Chapter Thirty-Two
She lay on the large, queen-size bed. The house was quiet now. No more screaming or phones ringing. Patti rolled over and buried her face in one of the cotton floral pillowcases. Her heart quickened as Gary’s distinct scent filled her nostrils. This must be the side he sleeps on. Here’s where he dreams and reads and makes love. A jarring thought pierced her when she called an image to mind of her beloved locked in a passionate embrace with either of the creatures downstairs. She replaced the picture with a more vivid one of herself and Gary, together finally, in this bed.
A thought came to her and she got up and walked to the closet. On the floor amongst his shoes was the laundry basket. She pulled out a man’s blue and white striped dress shirt. She held it to her face and breathed deeply.
She peeled off her violet-colored pullover and tossed it onto the bed. She slipped the soiled button-down over her shoulders and fastened it up to her neck. Raising an arm to her face, she smelled the fabric. Now, whenever she wanted to, she could access him.
Patti moved to an old maple dresser standing against one wall of the bedroom. She pulled open the drawers one by one. Underwear, undershirts, socks, his passport, bowties, cufflinks, a Father’s Day card, a packet of condoms.
Patti held the condoms in her hand and reflected on how she felt about finding them. Deciding that they were his commitment not to have any more children by the bitch downstairs, she replaced them in the drawer. Her fingers touched a greeting card in the drawer. To the man I married on our anniversary.
Feeling instantly annoyed and agitated, she turned and left the room, scooping up the Glock from the bed as she did.
Time to do it, she thought. Time to finish it.
Darla sat next to Maggie, who was now also bound in one of the kitchen chairs. Stump had pressed packing tape to their mouths, and so the two sat mutely watching each other, as if willing the other to be either solution or solace.
Darla knew it was all over. She knew it was going to end right here at her own kitchen table, her own macaroni-and-cheese-hot-soup-and-tea kitchen table. A bizarre thought came to her. She and Gary had made love on this table once. She wished she was ungagged just long enough to tell the crazy bitch that. She looked at Maggie. She looked dazed and scared. Darla felt a rush of guilt.
“Botched it with you once, Maggie,” Stump said as she entered the kitchen, wagging the gun at her. “Remember all that great advice you gave me? About how to make a man run for his life from you? Remember that? You bitch. I’m going to enjoy killing you more than wifey here.” Without another word, she placed the barrel of the Glock to Darla’s temple, her finger quivering on the trigger.
“Bye, wifey. Time to become the ex-wifey.”
Murder in the South of France, Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries Page 54