Dishonor Thy Wife

by Belinda Austin

  Yeah, it was extreme stupidity to trust Brad again, but he was my identical twin so I never in a million years thought he would murder anyone, since I would not kill another human being for any reason, well, except for my brother.

  The police then arrested me so I never got the chance to mail Barbie the key to the storage unit and inform her that she left her gun at Brad’s office.

  It now took me about 40 minutes to drive up 71 to Austin-Bergstrom International Airport to retrieve Barbie’s gun at the nearby storage facility. I wiped any previous prints off the storage unit and wore surgical gloves so as not to leave any new fingerprints on anything.

  I then drove 14 miles back on 71 to Mopac, exiting to Barton Springs Pool at Zilker Park.

  The Indians once considered Barton Springs sacred and used the water for purification. Trees surrounded the pool, and the park was deserted in the wee morning hours.

  I dialed a number on my cell phone. “Hello, bro, it’s me,” I said in a neutral voice.

  Brad, of course, would refuse to meet me since he framed me for Vanessa’s murder. He would figure I was out for blood, but Brad had an Achilles’ heel.

  “I’m here in Austin because Barbie can’t get enough of me. Yeah, I did have your soul mate, bro, ten different ways. In fact, I’m waiting for her here at Barton Springs Pool.” I hung up the phone and Brad screaming at me.

  We had a connection that only identical twins have. He was hotheaded while I usually remained cool, but I could feel my head exploding because Brad was in a temper.

  It took him about 20 minutes to drive to Zilker Park.

  His tires screeched and the car door slammed.

  He limped down a long set of steps leading down to the pool. “Where is she?” he screeched. “I’m going to kill the two of you!”

  There was a lamp pole close by so I hid the gun behind my back.

  He came closer, his face enraged and his fists out.

  I swung the gun around and for a flicker of a moment he appeared scared.

  I fired, emptying the gun.

  Brad jerked with each bullet that hit him and I felt his pain and his shock.

  I stood over my dying brother.

  Brad rasped out the last words he would ever say to me: “I am your other half. You are my soul mate. How could you let a woman come between us?”

  “I’m sorry, Brad, but I just couldn’t let you murder your wife. Ronni is my soul mate and Barbie is simply collateral damage.”

  “Like Vanessa,” he mewed, blood bubbling from his lips.

  I aimed the gun at his forehead and fired the last bullet.

  I dropped Barbie’s gun, which still had her fingerprints all over the metal.

  I ran towards the rental car, drove the 30 minutes to Lakeway Airpark, and flew back to Seattle.

  I waited a day and then drove to Oregon where I called the Austin police and tipped them off about Brad beating up Barbie Simpson and her husband threatening to kill him. “Just thought you’d like to know that both Simpsons, husband and wife, had a motive for wanting to kill Dr. O’Boyle.”

  By the calmness of my voice, you would think I have framed someone for murder before when I myself am the killer. The secret to my serenity is in the zygote, a shared experience with my identical twin. I once believed Brad to be much different from me due to the environments we were raised in. It turned out everything about spooky similarities between identical twins not raised together was true. Brad and I both became murderers and both framed other people, but it takes more than shared genes to make a brother, more than the tie in a mother’s womb, an egg split apart like an atom creating a nuclear explosion of shattered lives.

  Mine was a righteous kill.

  Chapter 68

  RONNI

  I recognize everyone at Brad’s funeral except for a man dressed in a trench coat holding a large black umbrella above his head. He wears a black fedora hat shading his face and sunglasses even though it is a dreary, rainy day at Oakwood Cemetery. The man stands at the back by himself and seems to be trying his best to blend in with the fringes of the crowd. The man watches me, giving me a creepy feeling, but then many of the mourners are staring so I am trying to seem like a grieving widow.

  There is a canopy reserved for family, and I insist that Riley sit beside me since I have no family to keep me company. Traci is with a sitter because she still insists her father is not dead. My child needs to see a psychologist and it is all Brad’s fault.

  It is terrible to think ill of the dead, which is why I wear sunglasses so no one can make out my real feelings. Let them think my eyes are swollen with tears. I do cry at the drop of a hat when thinking about the poor woman in Canada Brad married and then murdered. I sometimes blame myself for her death. I should have talked to Brad’s folks about his mental illness, his split personality, and tried to get him some help. Then I think, Ronnie, it is not your fault. Brad was Brad, and no one, not even Viola, could have talked him into seeing a psychiatrist. I should have at least tried though. Maybe that poor woman would be alive. I turned over the bloody knife to the police.

  I grieve for the couple of months of wedded bliss when Brad acted so different. I cry into my pillow every night for Brad number two.

  I twirl a white rose in my hand. Ha! A devil like Brad should have black roses at his funeral, but my mother-in-law elbowed her way in, like always, and made all of the arrangements. If it was up to me, there would have been no funeral, just Brad’s body burned to a crisp in an incinerator and his ashes scattered around a landfill.

  The priest recites the usual garbage about the loving wife and all the loved ones Brad left behind. My face tenses, feeling as if pins and needles are pricking my skin. Oh, God, surely we will not all be together some day, as he claims. Where, in Hades?

  Brad’s parents are not even civil at a funeral. Viola grabs Ethan’s arm and pulls him away from me so they are leaning as far away as possible without falling off their seats. Brad’s uncles, aunts, and cousins group together with black umbrellas held high looking like crows.

  The guest of honor lies in front of the canopy, ta-da! Brad’s coffin is sealed shut and I never have to see that man’s face again.

  Like a dutiful wife, I drop the white rose on Brad’s coffin.

  I plop down on a red velvet chair to receive condolences.

  “Sorry.”

  Yeah. Yeah. Next!

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Do not be.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Why? I’m happy for my loss.

  “He was a wonderful man.”

  He was? Are we talking about the same man?

  “Brad was a wonderful father.”

  Think again, Sherlock.

  “He was a great husband.”

  How would you know? Did Brad marry you, too? Oh, perhaps he murdered you as he did his second wife.

  Not one person has the balls to say, “Brad was a girlfriend beater, a wife abuser, a bigamist, and a murderer.”

  “I’m sorry about your husband,” a man says in a deep timbre resonating in my chest.

  Someone is walking over my grave. I know that voice! He sounds exactly like Brad but without the Texas twang. I manage to remain calm and murmur, “Thank you, sir, for your condolences.”

  The man pushes his fedora hat lower on his face. He lowers his umbrella, hiding his face even more. He reaches out and takes my hand.

  A bolt of electricity shoots through me. Something about him seems creepy familiar.

  He seems reluctant to let go of my fingers and I yank my hand away.

  He is the last of the receiving line so believes we have time for small talk. “How is your daughter doing?”

  “Traci is all right, considering.”

  Perhaps he is a reporter from City Confidential snooping around. I tilt my head to get a better look at him but he turns away so his face is still in shadows.

  Apparently, he cannot think of anything else to say and walks away. He is as
broad as Brad was and just as tall. In fact, he is a dead ringer for Brad from behind.

  Dead ringer? I sigh at my silliness. I am seeing ghosts. I, also, mistook him for a nosy reporter when all along the man was just being polite and concerned. He simply mouthed the same questions everyone does to the widow of a murdered man left with a small daughter who must miss her daddy.

  “How did Brad know the mysterious man?” Riley asks.

  “Who? The tall one?” I whisper back.

  “He looks familiar but I can’t quite place him.”

  “The man is probably a friend of Brad’s or an acquaintance. He didn’t say anything about him and Brad being close though.”

  “Maybe a colleague,” she adds.

  “Probably. His hands felt like Brad’s, a doctor’s hands. And he had that clean doctor smell about him, like antiseptic, as if he just washed his hands of something.”

  “A guilty conscience?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “The way he said, I’m sorry about your husband. The man sounded so tortured, almost as if he killed Brad.”

  My eyes follow the man to the cemetery exit. He does not look so much guilty as torn to pieces with grief. Maybe he had been close to Brad. His shoulders are rounded, and his back caved in. The man stumbles to his car as if utterly defeated.

  Then again, this is a funeral and funerals are always sad, even a funeral for Brad O’Boyle.

  September 15, 2015

  ZOMBIES ARE REAL. Sometimes it is possible for a corpse to rise from the grave.

  * * *

  Part 9: The Reckoning

  Chapter 69

  RONNI

  Nine days may be too soon for a widow to clean out her husband’s things and empty her house of memories, but then mine was never a conventional marriage.

  Suits intended for charity are piled on Brad’s bed. A grey and black plaid suit wobbles on top.

  Traci storms into the room, climbs on the bed, grabs the plaid suit, and drags it behind her, stomping to the closet.

  She stands on her toes, trying to hang the suit back on the rod.

  Riley cracks her gum. “Where did you come from half-pint? I was looking for you to give you a stick of chewing gum. Have you been hiding under the bed?”

  “Don’t throw my daddy’s suit out,” Traci yells, “he’s coming back for it.”

  Traci is about to cry again and I give her a hug, smoothing the hair from her face. “It’s okay, Honey.”

  She pounds my back with her fists. “Don’t throw his suit away. Don’t!”

  “Alright.” I hang up the suit, figuring to throw this one out after Traci’s next visit to the psychologist.

  “Promise me, mommy.” Traci wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands and her voice rattles, breaking my heart.

  “I promise, Traci, not to throw this suit out if you promise to go play outside. It’s such a lovely day and your daddy would want you to have fun, right?”

  Traci nods her head. “Okay, Mommy.”

  The lone suit hangs in Brad’s closet.

  Riley is obsessed with the makings of a funeral. I intend to give the guest book to Brad’s mother so she can write out thank you notes, but Riley insists on sticking her nose in the book and flipping through the pages first to see who attended the viewing. Why, I cannot imagine except maybe she is looking for bachelor doctors.

  “What did you say the name was on Brad’s travel bag that had the Air Canada luggage tag, the bag with the bloody knife you overnighted to the Canadian police,” she says.

  I cringe at the memory. “Jayden Tremblay. Why?”

  “Well, dear, a Jayden Tremblay from Canada attended Brad’s viewing.”

  “What!” I drop a pair of men’s dress shoes on my foot and hop to the bed where Riley is sitting.

  “Look here. His name is in the viewing book along with his address in Canada.”

  The name and address causes me to sputter.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Riley says.

  “But…but…Brad’s double life. The name he was using in Canada. Brad was Jayden Tremblay.” I sit down on the bed, feeling faint.

  “Someone is playing a sick joke on you.”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

  Riley follows me downstairs to the study.

  I flip through the pages of the telephone book and pick up the phone. “I’m calling Air Canada.”

  “Make a reservation for me,” Riley purrs.

  I shake my head no and Riley glares at me.

  I make a reservation on the next day’s flight to Victoria, British Columbia, for one.

  Chapter 70

  RONNI

  Riley still insists on going with me to Canada.

  “I need you to stay with Traci. I don’t care to leave her with Brad’s folks and obviously can’t take her with me.”

  “You’re going to Canada all by yourself to confront this Jayden Tremblay, if he exists?”

  “Yes. I’ll take a can of mace to spray his face with.”

  “Be very careful, Ronni. You know nothing about this man except that he knew Brad and may have helped him murder a woman. Maybe someone is after money, you know, a widow, probably a big life insurance policy. This may be a friend of Brad’s in Canada, or an enemy.”

  “Well,” I try to sound flippant, “I better pack my bags.”

  “Write down what hotel you’re staying at and call as soon as you get there. Check in with me often so I can send the police in case anything happens. It’s a bad world out there and not wise to go knocking on a stranger’s door.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m a big girl. I won’t do anything stupid.”

  “I just wish someone was going with you,” Riley mutters.

  “On Thursday the Good Will is coming to get Brad’s clothes. You heard Traci’s crazy idea about her daddy coming back for the plaid suit. I will just have to keep that suit until Traci quits grieving. I guess she needs something to remind her of her father.”

  “I know,” Riley says and smiles gently.

  I blink back my tears. “I found a stash of drugs in Brad’s bathroom. He was using drugs with Traci in the house. I should have left him, Riley, years ago.”

  “You need to forget Brad. When you return, sell this monster of a house, and make a new start. There. There. Quit crying.”

  “Maybe this Jayden Tremblay is Brad’s drug dealer, his Canada connection.”

  “Now you are really worrying me.” Riley pulls up the web page of the Victoria police and writes down the phone number. “Just in case,” she says and hands the piece of paper to me.

  Chapter 71

  JAYDEN

  A For Sale sign was plastered to the window of my condominium. I already made an offer on a house and planned moving in a week.

  New carpet was laid in the entire house, and every spot of Vanessa’s blood cleaned. I had moved my clothes and stuff into one of the spare rooms and kept the door to the master bedroom closed. I could barely stand to drive my car into the empty garage without seeing Vanessa’s Porsche looking like a pink valentine.

  I sat slumped on the den sofa, my suit rumpled and tie loosened. My eyes were bloodshot. Cold containers of open Chinese food were scattered about the coffee table.

  Besides my own patients, I had been filling in for other doctors, working myself to the point of exhaustion in order to sleep. I, also, worked at a children’s hospital on Sundays for free to earn some sort of forgiveness for my sins. I was not turning into a saint. Work kept me away from the house. Booze helped a little, too, but I only drank after work. I drowned my sorry life with help from Jimmy Beam and a six-pack of beer chaser, hoping to pass out and get some sleep.

  Tonight, I returned home earlier than usual, 7:30 pm. The nurses and other doctors literally chased me from the hospital, insisting I go home and get some rest; quit getting on everyone’s nerves. They all knew the police had arrested me for a murder I did not commit, and that my girlfriend married my id
entical twin brother who lived in America and was now dead. God, I hate pity!

  Vanessa’s father tried to throw the book at me, but the police decided my time behind bars was punishment enough and so I did not lose my medical license, nor did the police report me to the airlines for flying under Brad’s name.

  My parents were kind enough to drop the subject of me exchanging places with my brother and messing with other people’s lives. Masquerading. Manipulating. Fooling my parents. Deceiving my patients. And especially, making a fool of Ronni...always Ronni, in the back of my mind, behind my heart, beneath my stomach. I had to move on and stop thinking about Ronni and my niece, quit fantasizing about visiting Traci. It was better this way, and Ronni need never know about the cruel joke we played on her. She had enough grief on her plate without another murderer in her life.

  No one knew about me killing Brad, of course. The punishment for my sins should not be suicide. No slashing of wrists. No overdose of drugs. No sucking on the car exhaust with the garage door sealed and the motor running. No hanging from the ceiling. No lethal injection of morphine stolen from the hospital. There were at least 100 painless ways to kill myself but nope; I planned to live a long life to remember my sins.

  Booze was a handicap to get over this hump, no make that mountain, and move into the new house and attempt a fresh start. The reason I was not living at a hotel or with my parents was to punish myself. Here, in this house, I could imagine Brad and Vanessa together. Then I would see Brad killing her, hear her screaming, and see the shock on her face in those last moments before dying when Brad brandished the knife, but Vanessa believed it was I. Thinking about her death made me feel better about murdering my brother.

  I reached for the whiskey again.

  It took a few rings of the doorbell before realizing I was not hearing angel’s bells because Vanessa had just gone to heaven but that someone was actually at my door.