by Debbi Mack
“Is this blackmail?” he said, thinking of how photos of his escapades outside Lila’s house could ruin him. “You have my money. What more do you want?”
“I told you, doctor.” The woman fixed a cool gaze on him. “I want an apology for what you did to my sister.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I’m really, really sorry. I should have paid more attention to Jenny. I should have been more responsive to her needs.”
“What you should’ve done,” Jenny’s sister held up a didactic finger, “is not make her feel like a freak because she was a lesbian.”
“I never ... I didn’t ...” he sputtered.
“Now, now, Doc-tor Fein,” she said with exaggerated formality. “You did. You made it pretty clear that you didn’t approve of her sexual orientation. From what she told me, you didn’t take her very seriously as a person at all. Like you don’t take women seriously at all.”
“No, no!” Dr. Fein’s protests grew louder, and he could feel his face redden. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, but it is. In fact,” she continued, her voice getting louder as she spoke. “You went so far as to suggest her lesbianism might be the cause of her depression and other problems.”
“I just ... thought it was a shame.” He hung his head. “She was so beautiful. Like you.”
The woman frowned, and a deep line formed between her eyebrows. “Nice try, doc, but no dice. No one here is buying. Especially her lover.”
“C’mon over, sis,” the shorter man said with a wicked grin to someone Dr. Fein couldn’t see. “Say hello.”
“Her lover ...” Dr. Fein’s voice was faint.
He heard the click of the gun being cocked before he felt the barrel against his right temple. “That’s right, Dr. Fein. I was Jenny’s lover.”
The voice was unusually cool and steely, but he knew it all too well. Dr. Fein glanced toward the woman who had quietly taken her place beside him. “You can’t be serious,” he rasped, feeling ready to vomit again.
“I’d say it’s only fair. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. You understand.”
“Please ...” he whispered. “Don’t.”
“Plus a little monetary compensation from you—like an informal wrongful death settlement.”
“I ... don’t believe it,” he mumbled.
“I know you don’t, Dr. Fein,” she said in a mocking tone. “You simply couldn’t imagine it, could you? That you might be dealing with a woman who thinks. But you’re a believer now, aren’t you, Dr. Fein? Aren’t you?”
Lila gave him a cold smile before she pulled the trigger. And in the moment before the bullet hit his brain, Dr. Morris Fein’s head was filled with the sound of Sarah’s voice, berating him once again.
THE PEOPLE NEXT DOOR
It started with that weird pounding.
I live in an apartment, you see. The walls are so thin, you can almost hear your neighbor’s thoughts. Well, almost ...
That’s the nice thing about thoughts. You don’t have to share them. Even if you do live in a cramped apartment.
I couldn’t help but be concerned when I began to hear banging from the apartment next door. Plus, I could swear I heard the whine of power tools.
Gerald, as usual, had an opinion. He ridiculed me.
“Ridicule all you like, Gerald,” I said. “Your words can no longer hurt me. And neither can you.”
My husband can be rather annoying sometimes. (And more annoying other times.) He tells me I’m too high-strung and worry too much. Perhaps.
But those peculiar noises got on my nerves a bit. And made me wonder what the people next door were up to.
Gerald said they were probably hanging pictures or putting up a bookshelf. Well, maybe they were. But, I had to wonder, could they be doing something worse?
I mean, how many people use a power saw to hang a picture, anyway?
Gerald dismissed my concerns (and urged me to “chill out and smoke a bowl,” which I did). Undaunted, I was determined to find out what was going on.
After a while, the noises subsided. Over the next few days I noticed that Mrs. Simon, a short, middle-aged mouse, was no longer coming and going from the apartment. Yet I kept bumping into Mr. Simon.
Was I reading too much into this? Had the pot made me paranoid? My gut said something was amiss. Women can be so easily victimized by men.
I’d seen the movie Rear Window. When I thought of Mr. Simon, ghostly images of Raymond Burr, the killer across the courtyard, floated through my mind.
Since I worked from home, I’d become quite familiar with the couple’s schedule. They usually left for their jobs at the same time every day. And arrived home within a few minutes of each other every evening. Like clockwork.
I kept track of who came and went from the Simons’ apartment for a whole week. Then another. Although I frequently saw Mr. Simon, his wife never showed up.
Gerald laughed at me. “Maybe they’ve split up,” he’d say. “Maybe that’s why he’s renovating.”
Sure, I thought. Maybe.
How could I confirm this?
I arranged to corner Simon at the mailbox, accidentally/on purpose.
“How’s your wife?” I asked, aiming for a nonchalant tone.
Simon turned and glared at me.
“We’re separated.” His terse response bespoke an unstated directive to mind my own damn business. He pulled out his mail, slammed the box shut and stalked off.
That night, to gain clarity, I smoked a bowl. (I do some of my best thinking when I’m high. Ask Gerald.) Since Mr. Simon was as likely to tell me Mrs. Simon’s whereabouts as I was to catch a ride on the next space shuttle, I realized I’d have to break into the apartment for evidence to take to the police.
I ordered some tools off the Internet (you really can get anything on eBay). After practicing on my own front door (late at night, with no one around), I became rather proficient at cracking locks.
Mr. Simon had a routine. He liked to go out Saturday nights. I guess he hit the bars. With Mrs. Simon out of the picture, she had nothing to say in the matter.
When Simon took off on one of his Saturday night escapades, I waited a bit, then used my eBay tools to break in.
Once inside, my arms tingled. Goose bumps popped. I couldn’t believe what I was doing! I thought about the dim view Gerald would take of my efforts. But he wasn’t going to stop me. No, Gerald couldn’t intimidate me anymore.
Simon rarely got home until the wee hours, which gave me plenty of time to search the place.
Jewelry, I thought. A wedding ring? Just like Rear Window. Could I get that lucky?
The thought brought me up short. How can you even think in terms of luck? We’re talking about the murder of an innocent woman.
Even so, I thrilled at the thought of catching someone in the act.
I entered the bedroom. The bed was made. (Simon was neat, at any rate. More than I could say for Gerald.) I looked in every obvious place but couldn’t find a purse. I checked all the drawers. No sign of Mrs. Simon’s valuables. The closet held precious little in the way of a woman’s wardrobe.
“Shit.” He’d probably seen Rear Window, too. He might have taken all her valuables to another location. Or hocked them after he offed her.
As in the movie, Mr. Simon might have packed her personal effects in a trunk and sent them to some destination where the alleged Mrs. Simon would pick them up.
I sat on the bed and wondered how to proceed.
Aha! I realized I could drop a tip to the cops. Anonymously, of course.
It was midnight (and Gerald kept telling me I was crazy, which in itself was enough to make me crazy). I ignored him and walked four blocks to a convenience store with a pay phone. I put in the call to the police, told them that Mrs. Simon had gone missing and hung up.
I went home and smoked another bowl before hitting the sack. “I hope you’re satisfied,” Gerald grumbled. I ignored him and went to bed.
Within a few days,
the police were at Simon’s door. I watched through the peephole as they entered his premises.
Not long after, I watched as they took him to police headquarters—for questioning, no doubt.
I grinned. “So what do you think now, Gerald?” He had no answer. I snickered. That shut you up, didn’t it?
Later, as I was treating myself to a quick hit, there was a knock at the door. I checked the peephole. It was a cop! What did he want with me?
“Answer it,” Gerald said.
“Quit telling me what to do,” I replied. As if he ever heard me.
“Oh, c’mon,” he insisted. “What do you have to hide?”
Fine. I grabbed a can of room deodorizer and sprayed madly. The knocking continued. I gathered my wits as best I could. “Maintain,” I told myself, before opening the door.
The cop at my door smiled. He looked super-friendly. (Jealous, Gerald? I mused, with grim satisfaction.)
“Mrs. Taylor?”
“Yes?” I said.
“I’d like to speak to you a moment. Do you mind if I come in?”
I paused to consider. Should I invite a cop into my apartment? “Well ...”
“Oh, why don’t you let him come in?” Gerald taunted. “It’s only polite. Tell him he’s welcome.”
I shrugged and relented. “Why not?” I said. “Come on in.”
He followed me into the living room then sat on the couch and peered at me.
“Care for something to drink?” My voice rose a register or two. My guts twisted as I tried to look as normal as possible. God, I wish I hadn’t just taken that hit.
“No, thank you. This won’t take long.” The cop’s eyes appraised me. Could he tell I was stoned? Was I about to be busted for possession and use?
“We know,” he said.
My laughter wore a nervous edge. “Uh, know what?”
“Your neighbor told us.”
I began to perspire. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Damn that Simon! He must have known I’d ratted him out. He must have smelled the weed in the next apartment through the cardboard walls and sicced the cops on me. I wanted to murder the bastard. Just like ... No, I couldn’t think about that.
The officer sniffed the air in a rather obvious way. “Do I smell illegal substances?”
Suddenly, Officer Friendly didn’t seem so friendly.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” I said.
“Sorry. You’ve invited me in and I now have probable cause to search for drugs.”
I continued to protest and tried to block his path, but it was no use.
As he searched, I realized it would be just a matter of time before he found something.
Oh, fuck.
I grabbed my purse and snuck out the door, sprinting to my car in record time. My luck, it was blocks away (damned city parking!). By the time I’d reached the car and started it, the cops had arrived and hemmed me in. Officer Friendly must have found the evidence and called for backup.
I gave up without a struggle. What was the point?
Turned out the whole thing was a pretext. When the cops talked to Simon, he’d explained where his wife was (because she actually had left him! stupid, stupid, stupid ...). Then he must have put two and two together and realized I’d called the cops. And they staged that scene where they took him away.
While I’d been noticing the people next door, Simon had been noticing me. Once the cop got in my apartment and smelled the weed (blast you, Gerald, for insisting he come in!), that gave him the right to search the place. And that’s how they found him.
You see, home funerals are allowed in our state. I’d found a home funeral specialist who was willing to preserve Gerald’s body discreetly. And an autopsy would tell them what they wanted to know. I’d poisoned Gerald with sodium azide. According to a poison expert on the Internet, sodium azide makes it look like the victim has had a heart attack, without leaving the tell-tale signs that cyanide—a similar poison—does. However, the circumstances weren’t good. Keeping my dead husband in a closet would give them plenty of reason to do a careful autopsy and win no points with a prosecutor, judge or jury.
I’d kept Gerald’s body as a reminder of my victory over him. That he couldn’t put me down anymore.
I’d kept him as a reminder that he’d never hit me again.
I’d kept Gerald as a reminder that I alone was in charge of my life.
I heard Gerald laugh, as they tucked me into the back of the patrol car. “Smoke another bowl, sweetheart.”
“Oh, why don’t you just shut the fuck up,” I muttered.
SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
Roz tilted her head back, blew a smoke ring toward my kitchen ceiling, then ground her cigarette out in the chipped saucer.
“Sounds like he’s stepping out on you.”
“Doing what?”
“He’s cheating on you, Lainie. God, don’t you know anything?” Roz rolled her eyes. “The man works late every night. Someone’s been calling and hanging up when you answer. That adds up to another woman, if you ask me.”
“You think?”
“Yes!” Roz sounded exasperated. “Believe me, I know from experience with Marco.” Roz’s frosted pink lips pursed, as if uttering her ex-husband’s name left a bad taste in her mouth.
I sipped my coffee and thought about it.
With time to kill since I’d been let go by Sartwell Sausages, I’d often invite Roz over for coffee to get her views on my situation with Ed. Call me gullible. And naive. I believed his story about working late. With me unemployed, I figured he worked extra hours to stay in his boss’s good graces. Whenever I tried to discuss our tepid marriage, he cut me off. A couple of times he told me “get off my back.” His refusal to talk had created a wall between us.
Roz isn’t what I’d call a polished woman. We don’t have a lot in common, when you come right down to it. But she does have insights into the human condition, and she has a good heart. I’d hoped Roz would suggest a way to get through to him.
Roz lit her third cigarette and squinted at me through a nicotine cloud. “What should I do?” I asked.
“You ever call his office to check out his story?”
I nodded. “Sure. I’ve called a couple of times and gotten his assistant, Brant. He said Ed wanted all his calls held—even mine. Brant, well ... he doesn’t like me very much. And I don’t care for his attitude.”
Roz’s jaw dropped. “Well, there you go! Brant is obviously protecting Ed. Men!” She spit out the word. “They all fuckin’ stick together. Pardon my French, Lainie.”
I shook my head and threw up my hands. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You gotta get the goods on him, then confront him.”
“How do I do that?”
Roz’s dark eyebrows rose to meet her flaming red hair. “What planet have you been living on? For starters you could figure out if he’s using a Yahoo or Gmail account to contact her. Peek over his shoulder while he’s on the computer. Find out his email address and user name. Of course, you’ll need his password to get into the account. That might take work.” Roz continued to steamroll. “You may be able to get access if he’s dumb enough not to sign off. You wouldn’t believe how often that happens. You’ll want to check his cell phone too.” She jabbed the air with her cigarette and spoke so rapidly it made my head spin. “Knowing Ed, he probably wouldn’t put her number in his cell phone directory. You might look for incoming or outgoing numbers you don’t recognize. Assuming he forgot to delete ‘em.”
“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “This all seems so complicated. And I feel funny about invading his privacy.”
Roz snapped her fingers. “You should hire a PI.”
“A what?”
Roz looked incredulous. “A private investigator. Don’t you know nothin’?”
“I’ve never heard that expression.”
She looked floored. “You’re kidding, right? You never heard
it in movies or TV shows?”
“I don’t watch much TV. And I don’t like crime shows. Too violent.”
Roz snorted and shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”
“Do you really think I need to hire this ... this PI?” I knew it would cost, and I hated the idea of raiding my piggy bank to spy on Ed.
“Well, he’s not going to cough up the details, is he?” In a theatrical gesture, Roz swept the air with her arm. “So unless you feel like following him around with a camera, I’d hire a PI now.”
“Then what?”
“Then he gives her up or you divorce his ass.”
I wasn’t good at delivering ultimatums. I pictured Ed laughing at me. Bottom line, even if Ed was cheating on me, I wasn’t sure I had the guts to divorce him. We had a comfortable relationship. It wasn’t exciting, but we knew what to expect of each other. Even so, I couldn’t keep this up. Something had to change.
Roz gave me the name of a detective who had helped her when she divorced Marco. It took me a couple of months to work up the nerve to call him. I’ll confess I did sneak a look at Ed’s cell phone, but most of the numbers were familiar. I found no women’s names other than mine, Ed’s mother and Alice, a co-worker who was almost as old as Ed’s mother. So unless Ed had some kind of maternal fixation, I didn’t think Alice was a threat.
As for his email, I tried looking over his shoulder. My feeble attempts rankled Ed and he snapped at me for “breathing down his neck.” I felt like an idiot and guilty as hell.
The sad truth? Roz was right. I needed someone to do the dirty work for me.
The morning I met the PI, I put on one of my best suits, the one I wore for interviews. It was tailored and flattering without, you know, going overboard. I pulled my long, blonde hair back into a barrette and put on some makeup. Not too much. Roz makes fun of me because, unlike her, I go light on cosmetics. She says I hide my assets. I just tell her I’m married. She laughs and lets it go.