Not This Time, A Short Story

(This short story premiered on NewMystery.com then appeared in New Mystery Magazine, Summer 1997, Volume V number 1.)

"I want the house, Ned," Maryann demanded in that husky annoying tone of hers, designed to shrink Ned's manhood to Ken Doll proportions.

She wants, she wants, well, not this time, baby. She wasn't going to get away with it this time. "Look, Maryann," Ned said, "maybe it was your salary and not mine that got us this house, but you're the one who walked out on me. Remember?"

He had no intention of giving up the house. She wanted him to act like a man, well, he'd show her. Just the thought of Maryann and that beefed up buffoon she'd been dating, together in the bed he had shared with her for ten years sent bile into his throat. He swallowed hard and stood his ground.

"No, you look, Ned," Maryann said. "I paid for this house and I don't intend to argue about it. We agreed to an un-contested divorce."

Ned's face turned the color of the rose drapes they had picked out together at that little boutique in Pontotoc. "And that would be just fine for you," he replied, "as long as you get everything and I don't contest it. Well, sorry, sweetheart, but my lawyer says possession is nine-tenths of the law." His voice quivered as he spoke and that made him angry. He didn't want to appear weak in front of her. Not now when he had finally worked up the guts to stand up to her.

"Your what?" Maryann blurted.

"You heard me. I said, my lawyer. If you think you can screw your little beef cake and me too, you've got another thing coming. You've had your way ever since I've known you. This time you aren't going to get away with it."

She reached back to slap him. He made no attempt to block the blow and didn't flinch when it came. Maryann's smug expression twisted into fury. "So, the weak little fool finally finds his balls," she sputtered. "Don't mess with me, mister or I'll crush them."

"I'm keeping the house," he said matter-of-factly.

She blew like the whistle of a steam locomotive. A runaway train, she bolted from the room and slammed the front door with all the force of a woman scorned. The vibration caused the portrait Ned had had painted for her on their eighth wedding anniversary to shake loose and crash to the floor.

He went to the foyer and sat in the love-seat they had bought at an estate sale and stared at the broken painting. The artist had done it from a photograph of Maryann and him standing in front of their new dream home. Love and hate were indeed two sides of a very thin coin.

His head was so full of cluttered thoughts he almost failed to notice that the phone was ringing. Slowly he rose and wandered toward it, not caring if he got there before the caller hung up.

He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a glass from the bar as he passed. Splashing a shot into the glass, he swallowed it in a single gulp as he picked up the phone. "Hello," he coughed into the receiver.

"Hi, Ned, it's me, Charlie. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Ned said.

"Did you tell her?" Ned's close friend Charlie Waters was a detective on the Tupelo, Mississippi, Police Department, and it was his nature to get right to the point.

"Yes, I told her," Ned replied wearily. He had had no idea how exhausting standing up to his soon-to-be-ex-wife would be.

"And?"

"Actually, she took it better than I thought she would," Ned said, rubbing his swollen cheek.

"Facing her was the hard part. Your lawyer will take it from there."

"Yeah, I guess. I hate to seem ungrateful. I mean I appreciate your recommending a lawyer and everything, but I'm kind of beat." Literally and figuratively, Ned thought. "I'm going to call it a night."

"Yeah, sure, Ned. Meet me at JP's for lunch tomorrow and I'll buy you a beer."

"Thanks," Ned replied and hung up.

He sat in bed and worked at a crossword puzzle, but couldn't concentrate. Normally, he could finish the Times' crossword in under ten minutes. Her constant nagging had managed to ruin that for him, too.

"If you spent half the time studying the Wall Street Journal that you spend playing your little mind games, you might be a vice-president by now," she had told him on more than one occasion.

"When it comes to head games," Ned thought out loud, "you're the master, Maryann."

Maryann had spent her adult life decrying the glass ceiling, finally busting through to become the first female Vice President at Southern Trust. Ironic that she couldn't seem to accept a husband who was less successful than she was. That was a puzzle even Ned couldn't figure out. He was perfectly happy being a branch manager. He didn't want the headaches of a VP. Why couldn't she accept that?

He turned out the light and closed his eyes, but it was no use. Even after a month he couldn't get used to sleeping alone. He missed the way Maryann's body pressing into the mattress made him roll toward her. Without her there, he felt as though he might roll off the bed the moment he fell asleep.

As his conscious mind gave up its fight for control, his mind's eye opened to reveal himself standing in an open field. A shadow passed overhead and he looked up to see a zeppelin drifting toward him. It was so large it blocked out the sun.

"The Hindenburg," Ned thought, though he wasn't sure how he knew. He was thinking how peaceful it seemed drifting there, lighter than air, when the face of the pilot came into view. Maryann's lover. Suddenly flames began to bellow from the zeppelin like the fiery breath of a dragon. Ned tried to run, but the harder he ran the less progress he made. The demon dirigible crashed down on him, the raging fire sucking all oxygen from the air.

Pulling the pillow from his face, Ned sat up with a start and violently sucked air back into his lungs. Sweat flowed down his forehead in a steady stream.

"Shit," he said out loud, "damn nightmares." As he reached out with a trembling hand for the water glass on the bedside table he heard a crash from downstairs.

"Now, what?" he said, sitting up. Probably just the damn cat. Just like Maryann to leave that flea-bitten feline behind for him to care for.

Ned rose and moved sleepily down the stairs, blinking hard at the sudden glare as he flipped on the living room lights. He saw the broken vase and was mumbling something about re-stringing his tennis racket with the cat's innards when he noticed the open window. His heart raced as he spun to reach for the phone. The window had been closed when he went to bed.

The shot came as his hand touched the receiver. Ned dropped to the floor pulling the phone off the table as he fell. He tried to focus, but it was like looking through a fly's eyes. He saw a dozen of everything. Closing one eye to help focus, he gasped as ten Maryanns slowly merge into one.

"Won't get away with it," he mumbled, and began to dial the phone.

Maryann pulled the receiver from his hand, righted the phone on the floor next to Ned and dropped the received into the cradle.

"Won't get away with it," Ned mumbled again; then slumped to the carpet.

The next morning was barely over and Charlie Waters had already had a bad day. Not only was a kid he had brought in for stealing a Camaro back out on the street before Charlie had finished the paperwork, but it had made him late to meet Ned.

JP's was a bar and grill conveniently located right at cross-town in an old house that someone had had the good idea to remodel instead of tearing down. During the day it saw a busy lunch crowd of thirty-somethings, and at night was a popular bar for the twenty-something crowd.

As Charlie stepped inside, one glance around told him Ned wasn't seated at a table, so he headed for the bar.

"Hey, Charlie. Can I get you something?" asked the bartender.

"Hey, Bob," Charlie replied. "A Bud, please. Say, have you seen Ned?"

"Not today," the bartender replied, popping the top off a cold beer and placing it on the bar.

Another beer later Charlie decided to give Ned a call. When Ned's secretary answered the phone, he asked, "Hello, this is Charlie Waters. Is Ned in?"

"Oh, hello, Detective Waters," she said, sweetly. Because he often worked undercover, Charlie usually dressed like he wrestled truck transmissions for a living, but women seemed to go for his rugged cut features. "Ned's not here. And he didn't call in sick either. I tried calling his house, but no one answered. It's not like him not to call in."

"Don't worry, maybe he's stuck in his doctor's waiting room. I'm sure he'll call in soon," Charlie said, reassuringly. His words failed to convince himself, however, so he decided to go by Ned's and check on him.

At thirty-two, Charlie was already a two time loser in the marriage game, so he had an idea of what Ned was going through. He figured Ned was at home festering in the emotions that plague such events. It was not unusual for a person in such a state to miss a day of work.

When no one answered Charlie's knock he began to worry that Ned had done something stupid. When he checked the garage and saw Ned's car inside, a knot rose into his throat. He ran back to the front door and kicked it in.

Charlie had been a cop for ten years and even in a small city like Tupelo he had seen his share of dead bodies, but nothing he had seen prepared him for the sight of his lifeless friend lying in a pool of blood.

"Oh, God, Ned, no!" he cried There was little need to check for a pulse as Charlie had no doubt he was looking at a corpse, but with a trembling hand he carefully felt his friend's cold neck anyway.

Shaking his head sadly, Charlie stood and with a practiced eye scanned the room. Every item save two seemed to be in their usual place. One misplaced item, the phone, was on the floor to Ned's left, and to his right lay a revolver. Charlie recognized the gun as Ned's own.

Returning to his car he used his radio to call in. Within minutes the driveway of his friend's home was filled with official vehicles. As technicians moved about the house doing the detail work required of a death by unusual circumstances, Charlie stood in the corner of the den watching the somber proceedings with Abe Yetis, a fellow TPD detective.

"Doc says it happened around midnight," Yetis said. "He thinks it looks like a suicide. That's what it looks like to me, too, Charlie."

"You think, so?" Charlie mumbled, only half listening.

"Well, look at him. Half a bottle of whisky on the table. A gun on one side and a phone on the other. He probably sat there on the floor drinking, with one little voice telling him to call someone for help and another voice telling him just to end it all. It's no secret about his marital problems, and you said yourself that the gun belonged to Ned. Nope, don't take a college boy to see what happened here." Abe Yetis was a large hairy fellow with feet that would have been well suited for trudging through snow drifts. His resemblance to the mythical creature known as the Abominable Snowman left him with no shortage of nicknames.

The gears in Abe's brain turned slowly, but methodically. It might take him a little longer to sort facts, but he usually came to the correct conclusion in the end.

"Maybe you're right," Charlie conceded reluctantly, too preoccupied to notice the jab at his college background, "but it just doesn't fit his character. For one thing, we haven't found a note. Ned wasn't the type to leave things hanging like that. I grew up with him. He hated an unsolved mystery. In fact, solving them was an obsession of his. I just don't think he would have killed himself without leaving some explanation of why. I'm sure he would have called me or someone if he was really considering suicide."

"Maybe he did call someone. We could check the phone records and see."

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, do that," he said, turning to leave.

"Where are you going?" Abe asked.

"To see the widow."

VPs at Southern Trust usually worked Monday through Friday. This being a Saturday, Charlie didn't bother to go by the bank. Instead, he went to the address of the home Maryann had been sharing with her new lover.

Charlie conceded that suicide was a possible explanation, but he wasn't prepared to rule out murder just yet. And if it was murder, Maryann was naturally the most likely suspect.

He knocked on Maryann's door and was greeted by a large fellow who would have been right at home on the cover of a romance novel.

"Good afternoon, my name is Charlie Waters, Tupelo PD," Charlie said flashing a badge.

"What can I do for you, Officer Waters?"

"It's Detective Waters, and I need to speak to Mrs. Anderson."

The jock's face went as vacant as a church parking lot on Super Bowl Sunday. After a moment he said, "Oh, you mean, Maryann."

"Yes, I mean, Maryann," Charlie replied, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Then he realized that there was a reason other than the obvious lack of gray matter why the guy was confused. Maryann had already gone back to using her maiden name. She wasn't wasting any time.

The big man turned and called into the house, "Maryann, some cop's here to see you."

"What?" she called back as she came to the door. "Oh, Charlie, it's you. Is something wrong?"

"Mind if I come in?" Charlie asked. When he told her, he didn't want the door blocking his view of her reaction.

"Certainly. Where are my manners? I'm just a little surprised to see you. Charlie, this is Steve Morgan." As they stepped inside and sat down, Charlie noted that Maryann did not look like a person who just shot someone. Tight jeans and a thin blouse showed that at thirty, she had not let herself go. In fact, she looked better than ever. Probably due to the efforts of her live-in personal trainer.

Once seated, Maryann said, "Now, what brings you out to see us today?"

"I was supposed to meet Ned for lunch at JP's," Charlie said. "When he didn't show I went to the house. Maryann, I'm sorry to be the one to have to tell you that Ned is dead."

She gasped and a tear welled up in each eye. If she already knew Ned was dead, her performance had Charlie's vote for an Academy Award.

"Oh, my, God," she cried. "How did he die? A heart attack? I've tried for years to get him to exercise."

"No, not a heart attack. In fact, it looks like suicide."

Maryann gasped again. This time the tears broke loose and rolled down her cheeks.

Steve fetched her a box of Puffs.

Charlie waited until she had a small pile of used ones on the end of the table before he spoke again. "Despite your marital problems I know this is difficult for you, but I need to ask you a few questions."

She nodded and blew into a Puffs.

"You were there last night. You had an argument." It was a statement, not a question.

She looked up quickly. "I don't see what you're getting at."

"I just wondered if you could describe his state of mind?"

She seemed to relax a bit and furled her brow as she pondered the question. "Well, we talked about the divorce. We argued about what to do with the house. It was the first time we've talked that he didn't try to get me to come back to him." She seemed to consider this last statement a moment. "I thought maybe that meant he had come to grips with the divorce, but maybe it meant he had given up." The tears came again.

It was rare that Charlie questioned his instinct, but he was beginning to think his first impression had been wrong. Perhaps it was his guilt for having pushed Ned to stand up to Maryann that made him reluctant to accept that Ned could kill himself. If not for the strong feeling he had that Ned was not the type to commit suicide without leaving a note behind, he might have been ready to go along with Abe's and Maryann's assessment.

He stood and put a hand on Maryann's shoulder. "I'm sorry. If there is anything I can do, help with the arrangements, or anything, just call. You have my number." He turned to go; then turned back. "Oh, by the way, I know you left Charlie's about 9 p.m. Did you come straight home?" Charlie listened for her reply, but he had his eye on Steve.

"Yes, I did."

Steve didn't flinch. "Yeah," he added without hesitation. "She was home a little after nine."

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