Yellow Mama E zine

THE LAST JOB

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By Shari Held

 

        The job was simple. Blend into the background, trail my client’s husband, photograph anything interesting. “Anything interesting” usually translated to “the other woman.” This assignment had been no exception.

        I slipped my Glock and suppressor from my pocket before shedding the rumpled, beige trench coat and the extra-large brown sweatshirt I’d worn for the job. Next, I untied the padding that had bulked up my size-six figure and breathed a sigh of relief. That vest does the trick, but it must weigh fifty pounds.  Finally, I removed the wire-rimmed glasses, popped out the hazel contacts, pulled off the granny gray wig, and stepped out of the orthopedic shoes. If anyone had bothered to look at me earlier—and that was a big if—all they would have seen is a frumpy, average-sized woman of a “certain age.”

        My name is Sheila Hardin, and I help women who were dealt a raw deal in the roll of the dice that is matrimony. Women who are cheated on, blackmailed, brutalized mentally or physically, or held hostage by the threat of financial ruin or loss of parental rights.

        I can relate. Kenneth, my dearly departed husband—can you hear the irony dripping like acid from my vocal chords?—died from an undetected congenital heart problem post coitus in his forty-year-old assistant’s bed. I was too humiliated and disillusioned with our marriage to care. The woman was fifteen years older than me, for god’s sake. Still, no matter the circumstances, dying turned out to be the nicest thing Kenneth ever did for me. I now enjoy sole ownership of all his extensive assets.

         Helping women is one way I use it.

         It all began when I entered the powder room at the ritzy restaurant where the museum’s annual fundraiser was being held and heard someone sobbing in one of the “accommodations.” Calling it a stall doesn’t do justice to its carved wooden door, oil paintings, and floral-scented toilet paper. Curious, I loitered to see who it was. I recognized Jennie Williamson, one of the women on the museum membership committee.

         Tears marred her formerly pristine make-up. She saw me and ducked her head.

        “Jennie, what’s wrong? Is it anything I can help you with?”

        Jennie sniffled. “Not unless you know a discreet detective who’ll get dirt on my husband and take an IOU.”

         I had a lightbulb moment. No, who am I kidding—it was more like my muse hit me in the side of the head with a baseball bat. I could do this. I had no scruples about digging up dirt on cheaters, liars, swindlers, and abusers. Besides, my friends said I should get out and about more.

        Jennie looked as if she were going to break down again, so I put my arm around her.

        “Freshen your makeup, rejoin the crowd, and come to my place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning for brunch. I just might have a solution for you.”

        I think better when I have a full plate of food and an espresso in front of me. Doesn’t everyone?

#

       Jennie knocked on my door at ten on the dot. I told her my idea, and she agreed. Within weeks, I supplied her with all the goods on her hubby. He enjoyed going to an exclusive sex club.

        I lucked out while searching the Secretary of State’s business registry for its owner. Cindy Lawton.    She was a fellow Barnard alumna and a Delta Gamma. I came prepared to lean hard on our Delta Gamma sisterhood connection to get the dirt on him, but I didn’t have to. Cindy planned to shut down the business next month. She granted me permission to place cameras in the room scheduled for Williamson’s next appointment and record the session. I would watch on the computer in the next room.

        Turns out he enjoyed getting naked and spanked by two overly endowed women wearing cat costumes with long cat-o-nine-tail whips. Meow.

        I waited until the girls left the room and Williamson was dressed. I’d seen more of him than I cared to. I confronted him and invited him to the next room, where I showed him what I had recorded.

        “What do you want?” he asked. “Hush money?”

        “It’s tempting,” I said. “But not exactly.”

        “What, then?”

         “Here’s the deal,” I said. “You will be contacted by your wife’s lawyer in the next few days. Her divorce lawyer.” I paused to let that sink in. “Once you sign the contract, you’ll be the sole owner of this video. Don’t sign or delay signing and . . .” I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s up to you.”

        “That bitch,” he shouted. He looked as if he were going to cry.

         “That bitch wants only her fair share.” I smiled at him. “You can obtain a lawyer and dicker with the terms, if you like. It’s your choice. In that case, I think we’ll release the video to your boss first. It should give your colleagues a laugh. And, of course, the country club.”

         He crumbled. “Okay. But I want the only copy of that video.”

         “You have my word.”

         That deal procured all the ammunition Jennie needed in California, a state that doesn’t divide assets 50/50. After receiving more than half their portfolio, Jennie was awarded custody of the kids, the primary house, the cabin at the lake, and a Mercedes.

         She wanted to tell all her friends about my business. But my goal was to remain anonymous. So, I set up an email address—catch-a-cheater@gmail.com—where prospective clients could reach me. My business must have been a hot topic of discussion at coffee houses and book clubs. Before long, I had my pick of jobs.

        That was a few years ago. I don’t charge for my services. However, I do extract promises for favors later on down the road. So far, everyone’s been agreeable to my requests. It’s women helping other women, after all.

       Occasionally my job involves more than taking photos or videos. Assassination is not an add-on I advertise or desire. And I certainly wouldn’t want my family or my lover to discover what I’ve done.  Sometimes, though, it’s necessary.

        One such case involved young children that were being abused in the worst way by their stepfather, Aaron Plumber. The mother was too scared and demoralized to act.

        “I don’t know what to do,” she said, as she brushed a few tears away. Her nails were bitten to the quick.

       “Leave it to me,” I said. “Just be sure you and the kids are at the school’s open house from seven to nine. Make an effort to be seen. Talk to people. Ask the time or note the time in conversation so they can give you an alibi.”

       She nodded. I had no doubt she’d do it. She was used to taking orders. She slid a house key across the table to me.

       Later that evening, I let myself into the Plumber house. I wasn’t alone. I carried my gun and suppressor with me. Her husband was alone in his study.

      “Open the safe,” I said, aiming my Glock at his chest.

      “What?” he sputtered. “I’m no bank. I’ve got no safe.”

      “I happen to know better,” I said. “Open it. Now. If you want to live.”

       He rose to his feet, hands in the air, and walked over to a large painting that looked like something Mondrian would do. The painting swung away from the wall, revealing a safe.

       He opened it. Grabbed something. And turned toward me. Gun in hand.

       I pulled the trigger. Hit him in the heart. He fell. Did I mention I learned to shoot game on my grandpa’s estate and that I’m an ace shot?

      To make the scene look like a robbery gone bad, I tossed some of the loose cash around the room, overturned his office chair, and made it look like he’d put up a fight. Then I exited through the back door, shattered one of the door’s glass panes, and took off. I suppose I should feel some remorse. But in cases like that, I don’t. On the other hand, I don’t take any great satisfaction in it, either.  

      Mostly, though, I love taking on an assignment. Each one is unique. It’s the people involved that make every case different.

      And the jobs allow me to release my inner drama queen. I devote one entire room to disguises. Within minutes I can be a prim and proper Bible school teacher, a corporate lawyer, a slutty vamp, or a homeless person. I have wigs, colored contacts, canes, arm casts, you name it.

       And Sherlock thought he was the master of disguises. Ha!

       I also have access to help when I need it. My housekeeper’s son is savvy with computer research and cameras. Neither of them is aware of my “special” jobs, though, and I plan to keep it that way.

        For my favorite assignment, I’d worn a slinky slip dress, stilettos that made my legs look like those of a Radio City Rockette, and a wig with curls down the middle of my back. I hadn’t so much as looked at my client’s husband before he put the moves on me. My assistant took incriminating pictures of us at a hotel bar and as we were leaving together. Of course we didn’t actually leave together. I had what I came for.

       Those photos were all it took for my client to file for divorce with the proof she would need to receive everything she wanted in the divorce.

       In case you’re wondering, none of my clients’ husbands ever got past first base with me. Well, one made it to second, but that was because he surprised me. Two days later, I’d signed up for a defense class.

I suppose someone less scrupulous wouldn’t mind getting a little sex on the side in the name of business, but not me. I drew the line there every time. And I would do so even if I weren’t dating the nicest, sexiest, and most thoughtful man on the planet.

       My sweetie’s name is Jude Jacobs. He’s near my age, successful but not full of himself, and has a great sense of humor. It’s fun to dress up, flirt a little over cocktails, and visit exciting places with a handsome man on my arm again. Best of all, he travels extensively for his job, so my assignments have never interfered with our times together. I haven’t told him about my secret career. And he doesn’t talk about his business, either. We have more important things to do when we’re together. Jude adores me. If we take things to the next level, I may give up my career altogether.

         Speaking of work, my latest job is typical. I met my client, Jill Smythe Barnett, in a coffee shop to discuss her case. Jill is no-nonsense, with a clipped, precise voice. It put a stranglehold on any humor I may have been inclined to interject into our transaction. She thought her husband, Charlie Barnett, was having an affair. He traveled often, and she wasn’t convinced he was always truthful about where he’d been. Or with whom. Yada, yada, yada.

         All she could say was that he’d been acting differently for months, and her intuition was on high alert. According to Jill, her intuition rarely led her in the wrong direction.

         I asked the usual questions. Did they have children? No. Was he abusive? No. Had he been unfaithful in the past? No reason to think so. And so on.

         I told her I’d give it a shot, but I wouldn’t promise anything.

         She provided information on the location of her husband’s office, the kind of car he drove, and the address of the gym where he worked out every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday after work when he was in town. She didn’t carry his photo with her, which made me wonder if theirs was a loveless marriage, but described him as about six feet tall and handsome, with dark hair and gray eyes. She said he’d be easy to recognize because he carried a distinctive red tooled-leather briefcase he had purchased in Spain during their honeymoon.

         Not much to go on. A man who is “acting differently” isn’t necessarily playing house on the sly with someone else. He could have received a health diagnosis that threw him for a loop, a demotion he didn’t want his wife to know about, or maybe he noticed he was losing his hair. But most women have a sixth sense when their man is two-timing them. My money was on another woman, too.

         I didn’t need to costume up for this one, but I enjoyed it, so I donned my long black wig, popped in a pair of brown contacts, and created extended cat eyes with eyeliner. I named this character Dixie. I wore a short black leather skirt, a bomber jacket, leather gloves, and thigh-high boots. I could be mistaken for a model or a high-priced hooker.

         Around five o’clock, I leaned against the side of Barnett’s office building as if I were waiting for a ride. Before long I spotted the Spanish briefcase. My eyes traveled up to the man’s face.

         My client’s Charlie Barnett and my Jude Jacobs . . . Were. The. Same. Man.

         My heart dropped to my stomach. Nausea made me retch. The man who’d been standing near me gave me an acid look and moved away.

         I remained stuck to the spot. I’d been taken in by a man. Just like the women I helped. The women I pitied. I thought I was smarter than that. That it couldn’t happen to me again. I slumped and started to cry as I’d done when I’d first suspected Kenneth was seeing someone else. Somehow, I dragged myself to my car and slid behind the wheel.

        Then, anger took over. My Inner Bitch gained control of my body. I straightened up, dried my eyes, stroked my Beretta, and drove to Jude’s gym.

        Sure enough, the jerk was just walking inside. I parked farther away, out of reach of the security cameras, but close enough that Jude would hear me call to him. And I waited.

        He walked out with a buddy. Damn. They chatted for a few minutes, then his friend, who was parked next to the door, got into his car and pulled out, waving goodbye. I released my breath. Jude was alone. It was now dark. No one else was around. He approached his car, unlocked the door, and threw his gym bag in the backseat.

        Before he could slide into the driver’s seat, I called to him using my best damsel in distress voice.

        “Hey, mister. Can you help me? I seem to have locked myself out.”

        He glanced my way, then walked toward me. “I don’t know if I can, but I’ll try. If I can’t, a quick call to AAA should do the trick.”

        He gave me that familiar charming smile, then turned to look at my car door. My gut clenched, but I willed my nerves to steady. I pulled out my gun and poked him in the back.

        He jumped. “Hey, what’s going on?”

        “You’ll be fine if you give me your wallet.”

        “No problem. Just don’t hurt me. I have three children waiting for me at home.”

        I almost shot the bastard right then.

        He gave me his wallet. I put it in my pocket. “Let’s take a walk.”

        He started to object, but one more jab with the gun and he went reluctantly. What a wuss. What did I ever see in him? “Over there. Behind the building, by the trash containers.”

         He went rigid. He was smart enough to know this wasn’t a good sign. I could almost hear him trying to figure out how to escape. But I wasn’t going to let him do that. No one makes a fool of me. Not anymore. “Put your hands on the edge of the dumpster and don’t look back.”

        “All right. Just don’t hurt me. Please.”

         That was the wrong thing to say. I shot him in the head, shoved the gun in my pocket, took his cash and cards, and threw the billfold next to his body.

          A simple case of theft gone wrong. Too bad it was my heart he’d stolen.

#

          Later that night, I went through the Scotch as if it were balm for the soul. It wasn’t. At one point, I remembered thinking I ought to thank Mrs. Smythe Bennett for saving me from becoming more attached to the cheating scumbag. It didn’t make me feel any better. I poured another glass of Scotch.

         Jude’s death didn’t even make the front page of the newspaper. A gang, known to hang out in the area, was blamed for his death. Case closed. I was in the clear. It didn’t make me feel any better. I deleted my email account. Gave all my disguises to Goodwill.

         I’d done my last job. I no longer had the stomach for it.

         A week later I found a letter addressed to me under my door. It read:

          I know you killed my husband. Months ago, I hired a detective to follow Charlie. The detective discovered he was seeing you. I hoped your affair would blow over and he’d see reason. But he didn’t.  He’d fallen in love with you.

         He admitted everything when he asked for a divorce. He wanted to file before he told you he was married.

         I hated him. Then, I heard about your service from a friend. On a hunch—and you know how accurate my intuition is—I had my detective investigate your business, catch-a-cheater. It took him a while, but anyone can be convinced to talk. He told me sometimes you did more than take photos.

         That gave me an idea. How delicious it would be if you discovered your lover wasn’t who he pretended to be. What would you do? Dump him? Or worse? I decided to find out. Hire you. Let you find out for yourself. Allow you to take matters into your own hands. Which you did.

         Now, thanks to you, I’ll inherit everything, I’ll be a wealthy widow. And you, you’ll have to live with the knowledge that you killed a man who truly loved you. For the rest of your life.

         Let’s just call ourselves even.

         I balled the letter in my fist and threw it across the room. Anger was too dilute an emotion for what I was feeling. I was seething with an uncontrollable rage. She’d set me up to kill the one man who could make me happy. The bitch!

         Maybe Jude wouldn’t be my last job after all.

THE END

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       Shari Held is an Indianapolis-based fiction writer who spins tales of mystery, horror, and romance. Her short stories have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Yellow Mama, Hoosier Noir, Asinine Assassins, Homicide for the Holidays, and Between the Covers. When not writing, she cares for feral cats and other wildlife, reads, and strategizes imaginative ways for characters and trouble to collide!

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J. Elliott is an author and artist living in a small patch of old, rural Florida. Think Spanish moss, live oak trees, snakes, armadillos, mosquitoes. She has published (and illustrated) three collections of ghost stories and three books in a funny, cozy series. She also penned a ghost story novel, Jiko Bukken, set in Kyoto, Japan in the winter of '92-'93. Available in  Paperback and eBook on Amazon.