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Dead Wife Walking by Earl Staggs
Her auburn hair was longer, and she was deeply tanned, but she was still beautiful and still moved with the flowing grace of a runway model. There was no doubt in my mind. The woman who had just entered my favorite restaurant in Tarpon Springs, Florida, was Janice Whitmore.
Four months ago, Janice Whitmore's car went over an embankment and exploded in Fort Worth, Texas. The car blazed for thirty minutes before emergency equipment arrived. She was not thrown from the car, and she did not escape from it. There was nothing left of her but ashes. I know. I watched.
"Would you like me to remove those, sir?"
Paul was a replacement for my regular waiter, Mario, who was sick, according to the owner of the restaurant. In his clumsy attempt to shell my lobster, Paul nearly dumped the entire plate in my lap. My slacks cost more than he made in a week. The owner would hear from me about it.
"Yes, Paul, I would like it very much if you would remove the dirty plates and silverware from my table. I would have liked it even more if you'd done it five minutes ago when I finished eating."
"Sorry, sir. We're busy tonight."
"No busier than usual," I said. "Just hurry." I didn't try to hide my dissatisfaction. Paul was not only incompetent but was now blocking my view of Janice Whitmore as she followed the hostess in a weaving path between tables, coming straight toward me.
I peered around Paul to see where the hostess would seat her. The restaurant was only half-filled, mostly with snowbirds in Florida to escape the February snow and ice up north. The hostess continued to lead Janice in my direction, passing by several empty tables.
Paul finished clearing my table and, true to form, dropped my silverware on the floor. After he picked it up, he asked, "Would you like me to bring you another drink now, sir?"
"No, Paul, I would not like you to bring me another drink now. I'd like you to go stand where I can see you, and I will beckon when I want you."
I waved Paul away as the hostess walked past me with Janice Whitmore two steps behind her. Janice nearly brushed my shoulder. The hostess seated her at the table right behind mine. For a second, I wondered if she'd recognized me, but only for a second. In the twenty years I'd been in the business, I'd never been made. Never.
Paul asked her if she'd like a drink.
"Chablis," she told him in a soft voice with barely a hint of Texas. "Pinelli Blanco if you have it."
I thought about leaving, but I couldn't. When you're the best at what you do, you take pride in doing it exactly right. No mistakes. Ever. I turned in my chair to face her. She was studying the menu. I smiled. "Excuse me," I said.
She glanced over at me with a pleasant look. There was no hint of recognition, no coy smile to encourage conversation, only the bland expression a woman of breeding gives when approached by someone she doesn't know.
"I'm sorry to bother you," I said, holding my friendly smile, "but aren't you from Fort Worth?"
She lowered her menu and shook her head. "No, I'm not." Her smile was small and quick, not meant to be rude but also not meant to invite further conversation.
"Please forgive me," I said. "It's just that you look familiar."
"That's quite all right. People tell me that all the time. I'm sure we've never met." She returned to her menu.
I turned back to my table. I had made no mistakes in Fort Worth. I'd considered everything, calculated and planned every detail. Janice Whitmore was dead, but she was here, sitting at a table right behind me, waiting for a glass of wine.
Paul brought her wine and asked, "Would you care to order now, Miss?"
"Oh, I haven't quite decided yet," she said. "I've heard all your seafood is good. How is your baked halibut tonight?"
Before Paul could respond, I turned around again. "Try the smoked salmon," I said.
She glanced at me, pursed her lips and thought about it. "I love smoked salmon, but sometimes it's too salty."
"Not here," I said. "It's excellent, and I recommend it."
She smiled. "Thank you." She ordered smoked salmon and artichoke salad with vinaigrette.
Paul started to walk away, but I held up a hand to stop him. "Paul," I said, "I want you to go into the kitchen and tell Raymond to be sure not to overcook the lady's salmon so that it's too dry. Perhaps you'd better write that down."
"I'm sure I can remember it all the way into the kitchen," he said. There was a note of insolence in his voice.
"See that you do, Paul, and..." I looked at Janice Whitmore. "...tell him to go easy on the seasoning."
Janice nodded her approval of the light seasoning. She was grinning now, glancing from Paul to me and back again.
"Will that be all?" Paul asked. He gave me a forced smile. The red bolero style waiter's jacket didn't fit him. He must have borrowed Mario's, but he was more muscular than Mario. It was too tight, and he looked totally unprofessional.
"Yes, Paul," I said. "You may bring me another drink now and another glass of wine for the lady. And there's one more thing. You need to work on your attitude and learn to pay attention to details. Details make the difference between doing a job right or not, even if it's only waiting tables."
I saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. "I'll try to remember that, sir." He walked away at a brisk pace.
"You don't seem to like him," Janice Whitmore said from her table behind me.
I turned toward her again. "It's nothing personal," I said. "It's just that I come here quite often because the food is excellent, and the service has always been first rate. I've come to expect that, and Paul has been a disappointment."
Her face widened in a full grin. "It seems to be personal to him. I don't think he likes you either." She added a quick wink.
Something in her voice, along with the wink, seemed almost flirtatious. I'd noticed how attractive she was back in Fort Worth, but I never let such distractions interfere when I'm working. I wouldn't let it distract me now. I had to know how she could possibly be alive.
I picked up my drink and moved over to her table. She stared at me for a moment, then looked around as if to see if there was someone close by to rescue her from this sudden intrusion.
"Don't be alarmed," I said. "I know who you are. All I want to do is talk, all right?"
She stared at me for a second, then looked away. She raised her glass and swirled the wine in small circles, watching the liquid slosh back and forth. "You know the movie Casablanca?" she asked.
"Bogart at his best," I said.
"This reminds me of one of Bogart's lines. How did it go? Something like, 'Of all the gin mills in all the world, she had to walk into mine.' Ironic, isn't it, that I had to walk into this place, and you're here?"
"Ironic," I said.
A look of resignation crossed her face. She took a sip of wine and looked into her glass for another few seconds. "You're not going to let it go, are you, Mr. Hardin?"
She knew my name. Not my real name, of course, but the one I'd used in Texas. Only her husband knew that name, and he certainly wouldn't tell her. How could she have known it?
"So you do know who I am," I said. "No, I can't let it go. I have to know how you pulled it off?"
"Of course I know who you are. I should. You trailed me everywhere I went for three days."
"You knew I was there?"
"Oh, you're good, I'll give you that," she said. "It was even fun figuring out where you were without you knowing I knew."
That irritated me. I'd never been made. Never. "I'm glad I gave you some amusement for those three days."
She narrowed her eyes and studied me for a moment. "You should let it go," she said. "It's not too late. You should just walk away right now."
"No," I said. "I can't."
"Is it because of a sense of pride in your work, Mr. Hardin? You can't stand the thought of failing to carry out a contract?"
"Failure is a sign of incompetence," I said. "Failure is due to not considering every possible detail, of not planning for any eventuality. No, I never think about failing. Anyone who does is destined to fail before they begin."
Paul delivered our fresh drinks and her salad. He didn't seem to notice or care that I was sitting at her table now.
"I always deliver on a contract," I said after Paul left us. "Yet, here you are. I need to know how that's possible."
"What difference does it make now? You were paid well by my husband to kill me, quite well, as a matter of fact. It's not as if I'm going to ask for a refund." A grin played across her lips. Apparently, I was providing amusement for her once again. That irritated me even more.
"Obviously, I was conned somehow, and I don't like being conned. I think I deserve to know the truth."
She finished her first glass of wine and picked up her second one. "Maybe you do deserve to know. It certainly won't do any harm now. But first, you'll have to satisfy my curiosity."
"About what?"
"My car went over a cliff on a tight curve. How did you make that happen? A blowout?"
I shook my head.
"The brakes then. You tampered with the brakes."
I thought about it. Why not tell her? She'd never tell anyone. I knew I'd have to get rid of her now. She could identify me, and that was a possibility I never allowed. Not even her husband had seen me. He and I talked only by phone, and he left my payment at a prearranged drop point. It was my turn to be amused. I'd never killed anyone twice before, and the thought intrigued me. After all, it would be risk-free. Officially, she was already dead.
"Those tricks are for amateurs," I said. "And you can't be a hundred per cent certain tampered brakes will do what you want them to at the right time. The only sure method is the steering mechanism, all controlled electronically. A little wiring work, a remote control device, and all you have to do is push the right button at the right time. The steering locks, and the car goes straight even if the road curves."
"But wouldn't that leave traces or wires or something?"
"Poof," I said. "It all went up in smoke."
She nodded. "I see what you mean. Then I'd say you were lucky the car exploded and the fire destroyed the evidence."
"Never trust to luck," I said. "People can walk away from the worst car accidents you can imagine. The fire is the finishing touch."
Her eyes widened. "Then...the fire was...?"
"Electronics again. A tiny spark in the right place and...poof!"
She smiled and raised her glass in a toast. "Brilliant," she said. "It's no wonder you're the best. I'm sure the insurance companies have paid out millions as a result of your work."
I toasted back. "If only they knew." I laughed. I was actually enjoying this. I'd never talked about my work before with anyone. With her, of course, it wouldn't matter. I decided to take her out on my boat and get rid of her in the Gulf of Mexico. I knew it wouldn't be difficult to get her to go. There was definitely a flirtatious nature in her glances now, in the way she leaned forward when we clicked glasses, generously showing more cleavage than necessary. I'd do what I had to do, but there was certainly no reason not to accept what she was offering first.
"Now it's your turn," I said. "Someone was in your car that day, someone who looked enough like you to be your twin. Who was it?"
"Her name was Sandra Wallace, and you're right. We could pass for sisters up close and from a distance as twins, I suppose. You only saw me––or her––from a distance, as you recall."
"Who was she?"
"Sandy was my cousin. That accounts for the resemblance. It also helped that I copied her hair style before you started following me. Oh, it was me you followed for those three days it took you to decide on the time and place for my, uh, accident. But on that final day, it was Sandy."
"She came out of your house that morning and drove away in your car. How did you manage that?"
"Why, Mr. Hardin, you're not the only clever one, you know." She leaned toward me, showing her cleavage again, and touched my arm with her hand. She was definitely offering, and I would definitely accept. But there was more I had to know first.
"Go on," I said.
"Sandy always did what I asked her to do," she continued. "After you told Roger when and where you were going to do it, he went off on one of his business trips, and I asked Sandy to do me a small favor."
"A small favor."
"I told her I was spending the night with a gentleman friend, but I didn't want anyone to suspect I wasn't home where I belonged. I asked her to drive my car to my house that night, spend the night there, then meet me the next morning to give the car back. Anyone who might have been looking would think it was me, the faithful and dutiful wife, home where she was supposed to be while her husband was out of town. I made sure she took the route you expected me to take that morning."
I was beginning to agree. I wasn't the only clever one at that table. "How did you know Roger hired me?"
She laughed. "Mr. Hardin, you really must keep up with the modern woman. Any wife who doesn't bug her husband's phone is a fool. You'd be amazed at how many do it and how many of them keep their husbands in line because of it."
That explained how she knew my name and why I was in Fort Worth. "So let me understand this. You knew your husband hired me, but instead of blowing the whistle, you decided to let your cousin act as stand-in. Why?"
She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of wine. Her expression grew somber. "Do you know what Roger did for a living, Mr. Hardin?"
"He was an attorney who did high finance negotiations for big money people. He moved money around, made the deals, and took a percentage for himself. He was quite successful, I understand."
"Very successful. But did you know some of his success was for ventures that were, shall we say, frowned upon by the authorities?"
"If you mean his money laundering operation, yes, I knew about it, but it meant nothing to me."
"We lived quite well, Mr. Hardin. So well that even his legitimate enterprises plus his illegitimate ones weren't enough to pay our bills. He started skimming off the top, I think they call it, and some of his clients found out about it. They wanted their money back, and he didn't have it. I'm sure I don't have to tell you what those kinds of people do if you can't pay up. As a matter of fact, I believe it was one of those business associates who recommended you to Roger. You must have had dealings of your own kind with them."
"It's very possible," I said, "and you're right. I know exactly how they deal with people who cross them."
"I'm sure you do," she said. "That's probably what keeps you in business, right?"
I smiled. "Could be."
"Anyway, after listening to his phone conversations with you, it wasn't hard to figure out that Roger had found a solution to the problem, for himself at least. We had two million dollar life insurance policies on each other. He decided to collect on mine to pay them off."
"Tricky boy, that Roger."
"Yes, very tricky. You're lucky you got your money in advance. That two hundred thousand he paid you was all he had, and he had to scrounge hard to come up with it."
"I always collect in advance," I said. "But why did you let me go through with it?"
"I considered all my options. I thought about running away, just disappearing, but I didn't like that at all. I also thought about going to the authorities, but I liked that even less. Sure, Roger would have been ruined and out of my life, but I'd be left with nothing. Then I decided to look out for myself. I decided to let Roger collect the two million dollars insurance on me, then I'd show up and take it from him. What could he do to stop me? I'd threaten to go public and let the world know I was still alive. He'd be really finished then, but I wouldn't be left with nothing."
"You'd take the money and disappear, leaving Roger to face the consequences with the people he still owed."
She gave a little shrug and smiled. "A girl's got to do what she has to in this cold, cold world, Mr. Hardin. Besides, he deserved it, don't you think?"
I sat back and thought about it. They were quite a pair. They deserved each other. "The only part of your plan that didn't go right was his heart attack. I read about his untimely death in the newspapers."
She picked up her glass of wine and drank it down in one gulp. "The sonofabitch. Right after my memorial service, he decided to drown his sorrows at the craps tables in Vegas. He died right there on the casino floor before he could collect on my insurance policy."
"So he got nothing, which meant you got nothing."
"Absolutely zero. I couldn't even collect on his insurance policy because I was legally dead. Now, that's truly ironic, don't you think? If I showed up alive, they'd figure out how I pulled it off and connect me with Sandy's death. I'm sure not even you could have planned on a detail such as Roger having a heart attack."
"Probably not," I said. "Sometimes even the most careful planning can be undone by something that could not possibly be foreseen."
She raised her empty glass and held it toward me. I met hers with mine in a hollow toast to the unforeseeable.
"And here you are," I said. "Legally dead, broke, and in hiding."
She sighed heavily. "Turned out disappearing was my only option"
There was a sadness to her now. I almost felt sorry for her.
I raised my glass and drank the last swallow. I knew all I had to know, and it was time to move on. "Instead of having another drink here," I said, "why not have one on my boat? It's docked not far from here, easy walking distance. Maybe a little salt air will help us both put this whole thing behind us."
She looked at me and shook her head. "I'd like nothing better, but I'm afraid they have other plans."
"They? Who're they?"
She glanced over my shoulder. "Them."
I turned and looked. Paul stood there. He had replaced the red waiter's jacket with a suit coat. In one hand, he held a badge. In the other, handcuffs. Behind him stood two uniformed police officers.
"Stand up," Paul said to me, "and place your hands behind your back. You're under arrest for the murder of Sandra Wallace."
I stared at Paul and his companions, then turned back to the table. Janice Whitmore was standing now, and one of the police officers was placing cuffs on her. Janice mouthed "Sorry" to me.
I watched another officer reach into Janice's purse and pull out a tape recorder. They'd recorded our entire conversation.
Paul recited my rights as he put cuffs on me. He was rougher about it than necessary. When he finished, he said, "I'm sorry my performance as a waiter didn't measure up to your standards, sir." He emphasized the "sir." He stepped around in front of me and gave me an arrogant smirk. "I'm sure the inmates who serve you where you're going will appreciate your instructing them on how to do it properly."
I ignored him. Something else was more important. I looked at Janice Whitmore. "Why?" I said.
The female officer beside her started to lead Janice away. I stepped in front of them. "I think you can give us a minute here."
The officer looked at Paul. He shot me a look of disgust but nodded.
Janice Whitmore said, "It was one of those details you talked about, the kind you can't account for. That stupid cousin of mine told her boyfriend about staying at my house that night and driving my car the next morning."
"Of course she did," I said. "You should have foreseen that."
She shrugged. "I guess I'm not the professional you are. Anyway, he reported her missing, told them what he knew, and they put two and two together."
"So that sent them looking for you."
"It took them a while to track me down, but they did."
"And you gave me up. They offered you a deal, I suppose."
"It took them even longer to find you. Even when they did, they had no proof against you. They needed to hear it from you. They offered me a reduced sentence for doing this." She gave me a sad little smile. "What else could I do?"
I couldn't blame her. Like she said, a girl has to do what she has to do in this cold, cold world.
The female officer led her away. Paul took a firm grip on my arm and pushed me into step behind Janice. She looked back over her shoulder at me.
"You should have walked away," she whispered.
She was right. I should have walked away as soon as I saw her, but I had to know. It was her failure to plan for every possible eventuality, to calculate every detail. I couldn't have foreseen her tapping her husband's phone or sacrificing her look-alike cousin. I took some small satisfaction in knowing I had not made any mistakes. Very small, under the circumstances.
THE END Earl Staggs © 2007 |
