by Pamela Crane
A Fatal Affair
The Allen Michaels Story
Table of Contents
Title Page
A Fatal Affair (The Mental Madness Suspense Series, #0)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
A preview of my latest release, The Art of Fear...
A Fatal Affair
The Allen Michaels Story
A Novella
Pamela Crane
Tabella House
Raleigh, North Carolina
Copyright © 2013 by Pamela Crane
Tabella House
Raleigh, NC
www.tabellahouse.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
www.pamelacrane.com
Other books by Pamela Crane:
Pretty Ugly Lies
The Little Things That Kill Series
The Scream of Silence
The Art of Fear
The Death of Life
The Mental Madness Suspense Series
A Fatal Affair
The Admirer’s Secret
The Killer Thriller Series
A Secondhand Lie
A Secondhand Life
A Fatal Affair is a companion novella featuring characters found in the novel, The Admirer’s Secret.
Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience:
this is the ideal life.
– Mark Twain
Prologue
December 2008
Los Angeles, California
I knew she had to die, but how I’d get away with killing her was a question I didn’t have an answer to.
Perhaps I’m painting a poor picture here. I’m not a cold-blooded killer. In fact, I’ve never killed anyone in my life. I cringe at killing spiders, for God’s sake. Until now. But when my family, my life’s work, is at stake, I gotta do what I gotta do to protect it. And Susan Michaels threatened to take that from me.
I considered my options for a successful murder. Gunshot to the head? Eh, too messy, and with my lack of killing know-how, ballistics would probably end up placing me behind the trigger. Besides, I don’t even own a gun or know anyone who could sell one to me on the black market. I have assistants with assistants, for cryin’ out loud. I’m too high on the ladder to resort to black-market dealings. And it’s far too much work for a busy guy like me.
Then I pondered a staged suicide... perhaps a hanging or pill overdose. But I’ve produced too many crime shows to know that an autopsy would eventually reveal the truth—that murder lurked behind the scenes... which could again somehow lead to my front door. I couldn’t risk being found out. Besides, Susan wouldn’t be the type to take her own life, and anyone who knows her like I do would attest to that. Self-absorption and worldliness held her captive to this life, and her death grip on it was unrelenting.
Which led me to the only plausible option there was. Stabbing. The motive could be anything—a home robbery sounded easy and convincing enough. With the shitload of jewelry Susan proudly adorned herself with, her overpriced BMW, her Gucci everything, and her prominent position in society, it was believable that she’d be a victim of theft, waving her maxed out credit card like she did. Not to mention, the woman gained a following of enemies with each rung she trampled up on her climb to the top.
After silent meditation while on the toilet, I had the whole thing planned out... a nice quiet dinner, maybe an after-dessert massage, one final romp in the bedroom for old time’s sake, then a quick good-bye. Stab to the chest when she wasn’t expecting it. It’d take some effort to make sure her body placement and the wounds didn’t betray the killer as a trustworthy friend, but I’d have time to iron out those details later.
Yes, I was well on my way to my very first murder... and hopefully my last. I just hoped it went without a hitch. Murder can get pretty messy, I hear.
Chapter 1
November 2008
Los Angeles, California
A life can change in a single breath, a captured moment of unspoken words or thoughts uttered carelessly. That chilled Marina Del Ray dusk carried such a moment where a single glance, and an unspoken word, forever shaped my destiny.
I was taking a piss at the time. Sunlight streamed through the bathroom window overlooking a young couple testing the Pacific Ocean temperature with the tips of their toes. I imagined it floated somewhere around sixty degrees—too cold for my blood, and most other warm-blooded creatures.
As the silence yawned in my lonely bathroom, my thoughts somberly ambled along. My wife Susan was God knows where, as usual on weekday evenings, since we both worked odd hours and most of the time lived separate lives—me in the production studio, her wining and dining clients. Somehow we managed to make it through nearly twenty years this way. The price tag wasn’t cheap, though.
So there I was, relieving myself, when I happened to glance down at the chrome garbage can at the base of the black ceramic toilet. Don’t ask me what compelled me to look there. If I wasn’t surveilling bikini-clad underagers four stories down, I usually fixated my eyes on the floor-length mirror that consumed an entire bathroom wall—some days admiring myself, other days cursing Time’s toll on my fair skin. But at that preordained moment my sight wandered to the dark abyss beside the toilet.
Something long and white. And high-tech looking. After a quick shake, I shoved my junk back in my pants and zipped up, then bent closer to see what it was. A plus sign.
It only took a second for naivety to step aside for comprehension. Susan, my wife, was pregnant... I was going to be a father!
“Dad...” I said aloud, allowing the word to penetrate me. “Daddy... I like the sound of that.”
The thought hit me like a warm, jade ocean swell—inviting, enveloping me, welcoming me with a siren’s song. It felt like the black-and-white-checkered floor tiles shifted beneath me as my hands grabbed the marble sink. The earth felt the shudder of joy pulsing through me as it swayed on its axis. I prayed I wouldn’t faint. I had wanted to be a father, but our jobs didn’t make room for such frivolities. Each of us worked in the film industry eighty-plus hours a week... more when ratings dropped. Sex was a rare thing to begin with; I always suspected she had an aversion to me and merely married me for my status—no surprise there, since I was almost twenty years her senior—but adding a kid to the dysfunctional mess we called a family seemed preposterous. But still, I’d always wanted to be the father I never had.
And now this dream was finally coming true.
My hands trembled and my knuckles whitened under my grip.
This was supposed to be good news, so why was I freaking out?
I shook away the encroaching anxiety and regained my composure, and the earth joined me. Glancing in the mirror, I saw the wise cerulean eyes of a beloved father. The blond whiskers of a cheek meant for children’s kisses. The aged hands of a man holding his infant. The plump wrinkled lips wide with the smile that only fatherhood can bring. I was meant for this.
I allowed a vision to permeate my mind’s eye... a picture of me nestling my namesake to my chest, my firstborn s
on, my legacy. I had always considered my film projects to be my fame, my future. Forever my name etched on the big-screen, generations of viewers seeing those letters scroll down the screen as they applauded my notoriety—the Allen Michaels. That was all I had in this world... my name blending in with hundreds of others on a movie credit.
But for the first time in my life, that paled in comparison to this. My own child carrying the Allen Michaels distinction, passing it down to generations of future Allen—or Ellen, if she was a girl—Michaels’. A thrill pulsed through me, shocking my entire being into a new state of mind. Suddenly my work held little meaning. I was going to be a daddy! We could buy his first chemistry set together—a secret passion of mine—and write his first screenplay together. It would be grand!
Then just as quickly a pang of panic hit me, and I swallowed a mouthful of bile threatening to soil my maid’s handiwork.
Inhale, exhale.
Where was Susan, anyways? It was usual to come home to a sterile, empty apartment, but fear crept into my head, taunting my thoughts with worry that Susan might be “taking care of it” without ever telling me she was pregnant. I could imagine her all too easily doing such a thing, keeping a secret like that. It was how our marriage was, after all. Secrets buried under secrets.
This dread wasn’t unfounded. She’d told me countless times she didn’t want children... at least not with me. Her argument was that children were for the nurturing types, and barefoot and pregnant stay-at-home mom wasn’t exactly Susan’s idea of fulfilling. She had a budding career, and God forbid anything got in the way of that.
Years ago, during one fight about it after I battled her excuses with a winning point that we could hire a nanny, I finally got the message. “What is the point of having a kid if you don’t want to spend time with it?”—those were her exact words. Two things had flagged my attention with that question. One, she called a child an “it”—clearly not a product of love for her. And two, it was a good point. Susan rode in the fast lane, rarely checking her blind spot; she was the type to bark orders or carelessly send you packing. Any loyalty ended when you became an inconvenience. I learned long ago to oblige her or else... I never liked the “or else” with Susan.
Despite this chink in her armor, a glimmer of hope rose within me that perhaps Susan had changed her mind. Maybe the flutter of life within her would compel her to at least try. Maybe parenthood would become her; maybe it could fix us, complete us somehow.
I tossed the urine-stained pregnancy test on my dresser and headed for the adjoining kitchen and living room. It took a moment to find my cell phone on the black granite kitchen counter—damn designer’s dismal taste, everything in trendy shiny black, a constant reminder of the morbidity of my marriage—and punched in Susan’s cell. It rang a few times before going to voicemail.
I didn’t bother leaving a message. Considering I found the test on top of the garbage, I rested easy with the hope that she must have just recently taken it and wouldn’t have time to do anything about it on such short notice. She’d eventually make her way home for a late dinner, and tonight I planned to serve up something extra special.
Fatherhood was something to celebrate.
Chapter 2
“Allen, I’m getting a shower,” I heard Susan grittily call from the front door behind the thump of her Prada tote hitting the floor.
“Hey, baby,” I chimed.
Silence.
No “honey, I’m home,” or hello kiss. I knew we were no Ricky Ricardo and Lucy, but I deserved more than the standard frigid greeting today of all days. Her apathy made me wonder if she hadn’t planned on telling me about the pregnancy. I decided to let her play it her way—a mental game of hide-and-seek, with me always being the seeker, it seemed... for now.
“Honey, I made a late dinner for us, but I’ll keep it warm until you’re done. I wanted to talk to you.”
I heard her tappy footsteps falter, then resume.
“Talk about what?” she said, her voice growing closer. She peeked around the kitchen wall, her natural brunette waves pulled back into a tight bun that made her look like a schoolmarm. I never did care for it prudishly up like that.
“Oh, I don’t know. Your day, my day, the weather, whatever. I haven’t seen you in days and I thought it might be nice to enjoy an evening together.”
I caught the exasperated eye roll that she lacked the courtesy to hide. “My day was long, as I’m sure yours was too, and the weather was sunny and warm as usual in southern California. Is that all? I really want to unravel my brain and not talk tonight, Allen.” She flipped through a pile of mail on the countertop. “And I already ate.”
With that she disappeared behind the wall and headed for the bedroom. So she hadn’t planned on telling me. Big news like this and not a mention. I wasn’t going to let it go, though. I’d been a doormat long enough. I stormed after her in hot pursuit, my socked feet heavy but silent.
“Susan, what’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem. You’re just acting... weird.”
“Weird how? By wanting to spend time with my wife? I didn’t realize that was so weird.”
“For us, yes. I really just want to be left alone tonight.”
“You want to be left alone every night. Why don’t you want to spend time with me? I’m trying to make this work, and you keep brushing me off. Now what the hell is going on with you? Is it hormones or something?”
Oops. Bad choice of words. The moment they parted my lips I knew I had said the worst possible thing you can say to a woman—especially a pregnant woman brimming with, well, hormones.
As her eyes narrowed into vibrant green slits, I imagined she was envisioning every possible way to torture and kill me. “Hormones? What are you getting at?”
I pled the fifth. I had already said enough. I shook my head and cast an aside glance, my telltale sign that I was hiding something.
Then her eyes widened with knowledge and her chin tilted up as she examined me. Scrutinizing. Assessing. Then confirming. I knew that she knew that I knew... but my lips were sealed. I needed her to say it first.
“Okay, Allen, let’s talk,” she blurted, each word dripping with sarcasm. I followed the click of her heels to the dining room where I had laid out our celebratory feast—which didn’t feel so celebratory anymore. Susan dropped into a chrome and pleather chair, and I sat catty-corner her. But by the clench of her jaw, I could see she wasn’t planning on doing much talking.
The silence yawned. The ball was in my court. I proceeded with caution.
“Susan, I just want to connect with you, to be a family. Is that so much to ask?”
“Yeah, Allen, as a matter-of-fact it is. I know you live in some make-believe world where we’re happy and fulfilled, but you need to wake up. I’m not happy, and I’m not fulfilled. And I’m tired of trying.”
“Trying? When have you ever tried? I know things can get complacent and a couple can lose that spark, but I’m asking you to try now.”
“Look, there’s no point arguing about this. I know you want to revive us, but we’re dead. You need to face that.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa... where was this conversation headed? This wasn’t at all the direction I was expecting it to go. Was she breaking up with me?
“What? Where is this coming from? And what about the baby?”
Susan popped out of her chair like it was on fire. “Where did you hear that?” she screeched. Her pale cheeks began to speckle with red blotches as I watched her anger boil.
For the first time in two decades of marriage, I was actually afraid of Susan—five-foot-four, 115-lb Susan. “I saw the positive test in the garbage,” I whimpered as my cowardice surfaced. “I know we can make this work, honey. Please, talk to me about this.”
A grin lifted the corners of her mouth. “You wanna talk about it? Then let’s just get everything out in the open.” She stormed away from the table and returned a moment later holding something, a folder. “I don’
t want this baby with you. In fact, I don’t want anything to do with you. Here.”
A yellow folder dropped on the table with a thud. It seemed too thick to be something insignificant. My fingers quivered in their reach for its contents.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Open it.”
I looked up at her, hoping to find a hint of compassion in her icy glare but saw none. Never had I felt such dread, but her stance dared me to open the file. I had asked for this, hadn’t I? I had cornered her, forced her hand.
The edge of the flap slid under my fingertip and easily opened. I pulled at the papers tucked inside and my heart stopped. This was really happening. My worst nightmare was coming true. The end was near, and I had no idea how to stop this train wreck.
Chapter 3
Separation Agreement. The bold words flung themselves off the front page of the papers and jabbed at my heart. Susan was leaving me.
“What is this?” I could barely form a coherent thought, much less a valid question. There was no doubt what it was. Why was I asking for clarification? It would only hurt more to hear the words accompanying the pages.
“I want a divorce, Allen. I don’t want to be with you anymore. I want out. I think you’ll find my terms to be fair, considering I’ve given you my youth and suffered twenty years with you.”
My eyes skimmed through the writing, curious what “fair” meant to Susan. Eventually I found the demands—nestled amid chunks of legal jargon meant to throw me off her succubus scent. If I conceded I was headed for broke.
“Are you serious with this? You’ll leave me penniless, Susan!”
“It’s what I deserve, Allen.”
“I don’t understand, Susan. We’re expecting a child together! We could be starting a new chapter in our life.”
“Our story is over, Allen,” she pleaded.
“I gave you everything you have—your career, your home... and this is how you repay me? You want to rape me with this...this ridiculous request.”