The Wife Murderer

THE WIFE MURDERER by Devon Pitlor, MA Econ.





I. Why Jasmine Cadieux needed pancake makeup.



Jasmine Cadieux was a more than beautiful model and earned a good living from this, but either she or some photographic assistant would always need to apply make-up to a couple of ugly scars on her forehead and on the slashed upturn of tortured skin at the base of her neck. When she was not in front of a camera, Jasmine never covered these scars, and, as Chris Varlow, Jasmine's new love interest, soon learned, she made sure that these imperfections were always visible and beckoned people in her own charming unspoken way to ask where they came from. She seemed to like her scars. Jasmine was always candid and nonchalant. It had even scared Chris a little at first--the degree to which Jasmine seemed, with the self-assurance gifted to all pretty women, to care very little what people did or did not know about her. Chris felt that, despite the glowing radiance of her beauty, she ought to reserve a little more mystery to her person. Jasmine never did, but that did not diminish her magic enough to relieve Chris of his obsession. And now his obsession with the working fashion model was real. It haunted him daily. He was smitten.



II. Where the scars came from



On their second date, which was a walk along the waterfront down by Coral Point Bay, Jasmine was bare-shouldered and made sure the ripped-up side of her neck was facing Chris until, at length, he entwined his fingers into hers and asked about the scars...all of them.



"Damien used to beat me," she said facing Chris with open, glowing and honest eyes. "He was an ex-cop and liked to hit women." She pointed to the marks on her forehead and said "broom handle." She pointed to the ugly ripple on her neck and said "twisted chain."



Chris then heard a very brief but nasty anecdote about Damien with his knees on Jasmine's chest choking her with a bicycle chain. "He almost kil leded me," she said lightly. "And now very soon he is finally going to...." she added, casually gazing out over the bay. The small and harmless Pacific summer waves gently broke against the sea barrier, and the sun gave notice that it was setting.



III. Another shoe drops



Nothing dissuaded Chris Varlow from spending his every free moment with the lovely fashion model, and three days later, as they sat face to face in a dimly-lit café in Railtown, she entranced and enchanted him once again to ask about Damien by opening her huge and truly breathtaking eyes, begging for a question. She had just made Chris very happy by telling him that---finally---she would sleep with him that night. They had reached the right point, she said, in their relationship. Then she put one finger across his lips, wiped some pink lip gloss off the rim of her wine glass, and said "What else can I tell you about Damien?"



Chris stammered off a series of questions broken only into short phrases. It all amounted to Damien going to kil l her. That had more than troubled him for the last few days.



Jasmine smiled and removed her finger from his cheek to where it had wandered. She told him with the same candor that she revealed everything that Damien had kil led his first two wives. Damien was brutal, jealous and dominant. He wanted his wives to "behave." If they did not, he beat them. "He started early with me," Jasmine continued. "I just let him at first. Then I threatened to leave him." That's when he told me that both Holly and Jenna were dead by his hand. He was an ex-cop turned bodyguard. He knew how to make bodies and evidence disappear. The police suspected him in both deaths, but he was cleared each time for total lack of evidence. Holly and Jenna are still on the missing persons rosters. You can look."



Chris did using his computer, and the vanishments were detailed there as well. Unsolved cases. Husband under suspicion but cleared in both cases. The women had just gotten sick of his abuse and left. No one could state where they went. But there were no grounds to pursue Damien Cadieux. All very mysterious, but clear cut. Closed cases.



"He warned me that if I ever left him, he would hunt me down and kil l me, and no one would ever find him guilty. 'You'll vaporize,' he said. Just like that, and he snapped his fingers. I've got a good track record going. I kil l bitches who don't behave. Behave was one of his favorite words."



IV. A pretty model like Jasmine has more than one pair of shoes.



A third shoe dropped about an hour later after they had nervously consumed a dinner of rice and lamb tapas and shrimp dip. Jasmine told him that Damien had come to Fever Bay and was probably lurking around in the trendy Railtown district right now, watching them perhaps from some unseen vantage point as they sat on the café terrace. "He will probably try to kil l me tonight," said Jasmine as if she were discussing the imminent delivery of a pizza. "He saw me and I saw him outside my apartment last night. Tonight will probably be his night. He's an ex-cop, you know." She found an emery board and began applying it to her nails. Nail dust fell on the café table. She blew it away.



Chris felt a frenzy of nervous tension mount through his body. He became taut and suddenly needed to stand up. His fists automatically clenched. Here he was with one of the most gorgeous women he had ever known, a woman he eventually might like to marry or at least live with, but a woman who was at this very moment being stalked by an abusive and highly successful kil ler----and a woman that didn't seem to care much about it either. Too many pieces of Jasmine Cadieux just didn't fit. No one could call her stupid, that was for sure, but she didn't seem very clever either. She fumbled constantly with facial cream and emery boards on her long nails. Her face and body were drifting all over America on the style and cosmetics advertising pages. It was hard to pass a magazine rack without looking for her on the back page promoting some string of sensual chain pearls or some pair of chic, over-tight dungarees. The public did not, of course, know her name. She was simply a model. He, Chris Varlow, knew her name. So did Damien, the kil ler cop.



V. Chris's gun.



Like many men, Chris kept a small cartridge pistol in the glove compartment of his car. He wasn't exactly sure how to take the safety lock off of it because he had tried it out only once two years prior. There was very little violence or crime in Fever Bay. It was a calm resort town with a quaint antique section where guns were not requisite or even discussed for that matter. Chris told her had one and would use it to protect her if needed. She laughed and wiped some more lip gloss from her wine glass. "Against an ex-Marine and and ex-cop and an ex-husband?" she giggled. "You've got to be kidding."



Feeling stinging tension, Chris puffed up once again and pledged his protective role and said something else about the gun like that it could fit in his pocket if he put it there.



"Well, don't go and blow your...your....manhood off," she laughed. "We were going to need that tonight, remember?"



Chris mentioned the gun once again, and Jasmine turned and looked at the bohemian crowds walking down the twisting streets of Railtown. She did not look back until he stopped talking and took her hand. The gun was mentioned no more. When he excused himself to go to the bathroom, he darted out to his car and found the little Ruger .25 under some oily papers in the dash box. He looked it over, spied the set safety button, and slid it into his pocket, barrel up so that if it did discharge, it would not blow off his manhood. He wondered how he had ever gotten into a position where he might use it. Briefly, the thought of driving off and leaving Jasmine alone crossed his mind. But, thinking better, he patted the gun and went back to their table. The night had been ruined. Fear and ugly images of a wife murderer would give him erectile problems for sure. He knew that. He began fearing the programmed sex more than the programmed kil ler.



VI. The time arrives.



The minutes stretched out long across the table for Chris Varlow. Each routine action brought him closer to what might have been the most fearful moment of his life: paying the bill, tipping the waiter, standing up, putting his arm around Jasmine's waist and handing her her tiny purse, walking to the door, entering the street, trying not to let Jasmine see his discomfort and fear. Chris glanced this way and that way up and down the busy pedestrian street. Jasmine did not. She squeezed his hand and led him back around to the parking lot to his own car. She showed absolutely no concern whatever. It began to enrage Chris, who once again needed to pee although he had just done that minutes ago. A sworn kil ler was waiting to strike. How would he do it? What would he use for the kil ling?



"He likes guns," said Jasmine looking out the side window of Chris's BMW and no doubt reading his mind as she always did. "He might could use yours," she continued, "and make it look like you did it. Another disappearing wife would set off too many alarms. They need to find a body... my body...this time."



Chris was mildly shaken by the expression "might could," which seemed to come from a different dialect than the voluptuous Jasmine had ever spoken in before. It occurred to Chris that he didn't really know where she was from. She and Damien had lived in a penthouse sort of place in Chicago before she walked out on him. That was all he knew. Damien had, therefore, crossed the country to stalk his prey.



Then there was the thought of sex with Jasmine. Chris knew he was far too nervous to do it right. He would have to make an excuse. Shit, he already had an excuse. A kil ler was on the loose and was coming to get both of them. Jasmine didn't seem to care. She snapped open a make-up compact from her little purse and relined her eyebrows in the reflection of the window. She was not, Chris noted, looking at anything or anyone else but herself. How could she be this untroubled?



V. The legendary Bruell House.



The huge, gingerbreaded and filagreed Bruell House had been constructed by hoary railroad magnates during the gold rush era. It was probably the oldest structure in Fever Bay, a complex array of connecting annexes and a main, hotel-like lobby. Divided into apartments now, it was nonetheless an historical landmark and had a silver plaque outside to prove it. Jasmine rented there. She lived in the modest sort of antique luxury that seemed to mirror her understated personality. The huge building had balconies and staircases on all sides. The architectural plan was sprawling. It dominated the entire view of the ocean. At once, it became a place of fear for Chris. Damien could be hiding anywhere. He could crawl out suddenly from any nook or cranny. He could rise up like the devil from under an exterior staircase. The huge, historical building was designed for stalking, serial kil lers. Chris knew this at once.



Jasmine's apartment was on the fifth floor facing the bay. Under most normal circumstances, he would have admired the beauty of the view. Tonight he just kept craning and twisting his neck, looking for a monster. Jasmine left him briefly in the lobby and walked over to whisper something to the concierge. The concierge seemed to understand her perfectly and shook his head in dutiful agreement. She returned with a key in her hand. "I always leave my keys at the desk," she explained. "Let's take the elevator."



Again she squeezed his hand, which Chris knew was getting wet with perspiration. His entire body jerked with each pull of the ancient elevator as it rose five floors and swung its accordeon caged door open to a dimly lighted hallway. Fear was making Chris nearly wet his pants. A dark hallway? Did Jasmine have no fear? Who or what exactly was he walking along with? A corpse? A woman about to be kil led. And of course it would be up to him to prevent that as best he could. Only he could do it. But could he? A swirl of doubt clouded his mind. In a minute he would be in the apartment of the most ravishing woman he had ever set eyes on, and he would melt into the yellow, greasy butter of abject fear at the very moment that should have been triumphally his.



VI. The smell of lavender.



The apartment, cozy and small, welcomed them with the fragrance of lavender. There were fresh flowers in vases on every shelf and chest. The lavender smell wafted everywhere and was driven by a slight breeze coming from an open window near the small dining room. Chris felt for his upturned gun and found it still to be in his pocket. Shouldn't he take it out now and check the apartment from room to room? Who had opened the window. Again, as if scanning his thoughts, Jasmine told him for no particular reason, as he had not asked, that she always left it open. "For the seabreeze," she said.



Jasmine put her arm around his waist. Chris knew that she knew now that she needed to calm him. He was trembling in visible motion He needed to make some sort of move, either embrace Jasmine or take out the gun. But he stood frozen there by her side and did nothing. He was certain that he felt another presence. The kil ler was already in the room. Chris could sense it.



VII. Damien



And Chris was right. With a slight, curtain-like shuffle, an enormous ganolf of a man abruptly stepped into the room from a side hallway which led no doubt to the bedroom---where they would most certainly not be sleeping together that night, Chris and Jasmine. Jasmine looked at the hulk and blinked slightly. She was not surprised. The hulking threat had a gun in his hand, a much larger one than the tiny pistol which was now chafing the skin of Chris's leg. He pointed the gun at both of them and grinned with a certain sour malevolence which left no doubt in Chis's mind that the creature would soon dispatch them both. Uncontrollably, Chris squirted a few dribbles of pee into his pants. He was about to let the rest go and grab for his own gun or fall to his own knees when Jasmine spoke:



"Damien! You found me. How clever of you. Of course, you were a police officer, weren't you? You know how to do these things. But still I am going to have a word with the management this time. I'm getting sick of this. This is the third time someone has entered my place from the damn scaffolding. We need better security here."



"Scaffolding?" grunted Damien still pointing his revolver at her forehead and eyeing Chris with equal menace. "No, I got a passkey. All it took was a little bribe to the Mexican girl who sweeps the hallways."



"You always were a charmer, weren't you?" laughed Jasmine. "And here I thought you had used the stupid, left over scaffolding and came in through the open window. The scaffolding has been up too long. It belongs to the the next apartment. They were sandblasting the walls for sea fungus. This room was once part of a larger unit. When they partitioned it off to make more apartments, they promised me they would block the scaffold off, but they haven't. I thought you had entered from the apartment next door and walked down the scaffolding outside my window. Next door the apartment is empty and still being remodelled. It would have been easier for you, and no Mexican girl to give witness."



Damien glanced at the open window and then back at the couple standing as before side by side in the middle of the central room.



Chris felt his knees going weak. He started to say something to Damien about not being able to get away with it this time but he could not find the words. He released more urine into his pants. His hands and feet trembled. He knew he was going to beg for his life. He would blabber his reasons. He would pee some more into his pants. But he knew he would not be successful. He was already wondering about death.



Damien clicked back the hammer of the revolver and aimed it at Chris. "Take your gun out of your pocket and give it to me." Chris obliged him immediately. He had no idea how Damien knew he had a gun. That was something he never found out. He handed to tiny pistol to Damien who received it in a gloved hand, clicked off the safety, and aimed it with his left hand directly into Jasmine's forehead. "You're going to die now, bitch," he snarled. "Say your prayers. Your boyfriend here will have done it with his gun. I was going to do it differently, but his little toy gun makes it even easier." Damien readied himself and repositioned the gun so that the barrel was directly pressed into Jasmine's brow. Chris felt the room shake around him and dropped to his knees. A paroxism of fear clenched his entire person. He noticed that his urine had run down a pants leg and made a puddle on the floor where he crouched. As he dropped, he once again noted the sublime smile of disconcern on Jasmine's face. Jasmine didn't seem to care about dying.



VIII. Conclusion



Damien jumped back a little when a strong knock at the door broke the tension of the moment. "What the fuck?" he said.



"That will be the police," said Jasmine softly. "I knew you'd be lurking around, and I asked them to come by and check on me sometime tonight." The knock repeated. "What will you do now, Damien? They will come in if no one answers the knock. Besides, the door is unlocked. You are about to be caught and punished for...what were their names...Jenna? Holly? Let them knock one more time, and they will enter."



Damien darted his deep, angry black eyes around the room and backed slowly toward the open window and the scaffolding. The night was bathed in perfect blackness. On the wooden scaffold he would not be seen. He kept both guns pointed at the pair. "Tell them you are okay. If you don't, I will shoot you both anyway. I promise I will shoot you. I'll be on your scaffold listening and watching" He swung one leg out of the open window into the black night, sneered menancingly at them one more time, and perched his other leg on the sill. He grasped the top of the window frame to support himself, then pulled his other leg over the sill to allow himself to drop silently onto the scaffold. Chris, still on the floor face downward looking into a puddle of his own pee, heard a sudden shrill and muffled scream and a kind of dull and distant thud from far below.



Jasmine flung open the apartment door, and there stood the bald and obsequious concierge with a small silver tray in his hand. On it was a bottle of cognac and two glasses decorated with a complimentary yellow rose from the building management. "As you requested, Madame," he said politely as he placed the tray on a small credenza by the door and promptly left. Chris began rising to his feet stammering and looking toward the open window.



"Come and have a nightcap," said Jasmine almost in a whisper as she decanted an inch of cognac into each glass.



"But what about Damien?," babbled Chris. Whitefaced with fear, he stood up and looked into the almost visible darkness of the night beyond the open window. "He's on the scaffold with both guns...waiting..."



"Oh," said Jasmine, "that... Don't worry. He won't be coming back."



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Devon Pitlor---- October, 2008