Murder My Love (Kindle Books Mystery and Suspense Crime Thrillers Series Book 3)

by Tad S. Torm

  But I am the kind of man who starts with the small stuff and builds from there. Want is good enough for now. There is nothing wrong with want.

  Time for desserts will come later.

  Take things one at a time, that's what I say.

  Yes, me too, I did love once, but let's not get into these embarrassing details. Did she not love me back? Well, actually, she did for a while, or at least, she said she did. What do I have to show for it?

  Guided by the little psychology I managed to acquire in school – to paraphrase the saying about the man who represents himself, only to have a fool for a lawyer - I am well aware of the fact that I'm passing through a dangerous and painful phase in my life. It's a transition. My loss is deep and profound, but my mind cannot wait to be whole again.

  I've entered into a compensatory phase, as my psychologist would put it. My psyche is escalating a narrow defile.

  I lost somebody very near and dear to me and the need to replace is hard to resist at times.

  But this is dry stuff.

  Let me go back to admire my nymph a little more, from a distance.

  She's a pleasure to look at; her blonde hair is combed back in tresses and reveals an adorable visage, topped by an unwrinkled forehead, a little shiny, and I wonder why. Her eyes are large, sparkling, of a vivacious green color.

  She's neither tall nor short and shows very sexy curves. Either an athlete or somebody who's been hitting the gym lately.

  She wears a low-cut green silk blouse with jeans and leather boots with high heels.

  My nymph is currently engaged in an acrimonious conversation with the gate supervisor.

  In a beautiful woman like her, the male of the species does not see what she is willing to offer, but only what she’s ready to show.

  I make a bet with myself that I will take her to my bed this very evening. The bet in itself is of little importance; I've been regularly making and losing these kinds of bets with myself for a longer time that I care to remember.

  She's the forbidden fruit all right, but tastier than any apple I got a bite of lately.

  She waits in front of Gate 101, where boarding for UFL Flight 2434 bound for Paris, France, is about to start.

  At first, my attention is directed toward her and her alone. I don’t give a fig about the contents of their conversation.

  But eventually, the lessons of grammar school psychology seep slowly into my porous brain. They tell me to listen.

  I hear the official's last words.

  "… unfortunately we're fully booked."

  The woman who pronounced the ominous words sits behind the desk, contemplating infinity. She does not look too bad herself. She's a forty, forty-five buxom platinum blonde, former stewardess most likely, with a good figure. The type who takes good care of herself.

  "Miss, miss…" she's in a bit of a hurry.

  Boarding will start soon and she finds it gets a little more difficult to concentrate.

  "Miss Lana Gantry," the younger woman replies. "I seem to be in possession of a worthless ticket. I blame you and your company for selling it to me. Although I've been assured that I will be assigned a seat here, at the gate. Why did you sell me the ticket if you knew you had no more seats available?"

  "We are in the twenty-first century, Miss Gantry. We work with computers now. It gets extremely complicated. Our company regrets these types of situations, like yours, when they occur, but I can assure you, Miss Gantry, they are exceedingly rare, and we are working hard to eliminate these problems."

  "What you are telling me might be entirely true," retorts my future love interest. "Although I must confess that I'm not entirely convinced of the veracity of your statement, by taking into account the lousy track record of your company. But even if it were true, which I find difficult to believe, please don't forget that this type of situation is happening right now, and furthermore, it's happening right now to me. So I hope you understand my position when I’m telling you that the so-called rarity of this occurrence, computer glitch, or I don't care what you choose to call it, does not relieve me in the least. Is it clear?"

  This is a splendid tirade unfortunately spoiled by the fact that the gate supervisor doesn't seem to pay any attention to her.

  She is now preoccupied and examining with a wary eye the crowd in front of the gate that is gradually getting larger while becoming more impatient. Important work awaits her. Boarding is announced to start in five minutes.

  "We'll do our best to get you into a seat, Miss Gantry. If we cannot find it, I personally promise to put you on the next flight to Paris in three hours, at 1:00 pm. May I see your ticket, please?"

  "It's absolutely crucial that I go with the ten o'clock flight. There are people waiting for me."

  Lana hands her the ticket and the stewardess examines it, a noticeable smirk on her face.

  "I see you are holding a second class ticket for the ten o'clock flight," her tone has visibly changed. "Are you aware, Miss Gantry, that the ticket you purchased in second class is seat-less?"

  "It was the last I could find. In three hours, I need to be in Paris. It's an urgent matter."

  "Miss Gantry, let me ask you one question: did you have a chance to spend a few minutes reading the contract? If people took a little more time to study our legal contract, these kinds of situations would never occur. You should be already aware of the fact that the owner of a seat-less ticket is seated on a first come, first serve basis, and that our company does not admit any liability and reserves the right to remove unruly passengers from the premises."

  The clock ticks 9:30 and for once boarding starts on time.

  It's an ancient ritual that gives priority to class, being ruled by arcane, medieval regulations.

  I am in no particular hurry and do not mix well with crowds. I remain aloof and on the side.

  I’ve got plenty of time.

  I go for another cup of coffee. I buy bottled water and today's papers from a kiosk.

  Then I return to the boarding area and plant myself squarely in front of the desk, a couple of feet from Lana.

  The time has come to play my Prince Charming routine.

  "May I talk to you?"

  My voice is soft and respectful.

  Lana seems taken aback; she casts a sullen look in the general area from which the sound my voice has come while at the same time she’s ready to unleash a swarm of killer mini-drones in my direction.

  I don't blame her. I take it for granted; it’s the privilege of any beautiful woman.

  It takes a lot of venom to fight back the advances of the male of the species, who proves at times to be more annoying than a fly and less easily swatted.

  I persist, "I couldn't help it, but… without meaning to… hear your discussion."

  She puckers her forehead, suddenly lined with deep, angry creases. It's amazing how this can change her pretty face.

  "Yes?"

  The tone of her voice is brusque. It’s clear she does not want to revisit her unpleasant tiff with the boarding supervisor, while she’s still unaware I don’t represent another problem for her, but on the contrary, I am the solution.”

  So I persist, convinced that sooner or later she’ll relent once she understands my proposition.

  "Am I let to understand…?"

  "What do you want?"

  "That you could not secure a seat?"

  Now we go full circle.

  "On the flight to Paris."

  My last words seem to have a magical effect on her.

  The problem of the seat comes back to the fore of her mind and she changes tack.

  Now, for the first time, she is questioning my intent.

  I look into her mind, "Is it business or pleasure that he does propose?"

  Still, she remains standoffish.

  You cannot blame a beautiful woman for keeping her guards up. Even while she talks business.

  "On the ten o'clock flight to Paris."

  Her ears prick up, which is anothe
r endearing quality, and she suddenly remembers to smile.

  "There's been a misunderstanding,"

  I love it when women explain.

  "It's a matter of minutes. I've been promised a seat. I'm waiting to be seated," she repeats eagerly, without much conviction. "It's a silly thing what happened. There was a misunderstanding."

  Her deprecatory laughter makes her almost break into tears.

  "Please forgive me, I forgot to present myself. My name is Greg Turner. You’ve got to believe me when I tell you that I'm not in the habit of striking conversations in public with beautiful and mysterious women. Trust me!"

  I smile.

  She smiles.

  We both smile while she decides to give me five minutes of her time, but at the same time, her smile warns me not to abuse her patience.

  "I never did, before," I mumble softly. "I am a very shy person. I don’t like to be disturbed myself, so I understand your misgivings, please believe me."

  It sometimes helps to be meek. Just don't overdo it and especially don't make a habit of it.

  "I understand perfectly."

  Now she is the curious one. She understands that something can be gotten from me. There is a renewed expectation in her voice; there is a new hope in her eyes.

  She looks at me and she waits.

  For what is to follow.

  "It’s just that I hold in my possession one extra ticket."

  "Oh, really. Is it available? May I buy it?"

  "In first class."

  "Oh, so your offer…?"

  "There is only one problem."

  "Which is?"

  "Your seat is next to mine."

  "This is not a problem, it's a solution."

  We've become all of a sudden best of friends. The rest, what happens after, is up to me. Isn't it always the case, though?

  I show the two boarding passes at the gate and we pass through. We navigate the walkway, go up a narrow flight of stairs and stand at the front of the plane. We're welcomed by a dark haired stewardess with a green tie and a cute smile. Thirty-five-ish, exceedingly fetching. Beautiful, a brunette with blue eyes.

  Lana expresses her preference for the window seat. I take the row seat.

  When she sees me holding the newspapers, she asks for the New York Times. She wants to do the crossword puzzle.

  That's not exactly what I had in mind when I invited her to my first class seat, but I am an ingratiating and patient host.

  The stewardess comes with the first tour of drinks. She's the same cutie who greeted us. I peer at her with male interest, but mostly because I want to watch Lana's reactions.

  I ask her where she was flying from.

  She had started in Warsaw, and she’s been on duty for twenty hours non-stop. Her name is Trudy. Trudy will get a three-day rest in Paris, where she always stays at Hotel Henry. The line is French and she is German.

  Competition is important. I don't want to give Lana the impression that she's the only horse in the race.

  We chat a little more and Trudy moves on with her drinks. I turn toward the window seat. Lana, immersed in the Sunday New York Times puzzle, seems lost to the world.

  "May I ask you a question?"

  Her eyes, buried in the paper on her lap, jump immediately to attention and follow my gaze.

  I check her crossword puzzle. Only one three-letter word is filled in the first column.

  The Sunday New York Times puzzle is very hard.

  "Since we happen to be traveling together."

  "Shoot."

  "I'm curious, what do you do in your life?"

  "Currently, I'm completing a master in Western Lit at the University of Hawaii," Lana says.

  "That's amazing!"

  Beautiful, cultured and brainy.

  "Why amazing?"

  "Because five years ago, no seven, it seems I'm older than you are, I attended the same University, but I studied Architecture."

  Now please pay a little attention to what I'm telling you and let the secret stay just between the two of us. If Lana is really enrolled at UH and gets the idea of checking the roll of Architecture students, she'll find one Greg Turner, who graduated in 2008—a real Greg Turner, with a real biography. Our identities are fool-proof. When you are in my field of work, you don't want to take any chance.

  Lana, "Wow, you're an architect. I am so impressed!"

  "Actually, I used to be an architect. Now I'm retired. You know, it came to the point where I was paying more in taxes than my company was earning. So I sold it. I sold the company and now I'm doing what I really want to do."

  "What do you really want to do, Greg?"

  "Whatever I do best."

  "And what would that be?"

  "Well, to tell you the truth … nothing."

  Huh. And what would that nothing be? She thinks and, telepathically, I can hear her.

  We tell stories. Me with my fake memories: the first house I built then my first mall, my first hotel and then the huge soccer stadium, followed by Brasilia and Qatar. She, with hers, here my ESP turns off, and I guess it stops helping. How she grew alone on a farm, loving animals, but hating people. How she started reading at five, picking the biggest book from the library, which she hardly could carry home. How she, a few years later, when she was sixteen, fell in love with a wonderful boy who didn't wait too long to break her heart. How that experience marked her for life and she learned to hate everybody. How she continued reading books and then tried to write one, but nobody would publish it. And then there came another boy—she met this one in creative writing class and he stole one of her short stories and published it with some modest success. How she later realized the power she held over men, and started, herself, to enjoy hurting them. Finally, in the first year of college, how Lana got married, but was quickly divorced by finals, and this time it was all her fault. Oh, how she tried to rekindle, to go back to her first husband, a guy who was basically good and wholesome, but rather unremarkable in all other respects, but she was unable to find him and even if she did, who can say whether he'd take her back.

  She finally found happiness at UH in the world of western books, and she's thinking, after her Masters, to pursue a Ph.D. in Western Literature.

  "On the other hand," I tell her, "consider the beauty that is architecture. We know we raised a good, solid structure only after the first earthquake hits. Fortunately, earthquakes don't come too often. By the time our creations come to the test, we're long gone."

  We talk and talk and talk for hours. She forgets her crossword puzzle and I don't let her forget the wine. She's a smart, funny girl, and I manage to fool her into believing that I'm an interesting individual.

  Two hours into the conversation, I touch her cheek by mistake while handling my drink, but it's a tender touch and my hand lingers and is caressing her cheek, and her eyes sparkle and I can hear her rushed breath.

  "Are you married?" she asks.

  "My wife died two years ago."

  Coincidentally, this is equally factual and can be readily verified. Greg Turner's wife, Chloe, died two years ago at Lake Placid, where she is buried in the Community Cemetery.

  And I look very sad, and my eyes wonder about the cabin, and, wait, is that a tear streaming down my cheek? I turn my head, embarrassed by it. Lana takes me by the hand. I turn back. Her mouth is ready and she’s already expecting the first kiss.

  A very soft kiss on her plump, pouty red lips that makes life a little more bearable today than it was yesterday. And I forget who I am, and who she is and where we are, for a second, and two and three.

  And this is the first second of love in a long time and I'm so grateful.

  I know, I know kissing on a plane is now a strict no-no and forbidden and it can get you bodily thrown out on your ear, but hopefully not if you are an important passenger in first class.

  She tugs at the cuff of my coat.

  "You're not a shy person," she says.

  I am puzzled.

  "Remembe
r, at the gate," she says. "When you told me you were a shy person."

  "When I told you I were," I laugh, "was a shy person?"

  "Yes, you did. And you know what? You lied to me. You aren't shy at all. No, not at all, but I am glad."

  "But I am, you know, I really am."

  She laughs at her turn and I laugh with her.

  "No, no, I really am," laugh indignantly.

  How well we tango together. It gets almost scary at times. Two peas in a pod.

  We canoodle for the rest of the flight, with tall glasses of champagne; we frolic and snicker like two drunken collegians. Lana and I in our sumptuous first class seating, we dine on wine and caviar, forget about the ills of the world and society and the righteous kills I have to execute in the next few days in order to make the world a better place according to me.

  But God allows a man only so much fun in this life.

  We've been flying in French territory for half an hour or so, and now the pilot is getting ready to land.

  Round and round, lower and lower the bird flies. So the houses that seemed like grains of sand at the first iteration and colorful bugs at the second now look like tiny houses on an architect's model.

  The plane touches down, the wheels hit the tarmac with a small jolt, and in no time we arrive at the luggage counter.

  We talked, talked all the time during the flight. We never stopped talking.

  But we both shut up as soon as the pilot started the landing procedure. There is no nice way to put it, but I don’t know what she thinks and I don't really know if I'll ever I see her again.

  Down in the airport on the walkway, we stroll side by side and look straight ahead, silent and serious, with serious faces. I hold out my hand to catch hers and she grips mine.

  Somehow, her presence has become necessary to my well-being. I don't know how it could happen in only a few hours, and I don't know what she thinks about it. I can't divine her intentions.