There were a few moments of silence, then the Chef nearly knocked me out of my seat when he said, “I think that's an excellent idea. Bob would love to talk to you. How's Tuesday at the golf course? You think you could work it out with the ankle-bracelet people?”
Yeah, I thought, I'm sure the ankle-bracelet people would be willing to look the other way for a meeting with the Blue-eyed Devil, although, at this particular moment, I couldn't give two shits about that. All that mattered was what time the Duchess was coming home.
Everything else was incidental.
CHAPTER 10
HOW TO CONFRONT A DUCHESS
The master bedroom's French limestone fireplace was four by six feet wide and had been retrofitted with an electric-starter mechanism. As always, four thick logs of premium-grade ponderosa pine, split lengthwise, sat atop a prodigious heap of white-cedar kindling wood. By this time of September, the fireplace hadn't seen a flame in nearly five months. Fine. Good. At precisely 9:15 p.m. I pushed the stainless button on the wall, igniting the first—but not the last—raging inferno of the evening.
Step two: Burn a piece of overpriced furniture.
Grunting and groaning, I pulled over one of my formerly aspiring decorator's favorite procurements—a $13,000 white silk ottoman that had taken some thieving bastards in High Point, North Carolina, nearly a year to manufacture—to within three feet of the flames. I sat down and stared into the flames. In less than a minute, the kindling wood was crackling away menacingly and the flames were blazing away ominously. Not satisfied, I rose into a crouch, reached behind me, pulled the ottoman closer, and sat back down. Much better. In ten minutes the ottoman and I would be toast.
Step three: Ignite the flames of righteous indignation.
A simple task. Was there a jury that would convict me if I stabbed the Duchess through her ice-cold heart, using that 18-karat-gold letter opener, which was resting comfortably on her $26,000 white lacquer secretary? I would only need to worry about a jury of her peers, which would consist of twelve blond-headed gold diggers who saw no crime in a married woman— with two children, no less!—knocking on her ex-boyfriend's door at midnight, while her husband was lying home in bed (under house arrest), contemplating suicide, and dreaming of ways to win her back. I held on to that thought and took some deep, angry breaths. I kept staring into the belly of the flames, letting the fire bake my skin-growing angrier, more righteous, more indignant, with each passing second.
Just then I heard the familiar sounds of the arriving Duchess, the gravel crunching in the driveway, the slamming of the massive mahogany front door, the clickity clack clackof her overpriced high heels ascending the sumptuous stairs. And then, finally, the door opened. I turned from the flames and there she was, dressed in black. That was appropriate, I thought, considering she had just arrived at her own funeral.
When she saw me sitting so close to the flames, she stopped dead in her tracks and struck a pose, with her head cocked to one side and her hands on her hips and her shoulders thrown back and her back slightly arched, pushing her glorious breasts forward. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Then she began chewing on the inside of her cheek.
There were a few moments of silence as we just stared at each other, like two gunfighters waiting to throw down. The Duchess looked good, of course. There was no denying that, even now. The light from the fire set off her entire ensemble: that tiny black dress, those sexy black high heels, those long bare legs, her great mane of shimmering blond hair, those brilliant blue eyes, her high cheekbones, those glistening lips, that perfectly smooth jawline.
Yes, the Duchess was, indeed, a woman of parts, although at this particular moment the only part of her I was interested in was a tiny area just over her left breast implant, right between her second and third ribs. That was where her ice-cold heart was located, and it would be there where I would plunge the golden letter opener. Then I would jerk the letter opener upward and slightly to the left, with a twisting motion—slicing her pulmonary artery, which would cause her to drown in her blood. It would be a ghastly, horrific, painful death, the sort of death a gold-digging Duchess deserved.
“Why the fire?” she asked, giving up her pose and heading toward her white lacquer secretary. “It's a bit early in the season, don't you think?” She flashed me a dead smile as she sat on the edge of the secretary, placing her palms on it and locking her elbows. Then she crossed her legs and wriggled her butt, as if to get comfortable.
I stared back into the flames. “I was cold,” I said, because you sucked every last drop of blood and life force out of me, you conniving, gold-digging cunt,“so I figured I'd light a fire,” before I slice you to ribbons and rid the earth of you.
A few moments of silence, then she cocked her head to the side. “Where are the kids?” she asked.
I kept staring into the flames. “At Gwynne's,” I answered tonelessly. “They're sleeping there tonight,” so I can murder you without upsetting them.
Now confusion mixed with trepidation: “Why are they, uh, sleeping at Gwynne's?”
Still staring into the flames: “Because I wanted the house to myself,” without bystanders, witnesses, distractions, or any soul who might try to talk me out of doing what I know I must do to free myself of you,“that's why.”
She chuckled nervously, trying to make light of what she now realized was going to be a very dark encounter. “Yourself?” she answered. “Well, what about me? I'm here too, right?”
I looked up, and she was holding the golden letter opener in her right hand, tap-tap-tappingthe blade on her left palm. How had she known? Was it that obvious that I was planning to stab her? Or was it just coincidence? No matter. I had once seen Arnold Schwarzenegger stab an Islamic terrorist with the terrorist's own knife, and it had looked rather elementary.
Just then I noticed the Duchess was still wearing her wedding band. What a fucking joke! The philandering Duchess and her wedding band! “You're still wearing your wedding band, I see. Don't you think that's a bit ironic, Nadine?”
She put down the letter opener and extended her left hand in front of her, staring at it quizzically. After a few moments, she looked up and shrugged. “Why?” she said innocently. “We're still married, no?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah,” I said, “I think we are. So what did you do last night?”
A quick answer: “I went to see Earth, Wind and Fire. With my friends.” The last three words screamed: Alibi!
I compressed my lips and nodded. “Oh, your friends,” I said understandingly. “Which friends are those?”
Another quick answer: “Donna and Ophelia.”
Donna Schlesinger— why, that lousy cunt!She definitely had a hand in this, no doubt about it! She and the Duchess had been friends since high school, and, back in the day, she'd dated one of Michael Burrico's closest friends.
“How was the concert?” I asked casually.
The Duchess shrugged. “It was okay. Nothing special.” Then a strategic subject change: “I was hoping the kids would be home tonight.”
Why? So you could use them as human shields? Sorry, Duchess, no such luck. It's only you and me tonight—you, me, and the golden letter opener. Prepare to reap the consequences of your infidelity!I said, “Just out of curiosity, where'd you sleep last night?”
“At Ophelia's,” she snapped. “Why?”