Kicking It(101)

You live and you learn.

Well, to be more accurate, I lived and I learned. Our Daniel was less fortunate.

What if I bought a stuffed lion toy as a souvenir on my way out? It reminded me that there were seize-the-day moments all around. Cages, no matter the size, didn’t change that—not for us lions, anyway. Then it was time to pick up the boots, gift the maker with honey-drizzled chatter over the masterpiece they were—and that was an understatement—a kiss on each cheek for the artiste, a very large payment, promise of future business, and finally it was time to go home. I couldn’t wait to see Elizabeth’s face, for her to see what could’ve been a boring job turned into a work of art that I knew we’d both appreciate.

—

Or not.

“This is it? These are supposed to be the answer to my problem? How exactly is this going to do anything, you stupid bitch?”

Elizabeth wasn’t quite as lovely or the embodiment of grace when her face was splotched red with rage, her mouth twisted with derision, and her hand slapping the table hard enough to kill a spider—the bird-eating, plate-sized South American kind.

“Bethy”—that’s what they’d called her before she’d married money, when she lived down in the trailer park where her mother worked two jobs and her father was in the wind—“if you call me a bitch again, I’ll solve your problem in an entirely different way. One that will involve prison and police, because I know all about you. Why, I had to know all there is to know to get you what you wanted, didn’t I? But while I said I made no judgments, sweetie, I never once said I tolerated disrespect.”

Her mouth snapped shut, but the anger still boiled under her skin. I could almost see it, looking for a way, any way, out. Her eyes flickered to the full champagne bottle on the table, and for a second I could see her picturing how nicely it would splatter my brains on my favorite silk shirt. I wasn’t surprised by that. That’s who Bethy was. Who she’d always been. She’d told me what she wanted—a rich man to marry who would conveniently die with or without her help, made no difference on that score to her. I said happy to deliver and named my price. Her price. Semantics.

What she hadn’t told me was her path to that want and desire. It was paved with the very same: four rich, older men who died not long after marrying Bethy Rose, the girl who’d polished up her accent, sanded away the trailer park from her skin, made herself into something a shallow person would want to own and pay to own it. Shallow or not, every one of those four men had been kind to her, as kind as they had it in them to be. They’d done their best to make her happy. Not everyone’s best is equal in all ways, but if you give your all, even if you have less to give than the more saintly, you still tried. It still counts. That made Bethy the murderer of four innocent, if not particularly bright, men.

I sold information all the time. I know how to do my research.

I’d found Bethy’s pattern and I found out the root of her problem. It was never enough. First a rich man and then a millionaire and then a multimillionaire, but, oh, times were hard and millions weren’t what they used to be when you’ve grown accustomed to maids and pool boys and drivers and country clubs and Learjets. Bethy spent it all and had to find herself a new husband. Trouble was, best effort expended or not, the men she wanted were as shallow as I’d said and Bethy wasn’t twenty-two anymore. Or thirty-two. Or forty-two. Billionaires are a special breed, and an old horny billionaire is going to want a young thing with tits done by Dr. Double D and the only lines on her skin the ones shown by her Brazilian wax. Bethy couldn’t compete with that, not anymore.

She asked me for a man who would see her as beautiful (which she was), to not be so shallow about the age yet stupid enough to be obsessed with her within a week and marry her within a month. It would be nice if he had a heart condition and died promptly on his own. One honeymoon had taken care of that for her before, but if that was too much to ask, she’d handle it. She’d handled it three other times and no one had ever caught her out.

Save for me.

“So, little Bethy Rose from the trailer park on Pike’s Hill,” I poured her a glass of the champagne, “keep your trash talk to yourself and let’s celebrate. I found you the perfect man, who matches all your qualifications save a minor one. He would love you instantly in all your ways and”—I laid the newly fashioned boots across her lap—“he has a highly documented fetish for women in boots. You are his ideal woman, Bethy, but every good con still needs a hook, and these boots are yours.”