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Mary is a criminal lawyer and soccer mom in Texas. She writes bloodthirsty stories for adults and sweeter ones for children. Occasionally she writes bloodthirsty ones for the kids as well. Tomorrow's mystery readers have to start somewhere! You can read Mary's story "The Devil You Know" in the March edition of Coyote Wild (coyotewildmag.com). Her Price Above Rubies by Mary Misenor "There just aren't enough righteous women left in the world," Calvin says, giving his paper a snap.
He drops this nugget of wisdom as he drinks the coffee I made him. He says it with a little frown and a shake of his head. He doesn't look up from his paper.
I check the clock. 6:45. How much longer?
"It's just a shame, Janice," he says. "Such an obsession with the physical appearance. Why can't these women learn to temper their appetites?" He has a way of making it sound like a challenge, like I've personally led these women down the path of sin and iniquity. "Husbands need to take a firm hand, that's what I always say."
He lowers the paper to stare at me. I murmur something noncommittal which he takes as an unqualified assent.
"You can't find a righteous woman. Her price is above rubies." So says Calvin from on high. He's mangled the Bible again.
Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.
6:50. Any minute.
"I'll be late tonight. Harry's off at another one of those charity things. I've yet to see how all this networking has paid off. Hard work," he wags his finger at me, "that's what pays off and nothing but."
I wipe an imaginary smudge from the gleaming sink. What do I know about hard work? What do I know about anything?
He snaps his paper. "Get there early and leave late. I'm like the Marines. First in, last out." He laughs at his own joke and holds his cup before me to fill.
6:55. I smile as I pour.
"Tonight should be pot roast," he says.
"Meatloaf," I say, then bite my lip. Why do I do that when it doesn't matter? "No, you're right. It's pot roast." The bruise on my cheek still aches from the last time.
"Bring me the list."
I fetch it from the fridge. He checks the menu he prepared and frowns. "This is wrong. Wednesday should be roast. Can't imagine why this blasted thing says meatloaf." He glares at me as though I altered it. "I expect pot roast."
Of course you do. "Yes, dear. Pot roast." I lower my eyes.
7:00. Did I get the dosage wrong?
Calvin leans back in his chair, his face slack. His eyes slip out of focus. The paper slides from his fingers. His mouth works, but he's blessedly silent.
With a grunt he pitches forward onto the table. His nose lands with a satisfying crunch.
I finally breathe a sigh of relief. I take my time washing out the coffee pot and his mug. A little pool of blood has collected around Calvin's nose.
I peruse the knife block for a moment, draw a fillet blade, and then hesitate. Should I slit his throat here or wait until I can drag him into the tub? I can't dismember my husband in the kitchen. I just mopped the floor.
Calvin stirs slightly and my decision is made. I move behind him. With my left hand I grasp his forehead and tilt his head back, exposing his throat.
Right to left. A neat, thin line.
Such precision.
Calvin would appreciate that.
THE END Mary Misenor © 2008 |