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“I hope you don’t mind my dropping by,” Mary says, gulping her tea.
He crosses the room, leans back against the counter and folds his arms across his broad chest. His hair is damp with sweat and his skin is glistening, and why does no one tell you the devil can look this good? When he flashes his dimples, she’s putty in his hands. “Not at all.”
Mary looks at me. “It’s just when I heard you were under the weather, I thought I might pop over and see if there was anything I could do.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“She’s fine,” he agrees. “The heat makes my wife restless.”
Mary starts coughing then, and she takes a long time to stop.
“Gina is always happy to have company,” he offers, refilling her tea. “She gets lonely out here—and you know what they say about lonely women.”
Mary doesn’t realize it wasn’t a question. I know because between coughing fits, she says, “What do they say?”
He looks at me quizzically, and I see murder behind those eyes. “Why don’t you tell her, darling?”
I wipe the sweat from my brow and set about clearing the table. We made love here just this morning, and it was hot even then. “He’s being facetious,” I explain to Mary. “I could never get lonely out here. How could I?” I say, looking at him. “When there’s so much that needs tending to.”
His face shifts and his eyes cloud over. He’s growing bored, and it’s the worst thing for him to be. I’ve never wished we were alone more than I do at this moment.
“If walls could talk,” Mary stammers. She’s not looking good. Her color has turned ashy, and her once rosy red lips now boast a blueish tint.
No. No. No.
I probably should have protested a little more, but the outcome was inevitable. Someone was always going to die, and that someone could still be me.
“Yes,” he says, eyeing me. “If walls could talk.”
I feel a story coming, and our guest does too. You could even say she has expectations. My husband likes to regale the men in town with tales of my prowess. I suppose that’s one way to put it. The nice way. Soon enough, rumors spread, and the wives began turning up at the front door to see what’s in the water.
Nothing good, I’ll tell you that.
This is his game. I’m just a player in it. Somewhat unwillingly, although, as they say, it takes two to tango. Remember how I said the devil has his ways?
It’s true.
He doesn’t get far into his story before our guest collapses onto the floor, clutching her pearls. She just kind of deflates. Her ashen skin turns pale, her eyes roll back, she convulses a bit, and then she is still.
“Oh, look,” he says. “We got ourselves another one.”
I lean down and pat Mary Baker’s hand. Not because I’m trying to help. We’re well past that. I’d like to say this is my first time seeing a dead person, but I can’t lie. We’re well past that, too.
He squats down beside me. “My wife is good at a lot of things,” he says, gazing into Mary’s empty stare. “Sad to say, cooking is not one of them.”
“They weren’t meant for her,” I reply bitterly. “Seeing as she’s the police chief’swife.”
“Oh well. I never really cared for her. You?”
“Of course not. But that’s not the point.”
I stare at him for a long beat, expecting him to respond, but he doesn’t. He’s never this careless. That’s how I know he’s up to something. That’s how I know I’m about to die. Finally, he leans forward and wipes the sweat from my brow. “You look beautiful when you’re angry.”
I don’t mean to flinch, but I do. I’ve seen how this ends.
“Now, go strip yourself down,” he tells me. “I’ll leave what you need outside the door.”
“I’m not putting on a dead woman’s clothes.”
