrance, head turned toward me, he sidesteps waiting customers, Disappointment scalds my gut.

  Under the circumstances, I don’t want Tracy to perceive this missed moment of synchronicity. If I wade into the crowd and follow the friend, I’ll raise her suspicions. Watching him reach the back door, I opt for a clichéd behavior. I stick my hand inside my jacket and withdraw my cell, pressing the vibrate button as I glance at the LED.

  The dial tone is all I’m going to hear, but I slap the phone to my ear. “I’ll see you this afternoon, Tracy.”

  I follow in the friend’s footsteps

  Whatever she says fades into the ether.

  Tough, Tracy. I don’t give a damn.

  And I plow through the coffeehouse-slugs with that same attitude.

  No one attempts to stop my forward motion.

  Outside, my whole system shifts into hyper-alert. Leg muscles tense—ready for pursuit. My vision narrows—taking in Le Boulanger’s circular parking lot. Orange-leafed trees and parked cars and traffic signs stand in stark relief. Washed in a red haze. Slamming car doors and footsteps are magnified. Dammit, where is he?

  He had a ten-second lead. Less. Ten seconds are nothing to a skilled tracker. Besides, he’s old. He didn’t disappear. Dammit, he has to be close by. I scan the other end of the parking lot.

  He stands on the curb, swiveling his head from right to left, left to right, waiting for Church Street traffic to clear. Waiting to jaywalk across the street, then trot into the bank’s parking lot. Where AnnaSophia parked. May still be parked. Probably is still parked.

  Waiting for him.

  For about two seconds, I allow myself the luxury of fantasizing he will turn, spot me, and come loping back to where I stand.

  The old goat sprints across the street at surprising speed. I let him round the bank building, then jog for the curb. Synchronicity kicks in. Between the red light at Church and the yellow one at Castro, traffic has stopped in the brief lull before the next green light. I dart across Church and take a quick left into Pioneer Park. Adjacent to the bank, the park’s deserted except for me, a groundskeeper on his mowing machine, and two elderly women dog walkers.

  The Steiners would facilitate locating the friend, but I’d lose a few seconds removing them from the briefcase. If either the dog walkers or the maintenance guy happened to glimpse the Magnum, I’d have to jump through a few hoops with the police. I know the Mountain View police chief, but I prefer using our friendship only in an emergency.

  A clearing between the bank and the city’s chamber of commerce building eliminates the need for the Steiners. AnnaSophia’s SUV is gone. What a shame to miss walking up to her and the friend. But even she must have deduced that waiting for him ratcheted up the risk of their discovery.

  I gave her fair warning on the phone. Told her I came out of the bank and saw her car. Did I tell her, also, I parked two rows behind her?

  That specific data byte no longer matters. After she sailed out of Le Boulanger, she had to know I’d never hang around swigging coffee with Tracy.

  Fear I’d insist on my conjugal rights propelled her out of my sight.

  The friend, on the other hand, must still believe in Santa Claus. Otherwise, his hasty exit from Le Boulanger makes no sense. Discovering she’s already gone, what’s he feeling?

  My Tour De L’Ile ticks off three minutes before he sucks it up and shuffles toward the bike rack. A laugh rumbles in my belly. I lock my jaw and fight the laugh. He’s old, but he may have perfect hearing.

  Humph. I exhale through my nose. All right. Give him perfect hearing. What else does he have going for him? He appears slow. Dull. Standing there staring at my smoking new, yellow, four-million dollar Lamborghini Veneno, is he seeing-impaired? AnnaSophia’s SUV is gone. Is his mouth open? Does he drool? Does he have a clue how she’s played him?

  A stiff breeze off the Bay kicks up a cloud of dust. The friend scrubs his eyes. So do I. But I see perfectly. Better even than with the Steiners. The clarity jerks me out of my body. Forces me to face what a fool I’ve been. Forces the whole sordid mess to crystalize in bright red frames of the two of them.

  Sneaking around.

  Deceiving their spouses—assuming he’s married—exposing us to public ridicule.

  Lying, lying, lying.

  Their treachery ping pongs in my brain. The humiliation of being cuckolded—again—foams up around my lungs like battery acid. I claw at my collar. Suck in air. My lungs won’t inflate. I am drowning. Suffo
cating. Helplessly thrashing. I am fifteen, reading my mother’s letter to my father confessing her affair.

  Everything around me turns blood red. Then the friend twists his head. I jump behind the nearest bush. My feet spin. I lose my balance and slam down on one knee.

  In a pile of fresh dog shit.

  A German Shepherd leaps toward me, dragging his decrepit owner. Fangs bared, the dog snarls. Instinctively, my hand goes inside my jacket.

  The crone manages to pull the animal to a halt. “I’m sorry. I’m sooo sorry. Bruno’s a pussycat. I swear. He’s just not used to seeing men hiding behind bushes in the park.”

  “I’m not hiding.” I stand and square off my shoulders to prove my point, but leave my hand inside my jacket. The stink of dog shit wafts up to my nose.

  What more justification do I need for shooting the shitter?

  “Are you having a heart attack?” She watches my hand as she taps the Shepherd on his nose. He sits at her side, ears high, killer eyes zeroed in on my balls. “Should I call the EMTs?”

  “I’m perfectly fine. I’m a doctor. I was reaching for my phone and stumbled.” I shift my gaze from the dog long enough to determine if the friend is attuned to my little melodrama.

  Head up his ass, he is busy unlocking his bike. Fantasizing about my wife?

  “I’m afraid you’ve ruined your beautiful pants.”

  “Funny how falling in dog crap will do that.”

  “I apologize . . . I am so sor . . . This is where Bruno always does his duty. This has never happened—his baggie slipped off my belt. I went back for it, but . . .” She holds up a blue plastic bag and smiles as if her half-assed explanation makes up for her carelessness.

  “You should carry a spare bag.” I shake my leg, but the fabric sticks to my knee. I reek of her cur’s duty.

  Her blue eyes widen, and she steps from one foot to the other. “You’re right. I’ll make that a habit. Starting tomorrow.”