Who is a murderer?

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

Can you guess which event was murder… and whodunnit?

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“Wicked Woman… Truthful Thief… Lawyer Liar”

By Stephen James

 

                Oh, what a tangled web we weave — when first we practise to relieve? Well, that is what mushroomed, from this fellow’s necessity to visit the toilet — one brisk Argentine night. For an unlikely young hero, in this mini super-drama, the fusion of fact, fiction, fundamentality, and freedom, forms a very thick soup…

 

It was a busy night at 125 Oakmont Drive, on 23rd March. The inviting aroma of Latin cooking filled the night air. Outside, a thief was removing the pane of glass for his entry. Inside, Stephanie Summers had a knife at her rich husband’s throat. He was completely at her mercy. She had tolerated his womanising. She had enjoyed his money. She was basically over him! Stephanie watched him squirm with fear as she toyed with his life. This blade was nine-inches long. Within seconds, petty house burglar Carrington Warren is through the window and into their lounge room. He cannot help but see what is going on. Surprise keeps the silence. Carrington makes full eye-contact with Stephanie. Her return glare spoke of a woman who had reason to end her woes, and nothing would stop her. She flicked her nod at him, to say; just steal and leave swiftly mister. Carrington at first hesitates, then opens his mouth to speak. “I need to use the bathroom first, Mrs Whoever-you-are.” He started moving gingerly toward the restroom door offering, “I wasn’t quite expecting this!”

“Just go!” Her voice cut his eye-line free. Her head returned to its focus.

Carrington Warren flushed and lowered the lid. He returned to thank her — then leave quietly. Stephanie stood over the body. Its throat was cut. The nine-inch blade, stuck in the table beside the corpse, gave her a look of condemning guilt which she avoided. “I didn’t do it!”

An acidic smell of death hung in the air.

He summed-up the evidence instantly, knew she couldn’t possibly be trusted and forced an answer. “Sounds unlikely… but it could be likely. Either way, what’s next?”

“Rufus and I would often play it… a little rough. But never to this extent.”

“Your husband. Your murder. I didn’t even see you do it. So, I’m outta here!”

“I’m telling you. You fool. Don’t you see? While you were in the bathroom, I reconsidered and let him go. I didn’t want you to turn me in!” her solemnity begging… “I went into the kitchen to cry. I heard a man’s voice and a scuffle. When I returned… well, you can see what I saw!”

He had no idea who she was. “Look, lady. I don’t want to get mixed up in any of your personal problems. I got enough of my own to worry about already, without this crazy kind of business.” Like an inexperienced and pressurized victim of; wrong time – wrong place mania, he grabbed the knife to try to withdraw it from the table. It stayed put, the handle now wobbling.

“Oh, but you are mixed up. For all I know, you may have been the one who planned to come here and kill him. My letter opener just so happened to be quite handy at the time. There is NO WAY a woman could ram that knife blade in quite that firmly.” A tongue of rasp intention spat back.

At this point, Carrington understood one thing. She was right. He noticed this as her fingers peeled a pair of sheer, silken, arm-length, gloves away from each hand and threw them into the burning log fire. The only fingerprints on the handle were his, and whoever it was, who she reckons killed her husband. Stephanie had a wicked look in more than just her eye — she personified the meaning; Usually true when once she had a lover and seldom a strayer. But, when it came to financially fleecing them, she had no clones and no disciples. He knew one other thing; If the pair of them were going to make this one stick, he had to believe her flimsy story. What if there was another real murderer, whose prints are under his? It would be proof, right? They needed each other…

“I swear to you lady, I was in there the whole time. I did not kill your husband,” said Carrington, pointing at the bathroom door. “My brother-in-law, Danny, is a criminal lawyer. You don’t seem too upset?”

“The wealthy bastard won’t leave too many unhappy lamenting people behind.”

Warren’s eyebrows perched to a sharp incline. “You sound bitter.”

“It’s a long story. You wouldn’t be interested. What’s his name?”

Carrington squared her off. “What’s who’s name?”

“Your brother-in-law, Dumbo. You said he could help us.” She seemed nice when she needed something. “Don’t you think the cops will want to talk to us both?”

“It’s Danial Torres.” They both collaborated and dialled the two numbers…

By the time the police arrived, Danny was already at the scene. His Italian suit cheated the room for intricate detail. Calm and poised — the lawyer’s strut was of an alley cat’s. He instructed them never to speak unless he was there. The police were systematic, and a thorough forensic investigation followed. Every microscopic detail was taken into account by both parties. Danny was brilliant. He knitted the beholden-to-evidence couple’s alibis together so tightly, they couldn’t close the case. Even Carrington’s fingerprints were plainly smudged from a pulling-up motion, not a thrusting-down one — as would have been required at that angle, to kill him. There was also a mysteriously untraceable set of prints under his. They celebrated his courtroom work with dinners at the Ritz. ‘The Three Musky Tears’ they called themselves, and they lived it up. Stephanie was the heiress, so she provided the money. Carrington was simply washed along with the whole situation. He only paid a fine for breaking-in because he didn’t actually steal anything. He became the fortunate piggy-in-the-middle-playboy, by accident. Summers and Warren shared the house. On the flip side, there was Danny ‘The Wizard’ Torres, the wayward people of Buenos Aires’ crooked lawyer, who did all their bookwork and legalese, plus kept their noses clean. Stephanie Summers’ inherited Oakmont Drive mansion was located in Downtown El Puerto, not a place noted for its frothy coffee shops nor its Sunday school picnics. Here, the law hovered like dragonflies. At times, the pair were hounded by the police, about the unsolved murder case. The enforcement agency had smelled a rat. It was a matter of which one and how big. Always watching their tails was the sharp-witted lawyer. His underhanded brilliance kept the Argentine law at an arm’s length away.

After waking up one morning with a splitting headache, then, sending some outlandish olive-skinned man home, Stephanie met Carrington by the thirty-metre lap pool. A high-cut yellow bikini was exaggerating her curves. Her face began grinning like a successful used car salesman. Even behind the mask of her blurry, booze-filled, cheeky eyes, it did not prove too difficult to read. He knew she had been putting out. He hated it. Because, ever since the whirlwind started to spin, he had fallen steeply for her. He had become wound up in a story which narrated like a Mills & Boon novel. It had murder. It had conspiracy. They had money to burn. They lived life on the edge. She was evil. And her attractive wickedness had performed open heart surgery on him — he loved her. But he was not her hero in this book. He felt like a minor character. All he wanted was the girl, never mind the rest. She sat next to him — feet submerged on the top step. Contriving Stephanie, of course, knew everything that was going through his naïve mind. She even decided to sunbake topless just to tease him. Her Cheshire Cat smile forcing him to speak:

“Stephie, I have always wondered,” he struggled. “Who actually did kill Rufus on that night?”

“That much, I do know…” she laughed like he was silly or something. “I’ve always known.”

“Why have you not ever admitted this before?”

“Not important to us right now. Is it?” She splashed water on him.

“Stephanie, I’ve not been totally honest with you. When… when we first met, I had no idea it would have developed into this… this… this merry-go-round. The parties and the err, kafuffle are a lot of fun.” His words stumbled — gulping throat dehydrating. “But I want you, Stephanie. You’re all I ever wanted.” It was out there.

The big house sprawled around their privacy. Stephanie kept the silence alive by not verbally replying. She slid into the water, totally undressing at the same time, quiet as a melting ice cube. Her lips begging him in. She was not expecting what happened next…

Within two hours, Carrington Warren had turned the jezebel reprobate inside out. The unsung wanna-be burglar made the wildcat’s boat rock so much, that she promised him everything — except marriage, that was taboo. He naturally complied. His circle was complete, and he could now become the hero of their crazy unfinished story. They put it on public display, but the police didn’t like this. An item, quite this soon? The case still not closed? A body but no conviction? A reinvigorated haze of suspicion fell on them like the shadow from a plague of locusts. They were lucky to have his sister’s husband, Danny, to sweep up the locust carcasses. Danny Torres could make poison taste and sound like honey. In court, his lies sounded better than any truth. Charisma blazed a trail — he merely followed its path. At first connection, Stephanie had immediately gravitated to him when he’d looked her square in the eye and told her, he knew she was innocent; ‘Put your faith in my hands and I’ll get you both off’, he had lied straight at her. To Stephanie, anyone that good could be of use. It wasn’t rocket science. In Latin America, boldness goes a hell of a lot further than manners. She rolled with everything the lawyer promised, as though it were laced with gold.

A mobile phone call broke the chatter one evening. They were out dining. A party of six were halfway through their main courses, when Stephanie sprang up in her seat saying, “I must take this!” Her finger was pointing up to alert the guests. She wheeled away from the table speaking softly into her device. Five annoying minutes elapsed. Back at the table. “Unbelievable!” She regained their full attention. “I’m going to France… Tomorrow!”

“Ye-gads, this is great. I can’t wait to pack,” Carrington thrust his wine glass high.

“Not you, ah, Carrington dear. This is business. You know; boring meetings, endless signings of doctrines, decision-making. That kind of stuff. I’ll be about eight days.”

It hit him like a windmill blade. “What the heck do you do in France, Stephanie?”

“It appears that I now own a vineyard near… the bridge.” She looked at them blankly, forgetting the name of the Millau Viaduct. “Rufus apparently had it as a tax dodge. Some people are making it difficult to claim full ownership. Danny will be coming with me, to sort it all out.”

The windmill blade just became a whole lot bigger: The middle of romantic France. A vineyard. Eight long days. She will not be able to keep her legs together. His name felt like it had just slipped from top-billing in the novel. “This is great news!” He lied, but not too convincingly.

Later that evening, at 125 Oakmont Drive, Stephanie spoke as the outfits jockeyed for position in her suitcase. Her organizational skills were shameless. She could have left that night. Angst, as thick as a railway sleeper, hung between them. They retired to bed at ten. She lay on the bed with wide eyes but without speaking. In her heart, she knew she had hit another jackpot. His night was sleepless.

He waved goodbye at the airport. Danny and Stephanie trudged away laughing. Two days later, a call lets Carrington know that all is going well. Lots and lots of signature work. Not too many vinos. Five days into it, and this time, the call lets him know that they are having a well-earned break tomorrow. Sightseeing and hang-gliding at the iconic, world’s highest cable-stayed bridge and finally, some wine tasting. Don’t worry, Danny will always be there for us. He has a wonderful insurance policy for me to sign. Carrington Warren feels happier, relieved that she’s safe now and hangs up.

The next day, on the other side of the world, a gloating Stephanie Summers is soaring high above the valley. Below them is the Gorges du Tarn, a beautiful river which hosts the Millau Viaduct. The view is breathtaking. The uplifting feeling of flying is exhilarating and she has won again. Danny had worked his magical tongue-twists yet again. The warm updrafts were strong but predictable. They landed nearby the helicopter which had been leased to take them back to the summit of the cliffs, and then later, to a gala dinner at the winery.

“It is still early. Let’s do one more run!” She grabbed Danny’s groin. “You got the balls for it, Danny boy?”

“Pack these back up please, Janêne,” he said, to the French female chopper pilot, his hand pointing to the kites. “We are going back to the skies!”

This was their third run. Getting up there is one thing. Staying up there is another. At the top of the thousand-foot cliff, visible was a fog which had drifted across, partially blocking the huge bridge’s spans. It looked like a massive steel dinosaur skeleton looming in the mist. They leapt together and began circling skyward, crisscrossing past each other, sometimes within audio range. At one such occasion Danny yells across to her:

“We should have been an item, you and me!”

“What?” she shouted back. “Are you mad? You are already married, Danny. What are you saying? Things are great, just the way they are!”

His glider wandered off momentarily, then reapproached hers. “Yes, they are Stephanie. It’s just that… I think you and I have outgrown the others. Don’t you? Look at our strength together.”

Her face, even filled with buffeting airstream, was smiling. Stephanie knew Danny, in a way, was right. Carrington’s sister Kay was even more timorous than he was. No wonder Danny was bored. Her mind calculated… Stephanie had only really agreed to be with Carrington for convenience. She soared in the whistle of the wind, contemplating the debonair lawyer’s semi-proposition. He wheeled away on a gust. Suddenly, everything altered. Stephanie began to spiral out of control. Her hang-glider vanished into the Gorges du Tarn fog. The body took two days to find…

The news hit Carrington hard. He was against it in the first place. But her loss crippled him into desolation. He moped it out, at 125 Oakmont. Eight days later Danny shows up. Two heavies wearing suits are beside him. He pours himself a neat single malt scotch on-the-rocks. Face wearing a broad grin. “Well, old boy. Time to chuff-off!”

“What do you mean?” fired Carrington, surprised at the remark.

“What I mean is… Everything has been signed over to me. Silly bitch was too busy being greedy to read the fine print! That so-called ‘wonderful insurance policy’ she scribbled on, was the rights to both of her entire estates — as the chief beneficiary!” He was so matter-of-fact. “Ta-ta!”

“You killed her! Didn’t you?” Carrington stepped at him, but the two suits blocked his path. “You cut her wretched kite’s strings!”

“She was a wicked woman, Carrington. You knew that. Killed her husband, too. Oh, but you both knew the real truth. Didn’t you? You are such a truthful thief. You always were.” He laughed.

“I say she didn’t! And I also say that you are a lawyer liar! But either way, you have just killed her — for the money!”

“Yes, my boy. If you insist! A wicked woman, a truthful thief, and a lawyer liar… what a bunch of misfits we were. All in the line of business. You know how things are? Well, she’s my second really big fish. You should have gone to school, Carrington, instead of becoming a two-bit-burglar! Here’s ten-thousand US, arsehole! Take him away boys!” He wasn’t beaten – just relocated.

Three months later, it appeared that Carrington was back at his trade. The rooftops didn’t nag him, and the odd house yielded enough for a living. It was a far cry from his heyday — back at 125 Oakmont Drive with the other Two Musky Tears. Life moves on… He removed the window from a stylish Cape Cod house. He was on the roof, meaning, it was most likely a bedroom. The humble thief rolled through, onto the carpet. A man holding a semi-automatic pistol poised at a short woman met his stare. He was about to pull the trigger. This is not possible; his timing is really getting bad — or is it? The man drops the gun and dashes to the kitchen. Calmly, Carrington picks up the gun, goes into the kitchen and shoots the man. Next, he dashes off to the restroom, through his mind goes the words; No, Danny, she didn’t kill Rufus. I did. Didn’t you ever hear of gloves etched with false fingerprints? And… You deserved this Danny, my sister Kay would never hurt a fly, and this is payback time!

He had just calmly but calculatingly broken into Torres’ house, to square the ledger. The truth in fact was, that Carrington was a truthful thief. However, unassuming Mr Warren also quietly ran a small-time contract killing business on the side — not so pleasant.

There’s no love lost between business partners, I suppose…

Faded… Jaded… Masqueraded?

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

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“Faded Feathers”

By Stephen James

 Innocent feathers… pretty to look at, soft to touch, but hard to fathom. We all have said or done things we are probably not prepared to brag too much about. The strength of the human mind to retain explicit details of our high and our low points is truly amazing. Offloading the truth to others — as well as forgiving them when they reciprocate can be a rewarding redemption. Let us see what happens to this individual.

 

Beverly Martin sat in her front parlour; hot midday sun streaming through the threadbare curtains. There was nothing remarkable about her appearance, she just looked like any lady you might meet of her elderly years… but Beverly’s past holds a dark secret! She smiles through her wrinkled mouth, as she looks in the far corner where a hideous blue vase was sitting with some faded old feathers propped up, in no specific arrangement. Her mind began to wind back the clock…

A well-proportioned girl, just turning twenty years walks into the Grace with Lace Burlesque Nightclub, located in Sydney’s Rocks District. It was 9.30 pm. A clear view of the famous lit-up harbour bridge, from its old Sydney town surrounds, gave the popular watering-hole a romantic backdrop, extending into the early hours of each morning. It wasn’t sleazy, having a good honest reputation with a variety of local clientele, as well as a strong influx of once-a-year customers who came from all over Australia to feast on the scantily-clad high-quality dancers. The year was 1961. Leggy Beverly had learned to dance the new-vogue style of jazz-ballet — currently sweeping the nation on the heels of the movies and theatre productions about jazz-dancer Gwen Verdon, and the infamous Bob Fosse. After school dance lessons, paid for by her Auntie Molly, drilled her technique and flexibility into a master-class level. She was a natural and felt a shoo-in for the position she had read an ad for in the 17th October Sydney Morning Herald’s classifieds. Young Beverly had only had one previous boyfriend, whom, as was fitting for the era, she had refused to allow past second base — hand-holding and kissing. Aunt Molly had shown her some sexy manoeuvres, and besides, the advertisement had clearly said; performance training would be provided. She entered, paying the five-shilling cover charge.

“Do you know where I can find Wally Luciano?” the girl politely inquired of the stout barman, nervously twirling her sooty-black hair whilst speaking.

He looked her up and down, as if she was a prime cut of beef, stalling before he answered. “I may know where to find ‘im, lovie,” rolled out the side of his mouth. “Course, it’ll cost ya!”

Beverly eyeballed his facial stubble and clutched the top of her old-fashioned Charleston dress’s straps to force a better cleavage. The hand-me-down from her aunt was all she had outside of linen-factory clothes, which is where she’d spent her post-school years. “I don’t have any money. That is why I’m here,” she said, forcing an older-womanish pout.

He laughed. “Just kidding, toots, I know why you’re ‘ere—” then pointed with the white tea towel he was using to clean some glasses. “The boss is right through that door.”

Beverly’s plump full lips parted again, their preceding smile dazzling the barman. “Thank you very much indeed, my handsome friend.” She sashayed off like a Greek Goddess.

After an hour-long interview, apparently, Wally must have liked what he saw — she got the job. “Start on Friday night but be here for tuition tomorrow, at 8.00 am sharp. Clarise will help you to get started — she’s been my number one girl for seven years now. Do as she says, okay? Ten pounds fifteen shillings a week and you keep half of your tips. Split them equally with the bar staff. Is that clear?” The handsome Italian hotel owner winking at her to seal their salutation.

“As crystal,” she nodded back.

Beverly was an honest girl who knew what hard work was all about. The bawdy burlesque outfits did not faze her one iota. Her shapely body, enhanced by the colourful lacey negligees and suspender-belts sent the men wild. They screamed for topless — so, she obliged. The talented dancer utilised the glamorous showgirl feathers and boas cleverly, to tease the onlookers. It wasn’t long before she became the crowd favourite, soon having to accommodate encore after encore. She donned the stage-name of; Cleo the Temptress Jewel of Denial, often wearing Egyptian-flavoured outfits. With her stunning black hair cut in pageboy style, Beverly was at the doorstep of a huge career. Her kicks were high. Her tips were hefty. Her physique grew strong…

As the baton became passed on, then so was the sexual relationship between her and Wally Luciano, who had grieved for only one month after the sad passing of Clarise. Discovered in her dressing room only minutes prior to taking the stage, Clarise’s cold limp figure clutched desperately to his photograph. One grace-saving fact was that the forty-year-old mentor had absolutely no knowledge of Beverly and Wally’s six-month-old affair. The Sydney police suspected Luciano of foul play — but a thorough investigation yielded no abetting evidence, therefore, no charges were laid.

The parlour-sitting old lady had a vivid memory of those blossoming years, under the guiding hand of Clarise. She stared at the drooping feathers that had helped launch her career, their memory lurking boldly in the chronicles of her mind. They had been kept for nostalgic reasons. A tear wept from the sides of her wrinkly hazel eyes, upon recalling Clarise’s strong husky voice, still barking tuitional instructions to her the day before. She wiped the tears away to continue reminiscing…

As the years progressed, Beverly introduced singing to her shows. Blessed with a near-perfect soprano tone and a sharp memory for lyrics to match, the curvy twenty-five-year-old soon outgrew Wally’s Grace with Lace Burlesque Nightclub. He begged her not to leave.

“Please, Bev darling, I’ll pay you anything you ask… don’t quit the show. I don’t have anyone else like you to draw those crowds in. My club will go under without you. I beg of you, stay with me?” he was on his knees. “Don’t you remember who gave you your start?  Marry me, please?”

Her mind was made up. “Sure, you did Wally, and I’m grateful to you. But this is not about the money,” she lied. “This place is too small and I have a public who needs me… you wouldn’t want to hold me back, now. Would you?”

His voice quivered. “But what about us?”

“There is no US!” she laughed. “Show-biz is show-biz, and we are all simply pawns in the game. You of all people should know that!” Her eyes locked in an accusatory fashion with his.

“I didn’t kill her!” he bleated back.

“I believe you! But this is good-bye Wally and thanks for everything.” She took her Marseille woven clutch bag and her favourite feathers and left.

Beverly had already accepted an offer from The Majestic Theatre Company of Sydney. She was to commence in the chorus line, with an occasional support-singer/dancer role — knowing that it wouldn’t be very long before the cracks of opportunity would open for her. And, they did…

The scanty underwear gave way to grand costumes. The expert stage productions were highly professional, with a full orchestra and state-of-the-art lighting. The months leapt by in Springbok-like fashion and along with them, her talents did not cease there. Oh no, her promiscuous prowess percolated through the years, delivering a string of co-starring roles, in the wake of a dozen broken-hearted producers and leading men. Beverly never quite achieved the top-billing, which her ego truly believed she so richly deserved. Until she began an affair with Hugo Michaelson. This multi-talented musical arranger had sat in the audience of one of her shows during the cold winter of 1972. He was awed by her looks and melodious capacity and flabbergasted at the fact that she was yet to score a showcasing role. Fifty-one-year-old Hugo met her in her dressing room after the performance.

After formal introductions, he eagerly said, “Miss Martin, I have written, produced and choreographed a brand new major musical called ‘De la Peña… Genius of the Floor’.” Michaelson grinned with pride, before continuing. “It is about the life and times of the legendary South American performer George De la Peña and I would like you to play the leading role of his ballerina wife, Rebecca Wright. You would be perfect for the role.”

“I’m significantly more than just interested, Hugo,” she replied with a single nod, uncrossing her legs to sit forward. “Who is starring as Mr De la Peña?”

“That will be Lincoln Kirov. You will both have an understudy to work with, naturally.” Kirov was a titan of the theatre and needed no explanation. The man’s credentials were more impeccable than his Giorgio Amani suits.

“Naturally!” Beverly agreed, with spark in her voice, having been an understudy on numerous occasions, but having never had one herself. “And whom might they be?”

“Lincoln’s is Jeffery Abercrombie. Always has been. He knows Kirov’s work like a shadow. And yours will be Juliet Thallon… she was originally going to co-star.” Hugo’s eyebrows shot up. “That is until I saw you.”

“Is it being performed in the Majestic?”

“Certainly, Miss Martin. We are opening here in six weeks, then travelling the entire country for two years. The best theatres in every city. Last show is at Bennelong Point.” He folded his arms and smiled. “So, will you sign a contract if I bring it here tomorrow night?”

Her hand shot out. “Let’s do it over a late dinner, after the show!”

He shook it. “Done!” His smile grew broader. “I’ll watch you again — just to make sure I have the right girl for the part… if so, I’ll join you here at the same time, okay?”

Beverly restrained her excitement, offering a bashful solitary nodding smile. Then, showed him the back of her door for the last time. A happy-dance followed. The subsequent day, after the contract was signed, their secret but full-blown love affair commenced in supersonic flight. Their secret, kept tighter than a movie-star’s complexion, saw them move around from hotel room to hotel room like a couple of spies. Hugo Michaelson was the musical genius in his family, however, his wife Margot was his wallet. She had the family money of her late father, which had been responsible for putting him there. She was also his accountant. If she ever found out, he would be finished. The production became a box-office success, mainly due to Lincoln Kirov’s billing, which bolstered beautifully with Beverly Martin’s encouraging recitals. Her beautiful black tresses returned to the middle of her back and were on full display. Now comfortably in her thirties, party-animal Beverly spent her money like it flowed from the perpetual fountain of youth. She was travelling the country in style but as a concubine, and it did bother her…

One night after making love she offered… “Why don’t you leave Margot? You and I could really become something. Why, with your talent and my panache, we are practically unstoppable!”

“You have mentioned this proposal many times before, Beverly dear. But it isn’t quite that simple. She has me over a barrel. Things are complicated between us—”

Now kneeling on the bed, she barked. “For Christ’s sakes, Hugo! You told me yourself, that you don’t love her anymore!” Her hands found her hips. A scowl found her face. Anger filled her brain.

“Beverly honey, it is difficult—”

“Difficulties are made to be overcome! This is bull-shit! What am I? Your wife-to-be! Your convenience! Your lover… or your prostitute!” Fire blazed in the songstress’s teary hazel eyes.

He hadn’t seen her like this before. “Shhh dear, it’s nothing of the sort. Go to sleep. I’ll see myself out.”

“You bastard! I shall quit the show!” she seethed.

“If that’s the way you feel… Juliet can always do it!”

Beverly’s own words to Wally Luciano of; “Show-biz is show-biz, and we are all simply pawns in the game. You of all people should know that!” rang like a proverbial gong inside her head. She watched him quietly leave. The hotel door thudded, as a champagne bottle crashed against it.

In the weeks to follow, Juliet Thallon filled the role of Rebecca Wright admirably with five months on the road left, covering Brisbane and finally Canberra, before returning for one Grand Finale day of three sessions at The Sydney Opera House. On the eve of that day, a mysterious letter arrived at Margot Michaelson’s Sydney residence. It was not mysterious to Beverly because she wrote it. The letter was neither signed nor bore her name:

Dear Mrs Michaelson
     It pains me to write this. For the past few years, I have been conducting an illicit love   affair with your husband, Hugo. I realise this news will extremely distress you, however,     I believe you should know the truth. This is no fault of yours. It is with regret that I am writing to inform you as I now feel the need to clear my own conscience of what has been going on.
   He has told me on several occasions that he no longer loves you but does not have the courage to tell you, let alone leave you. The man is a mouse, although I do still love him and can’t help myself doing so. You don’t know who I am, but I have heard all about you.   I hope you can find a way to forgive me and try to understand. I am sure his own conscience is making him pay.
          A remorseful friend.

This nasty spiteful letter was simply to provoke a hornet’s nest into a frenzy.

After the Opera House curtain calls were accepted, on Saturday 23rd November 1974, Hugo returned to his dressing room for the final time. He had previously participated in a celebratory toast. His dead body was discovered by the security guards at 11.58 pm. They had been knocking for some time. Known as a man who required space to himself, they’d been slow to react. Once again, the investigation came up empty-handed. Unable to cope with the loss, Beverly disappeared into seclusion for forty-five years. Until now…

The fallen-from-grace entertainer, now nearing her eighties, leaned back against her favourite cushion, allowing the sun to bathe her face. Her re-cycled from old-bed-sheet curtains doing precious little to block out its rays. The thick layer of dust on the welfare accommodation’s window ledge resonating her soiled integrity. Beverly thought about the delicious drink made from Atropa Belladonna, that lethal but untraceable poison she had twice used for vengeance. How she’d drank a toast of wine with both victims, only hers contained added blackcurrant juice not the lethal toxic berries of Deadly Nightshade. With Clarise and Hugo’s murders weighing on her conscience, she was encouraging the grim reaper to take her to wherever it was that multi-murderers, such as herself, ended up. These two ugly heinous secrets, she would take with her. Beverly had been quite famous, even performing in front of Lady Isaac Isaacson and Sir Garfield Cuthbert-Allington. The wry smile on her face was a fake one, as she lifted the wineglass of Deadly Nightshade to her lips to draw the final sip. Beverly now realising her faded feathers merely represented lost love and a lonely life… instead of fame and fortune…

 

 

Here’s another ten-minute blast for you!

Posted on by Stephen James - Author

You never know who you can really trust… do you?

             I love this twist…

 

“Let your Imagination Inspire!” 

 

Some people search for everlasting love. Some people search for friendship. Others simply play a cold-hearted game of “Love ’em and shove ’em!”

“Death shall soon be your welcome friend after you feel the suffocation of loneliness eating away at your heart!” vexed the chiselled features of Grigori des Vislosky. He swallowed his wine-filled challis in one enraged breath.

“Perhaps so, my deceitful lover…” replied his beautiful wench, her tattered dress falling from her shoulder from the strength of his grasp. Auburn hair ablaze after love-making. “But soon you will regret the very sound of my name. For you see my handsome charlatan, ‘tis you who shall soon be walking alongside the shadow of the Grim Reaper!”

A pause in the blur of key-striking brought the device to silence. “I’m a genius!” she quoted aloud, clasping her palms in triumph. Only moments prior, the passions of impulsive finger-filled energy were caressing their small, circular, lettered faces of creativity with the grace of a concert pianist. She extracted bliss from her own written words.

Lady Dandelion as she liked to refer to herself was perched like Queen Victoria in her wicker chair. Naturally, as always by sun’s glorious set, in her hand swirled a tall gin and tonic. The veranda beneath her sandals had a light layer of dust and the slow-turning fan above did little to move the air. The woman’s true name was Hilary Dandling and she felt very rich.  Already on her fifth gushy novel and just two months beyond her fourth husband, Hilary had taken to writing, inspired by the works of Karen Blixen the Danish heiress who married her friend Bror Blixen-Finecke in Kenya, to save dignity. Nearing thirty years, back in the early 1900’s titled women who went unwed were frowned upon. Alas, poor Karen’s marriage to the unfaithful Bror failed dismally, but her story of honesty, strength, self-respect and courage is world renowned. Her best-known book ‘Out of Africa’ was a romanticized but true depiction of her early life. In Blixen’s pages, Lady Dandelion saw the uselessness of men. To her, they were merely toys of temporary entertainment. Her four husbands, by coincidence, had all passed away by a heart attack before reaching fifty. She grinned in artificial helplessness with tears rolling, as the body-bags were individually wheeled away. Hilary was nothing like the woman she so much admired. Her favourite saying of; “Who on Earth needs a husband when you’ve got money” placed her well amongst the small peer group who tagged along for hand-outs. What few of them realized, was that the bulk of Lady Dandelion’s meagre dowry was assembled from insurance payouts and not from her book royalties, as she would have them all believe. No one even cast so much as a hint of suspicion at her of murder…

Choosing to feed the role of eccentric authoress with all of the correct props, her novels were obsessively clunked-out on an ageing Olivetti typewriter. She wrote as slow as a politician’s decision-making, but it mattered not, because any increase in Hilary’s typing pace would have only served to dilute the already watered-down plots. She always wore floral cotton dresses. Her face never missed a day’s heavy make-up. She twisted her mother’s metre-long loop of pearls twice around her long neck. The sordid evening air, filled with her metronomic click ─ click ─ clicks, weaved its way through her flock of excessively-dyed, curly, raunchy-auburn hair, then on through her open front door. The scent of smouldering ashtray butts was collected by this breeze. Chain-smoker Hilary, of course, owned a scruffy little white dog, whose shaggy mop of fur lay coiled at her feet almost constantly. His only breaks from her constant chatter, to his pitching-to-attention ears, came when he would trudge off to the other end of the veranda for a nibble or a drink of water. Skokie the hairy cross-breed even followed the romance writer indoors to recharge her G and T, which was usually on the anniversary of each page’s completion.

“Another villain put to the sword!” she exclaimed, withdrawing the typed sheet, making a speedy ratchet sound as the accelerated roller spun around. Hilary stared at her freshest page. “See Skokie-boy, young and handsome Grigori des Vislosky may have been… but he is no match for the shy sweet Esmerelda! He thought his looks and lies would win her over. Ha!” She downed the tarty alcoholic splendour, ice-cubes and all. “Best go get another, Skokie, while I’m on a roll!”

At that moment her ancient but necessary mobile phone rang. Wicker chair squeaking and creaking under her weight, Hilary stared toward the nuisance sound, watching the chunky plastic handpiece vibrate its way along her coffee table. She began hoping it would simply cease irritating her. It did. Probably just another admirer, she pondered, immediately celebrating her resistance to the temptation of answering it by lighting another cigarette. Faithful as ever, Skokie waddled in behind her to her makeshift bar.

That night after four more pages; therefore four more G and T’s, weary Hilary flopped into bed to contemplate her novel’s dramatic conclusion. Her lung-shaking cough barked louder than Skokie ever could dream of. She wrestled with several ideas, but her tired brain, clouded from typing, was throbbing with opaque blandness from one too many of everything. It struggled to fire. At the foot of her bed, the scruffy little dog tweaked his eyebrows in doggy fashion at her tossing and turning. He was probably wondering why on earth his mistress did this to herself every single night…

Six months later, Lady Dandelion was at the Southern Manchester shopping mall, busily signing copies of ‘What’s Your Plan B?’ Although her mind lived extensively in the colourful rugged African landscape, her home address was 37 Old Pottery Road, Lancashire, England. Her grin widened with each endorsed purchase. Her wink at the menfolk became sexier, and the plum in her mouth grew ever larger. One well-dressed man stopped for a prolonged discussion. He was as handsome as her mind had pictured Grigori des Vislosky. She obliged the gentleman with an extensive tenure of her time. As he drew away to leave, the man leaned in closely.

“I’ve always admired your work, Lady Dandelion,” he flattered. “Would you be kind enough to do me the honour of accompanying me to dinner tonight? Only if you’re free, of course.”

“How thoughtful. What a kind offer,” she praised back, waving her hand at her false blush. “Why, I do believe I am available to oblige you with companionship this evening. Mr…?”

“Doctor Raymond Barrington-Derbyshire. At your service ma’am!” He bowed. His expensive voice crisping all the vowels perfectly.

“Medical doctor?” her eyebrows raising like a guillotine blade being hauled up to its apex.

“Medical specialist. And still single too.” He released from his bow.

She slid a business card across the table ─ her mind effervescing at the possibilities of true wealth. “Here’s my card Raymond. Surprise me at seven?” Hilary hoped she could stay off the sauce long enough to land this massive catch-of-the-day.

A silver Bentley pulled up outside 37 Old Pottery Road at three minutes to seven. A gloved chauffeur’s hand opened the door. At once Hilary appeared at her own doorstep, sober, titivated, elegantly dressed and fully manicured. She was way too keen but Raymond didn’t seem to mind. He met her halfway from her front gate, kissing the back of her hand on perfect cue. Caruthers fired-up the elegant silver beast. The big saloon purred away without so much as startling a mouse. Skokie’s stumpy tail wagged from the other end of his panting pink tongue. At long last Mummy…

A delightful evening was underscored with stimulating conversation and laughter, suffice to inspire a return date. And another. And yet another. It led to the whole shooting match. Before the year was out, Mrs Hilary Barrington-Derbyshire strode white-dressed and veiled, arm-in-arm down the lengthy aisle of the same church her other ill-fated four husband’s had paid for over the past seven years. She never said a word of it to her new specialist husband. His destiny awaited.

Hilary did not let Raymond down. From a physical perspective, the inaccurate adjective beautiful would be far better replaced with charming or attractive. Her sunny days of beauty had long since set. Back then, men fell at her feet, literally! Now with her enticing looks transformed into experience, she became a bedroom virtuoso of impeccable standards. Hilary’s almost wunderkind passionate performances, born from her novels, came to life with impresario management skills. “Don’t hold anything back, Raymond dear! Love me like you’ll choke on your own appetite for passion! Let your imagination inspire!” she would repeatedly say when dancing him around the bedroom like a doyenne.

“Where do you get your ideas for all of your incredible stories from?” the love-smacked doctor would reply, trying to divert her from his inadequacy, completely lost for answers to her dazzling skills.

“They’d been bottled-up for years. I hid inside my own sweet passion-filled mind. I restricted my desires, kept myself waiting! Waiting! Waiting! I observed the world via extensive travel, staying pure, in order to fulfil my chapters with what they deserved.”  She lied with the eloquence of a soap opera superstar. “I was born to meet a man like you!”

Raymond tolerated her booze, which had substantially backed-off, much to the enhancement of her storylines. He even stomached her lust for nicotine, with the view that it was all part and parcel of her chemistry. The flavour of which Dr Barrington-Derbyshire very much enjoyed. The truth of her lack-lustre sales became evident. This he also overlooked. Forty-two-year-old Hilary kept up her facade for two and a half more books ─ taking nearly three years to publish them.

But now it was time to claim all her winnings…

Friday was killing-day for diabolical Hilary. She had prepared the lethal dose of digitalis, enough to stimulate his heart into irreversible overdrive. The foxglove derived drug had been successful on her previous husbands. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t work on Raymond. He was due home at five. Hilary always chose Fridays, because her promise of ‘Friday afternoon delight’ to all her spouses, ensured that they came home on time, eager to please and compliant with all her requests. She sat by the double-sash window of their large house in Manchester’s dress-circle neighbourhood, to listen for the Bentley. This afternoon had proven very convenient also because Caruthers had the last Friday of every month off.  To allow her to work uninterrupted, Hilary’s dog Skokie was staying over at her favourite niece Carmen Mylanta’s house, some distance across town. Miss Mylanta always acted as the terrier’s carer when she took leave of absence for any reason.

The car arrived. The front door opened. The queen-of-farce wore her sheer sky-blue negligee to greet him ─ flesh exposing from all extremities. His favourite music streamed from the sound system. The charade of tomfoolery commenced. Blind-folds and riding-crops. Feathers and filigree masks ─ they used it all. As per her customary technique, the glasses of champagne sat chilled and inviting beside their bed. His with a golden stag emblem on a tiny chain around its stem. Hers with a similar golden swan emblem. More bottles lay in wait. Between primaeval romps, they both slurped heavily on the bubbly aphrodisiac stimulant. Very cleverly, between disguises and sex-acts, she had been dropping small amounts of digitalis into his champagne. Small enough to be indistinguishable, but deadly as it would collect in his digestive system, rushed to his bloodstream via the aerated alcohol. After six or seven glasses, he would collapse into a stupor then his vital organs would cease to operate.

Strangely, she was the one who felt life slipping away…

“Let your imagination inspire!” perked the doctor.

“I feel dreadful,” wimped the murderess, coughing with more than her usual barking smoker’s hack. “What is happening to me?”

“Touché Darling! I knew exactly what you were up too. You’re not as good an actress as you think, my little puppet! Silly woman. I swapped the little chains while you were busy in the bathroom,” said Raymond, wearing a nasty smirk. “You see my dear, you are a very infamous widow Hilary. However, something you aren’t aware of, is that I am an infamous widower! You will now become my sixth dead wife! My wealth has been assembled in much the same way as yours!”

With nothing more to do now but hasten her demise, she drinks the remainder of her perilous bubbly and dies in his arms. Raymond’s expression aglow now pulls the glass from her fingers. He is elated at outsmarting the trashy-love-story novelist. He closes her staring eyes, uttering, “All of your pilfered mammon is now mine… Good night Lady Dandelion!”

But a strange twist thwarts his plan…

Months later an ingenious police investigator discovers she has confessed to all of the murders of her previous four husband’s cryptically in her novels. All of her female protagonists had an uncanny mirror-like similarity to her, with each plot an echo of her own life’s conspiracy. Even Esmerelda in the fifth one was Hilary’s middle name. This name had been the catalyst. And so, as a result, her small fortune is confiscated by the police and a governmental executive decision was made to bequest the money to its correct beneficiary. Raymond received nothing. His suspicious case is being examined by the same detective. Hilary’s will had left everything to Skokie.

Niece Carmen Mylanta, who was caring for the scruffy little dog, now has executor rights to issue him a life of comfort. They were last seen in Acapulco on a Li-lo bed in a swimming pool, where Carmen and Skokie were accompanied by a sexy French Poodle…