Deadly Housewives Read online

  Deadly Housewives

  Edited by Christine Matthews

  Contents

  Introduction: Dear Christine

  The One That Got Away Julie Smith

  GDMFSOB Nevada Barr

  The House of Deliverance Christine Matthews

  Lawn and Order Carole Nelson Douglas

  Joy Ride Nancy Pickard

  The Next-Door Collector Elizabeth Massie

  Acid Test Sara Paretsky

  Trailer Trashed Barbara Collins

  An Invisible Minus Sign Denise Mina

  Purrz, Baby Vicki Hendricks

  The Next Nice Day S. J. Rozan

  He Said…She Said Marcia Muller

  How to Murder Your Mother-in-Law Suzann Ledbetter

  Vanquishing the Infidel Eileen Dreyer

  Biographies

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction: Dear Christine

  Being a house wife is the most difficult, thankless job there is. And when a person gets ignored, taken for granted year after year, something happens. She turns deadly. I know this not only from personal experience but from all the letters I get. Like this one:

  Dear Christine:

  My husband’s a skunk! I don’t know why I even married the bum. He treats me like a slave—makes me cut his toenails and even give him a bath. When he watches his favorite TV show, WWE Monday Night RAW, I have to get on the floor and be his footstool. Last Saturday I snapped when he was getting ready to go bowling and hit him on the head with last year’s trophy. It was one of those big suckers and made quite a mess on our bedroom carpet. Can you tell me what to use to get out the bloodstains? I’m having company next weekend and want everything to look nice.

  Wondering in Wilmette

  And having been there I always try to help.

  Dear Wondering:

  Try using a mixture of cool water and dishwashing liquid. Rub gently then blot. Repeat until the stain is gone. If this fails, I suggest you move your bed to cover the spot.

  Christine

  Why, just look at the papers, or CNN or…your neighbor. Frustration hides behind gingham curtains. A smile can hide such brutal plots. Like Ann Landers once said: “Nobody knows what anyone’s marriage is like except the two of them—and sometimes one of them doesn’t know.”

  And I ask you, is it any wonder we spend our time fending off deadly thoughts? Between carpooling, cleaning, cooking, shopping, scheduling his appointments, helping everyone in the house get what they want…well, a girl has to keep her mind sharp, doesn’t she?

  In this book I’ve gathered fourteen delicious stories of revenge, rage, love—you know, the things that feed our passion. Make us feel truly alive! You’re going to meet some very interesting characters here, and I hope that after you’ve made their acquaintance, you’ll be inspired to run right out and look for novels by the talented women who created them.

  As for me, I’ve already digested each word between these covers and have my hands full encouraging my sister housewives:

  Dear Christine:

  Oh Lord, I knew I should have thought this through more before poisoning Henry’s enchiladas. I’m a patient woman, I really am, but that husband of mine has had sex with all my friends and two of my sisters. I rolled up his body in a super-size garbage bag, stuck it in a closet, and then threw a bunch of those pine tree air fresheners all over him.

  My question for you has two parts: 1) How do I get Henry out of the house? And 2) When he’s gone, how do I get rid of the smell? Please keep in mind that I’m a widow now and won’t be able to afford anything expensive.

  Anxious in Altoona

  Dear Anxious,

  Borrow one of your sisters’ cars, never use your own. I’ve found that early morning around 4 A.M. is the best time to haul out the “trash.” And baking soda is wonderful to freshen up a room. It’s cheap and easy.

  Christine

  Deadly house wives come in such a variety. One of my favorites, Sylvia Plath, wrote in one of her poems:

  …meanwhile there’s a stink of fat and baby crap. I’m doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.

  The smog of cooking, the smog of hell.

  Mark Twain was smart enough to know “The reason novelists nearly always fail in depicting women when they make them act is that they let them do what they have observed some woman has done at some time or another. And that is where they make a mistake; for a woman will never do again what has been done before.”

  Yo, Christine:

  My husband and I have been married for two months, but he doesn’t seem to realize he’s a husband now and still hangs out with his crew. One in particular, Rich, stays all night playing video games until I go to bed. Sometimes I’ve even found him eating breakfast when I get ready for work. I took Rich out last Tuesday, pushed him off our deck before my husband got home. It was so easy it made me laugh. But so far nothing’s changed. Everyone’s still here in my house. Bummer. What should I do? I really love my husband and want to give our marriage a chance. I’m thinking that maybe if I get rid of his best friend, Aaron, things might get better?

  Sad in Seattle

  Dear Sad,

  Have you thought about a trial separation? Moving out of town? Hurry.

  Christine

  See what I mean? We’ve got stories from house wives in all stages of jealousy, greed, and anger, just trying to work things out in their own special ways. I’m sure you can all relate to more than one of these brave women who take things into their own moisturized hands and finally “clean house.”

  There’s really nothing left for you to do but find a quiet corner, pour yourself a cup of coffee, and enjoy. But if you’re still a little “anxious,” remember the words of Wilma Scott Heide who tells us:

  “I do not refer to myself as a ‘house wife’ for the reason that I did not marry a house.” And keep repeating to yourself, “I will get even. I will get even. I will…”

  Hugs & kisses,

  Christine Matthews

  The One That Got Away

  Julie Smith

  Forest got all misty when he saw that Roy had a six-pack of beer in the truck. Like it wasn’t enough he’d had to come down and bail Forest out, using up almost all the money they had left over from that pirate job they’d pulled on those dumb-ass smugglers near Savannah. Forest felt real bad about that, specially since Roy had just wanted to leave with the money they got from unloading the boat.

  But Forest had talked him into sticking around and going after the jerk-offs next time they had a load coming in. Not that it hadn’t turned out okay, except for Roy getting grazed by a bullet, which messed up his hairdo for a while. But due to the circumstances, they couldn’t get but a little of the pot, which they’d had to unload slowly over the next few months.

  Then they’d ended up gambling away most of the profits, hoping to put off actually having to work again. Truth was, there was precious little left when Forest got nailed for D&D in Biloxi.

  He popped a brew and tried to apologize. “Roy, I know I hadn’t oughta done that.”

  “Well. Least you missed the guy. But you did have to do it, bro’—I’d’a done the same, swear to God.”

  Forest was curious. He could vaguely remember taking a swing at some yahoo in Treasure Bay. “I did? How come?”

  “You don’t remember, do you? He insulted your date, man.”

  “I had a date?”

  Roy laughed. “You were talkin’ to some chick, anyhow. Hey, listen, no biggie. We’ll figure out something.”

  So they drove to the beach to polish off the beer and start figuring. “We could pull some kind of gigolo thing,” Forest said. “You know, like wait for some fat chick to hit the jackpot and
then move in on her. Do her and roll her, make everybody happy—she gets a little romance, we pay the rent.”

  “You mean I could do that. Oh no. No way, José. Uh-uh. My body’s a temple of God, man.” Roy looked like the Kennedy kid who’d gone down in his own plane, only with a mullet.

  “So you say,” Forest grumbled. This was a discussion they’d had before. The way Forest saw it, Roy had this great asset and all he wanted to do was hide his light under a bushel. “You need a manager, man. Hey, what’s that? My hip tickles.”

  Roy snorted. “Your cell phone’s probably vibrating. When’s the last time you got a call?”

  Forest looked at his phone. “‘Private caller,’ it says.”

  “Probably a telemarketer.”

  “Maybe it’s opportunity.”

  “That’s supposed to knock, right? Not vibrate.”

  But Forest was already punching the talk button. “Forest, it’s me. Heidi.”

  Forest couldn’t speak. Dumbfounded didn’t describe. It couldn’t be her. “Bet you thought you’d never hear from me again.” And then she laughed that silvery laugh, like pure, fresh water crackling its way back to sea over a bed of sun-soaked stones. And he knew it was her.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to say hello?” Her voice was slightly accented.

  “So,” he said. “Did you marry that guy or what?” He tried to keep the fury out of his voice. She was the one that got away. And without so much as taking off her little lace panties.

  But she’d screwed him anyhow. Him and Roy both.

  “Of course I married him. We live in New Orleans now.”

  “Well, what the hell you callin’ me for?”

  “It’s not working out too well, Forest. Say, you still hanging out with that nice friend of yours?” The American slang sounded strange with her fancy-ass accent. She claimed to be Dutch, but a chick like that, who knew? He wasn’t even sure he’d ever known her real name. But he did know the name of the man she’d married; it was the guy he and Roy had set up for a big fall, with her help. Or so they’d thought.

  But they were the ones who took the fall.

  “So,” he said. “You’re Heidi Handshaw now.”

  “If you like. But with any luck, not for long. I need to get out of this, Forest. Help me and there might be something in it for you.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like half a million bucks.”

  Forest fell back against the truck seat and exhaled. That was about $475,000 more than he’d ever seen in his life.

  “Split between you and your friend, I mean. That is, if you’re still working together.”

  Roy was about to pee in his pants. “Who the hell is it? What’s up, bro’?” Forest motioned to him to keep it down.

  “No hard feelings, Miss Heidi, but we didn’t exactly part friends. Why the hell should we trust you now?”

  Roy went, “It’s Heidi? The Dutch Treat? Oh, shit, hang up. Now.” Forest punched him.

  Heidi was saying, “I want to make it up to you, sweetness. I’ve always felt terrible about that—me living in luxury all this time, and you and that nice friend of yours getting cut out. I’m so sorry it couldn’t have worked out.”

  “Yeah, right.” Forest hung up.

  The phone rang again. He didn’t answer it, just slugged down half a can of beer and then told Roy the story, ending up with, “Chick’s the Ebola virus, man. I’ll probably have to disinfect the goddamn phone.”

  But to his surprise, his buddy was interested. “Hang on, man, hang on. Don’t you remember, we were gonna get revenge? We planned it, remember? We were gonna blackmail her and make her pay with Handshaw’s money. Get back our own.”

  Forest had thought Roy’d been too drunk to remember. At any rate, neither of them had ever brought it up again, Forest because…well, because he was about three-quarters in love with her at the time. But he damn sure wasn’t now. The chick was Darth Vader in a bathing suit, which was what she’d been wearing when he met her. He could see her now, tanned legs peeking out from the sarong she’d tied around her, shoulders gleaming with sunscreen…

  Roy wouldn’t shut up. “This is our chance, man. This time we cut her out. See, we got the advantage—we see her coming this time. I mean, she thinks we’re just a coupla dumb redneck peckerwood bozos.”

  Forest laughed. “Didn’t you ever go to school, man? You know the word redundant?”

  Evidently, Roy did, because he started laughing, too, and pretty soon they couldn’t stop, they were so full of beer and desperation. “Go on,” Roy said finally. “Call her back.”

  But she hadn’t left a number, only an address, or part of one, and an order: “Come to Belle Reve in New Orleans—on the West Bank—at two P.M. day after tomorrow. Ask the guard for Mrs. Handshaw.”

  “Well?” Roy said. “What else have we got to do? If we start now, we can be in the French Quarter in a coupla hours—catch a little action, scope out the place tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got to go to court tomorrow.”

  “Okay, we’ll leave afterward. I was kind of wondering how we were gonna pay your legal fees.”

  Forest sighed. He’d known they were going to do it. He was even kind of excited about it.

  Turned out Belle Reve was a gated community, the kind of place that made Seaside, the shiny resort where they’d met the current Mrs. Handshaw, look like a shantytown. They gave the guard the password, not knowing what to expect, but to their surprise, he said, “Oh yes. Mr. McElroy. Mrs. Handsaw’s expecting you.” And he gave them directions to a minimansion that probably had five marble-paved bathrooms and a screening room.

  Heidi met them at the door before they even had a chance to ring the bell. Forest was just about to plant a big one on her, when she said, “Mind putting the truck in the garage? We don’t want to draw too much attention.” Somehow, she always managed to move out of the way just when Forest was planning to get physical. Which was something her appearance certainly invited. She looked more like a porcelain figure than a woman—aristocratic profile, pale, pale skin, and great big light blue eyes in a round face that looked so innocent you wanted to buy her an ice cream cone.

  But the thing was, chicks like her always went for Roy, not him—hell, all chicks went for Roy. Which should have made Forest suspicious in the first place. How the hell had she picked him over his buddy? Naturally, first time around, he’d thought it was his superior brain and down-to-earth charm, but now…well, face it, a piece of him still thought that.

  When she finally let them in, she gave each one a kiss on the cheek. She was wearing a flower print sundress with one of those halter top things made for showing off a great pair of garbanzos. Which she had, and it did.

  “Nice place you got here,” Roy said, stepping in and casing it. Nice bar, nice piano, expensive modern furniture—nothing fusty or Maw-Maw—and a wall of glass facing a pool shaped like a comma.

  Heidi’s face shadowed. “Not a happy place, Roy. Not a happy place at all. Let’s go out by the pool. You guys like mojitos?”

  “Mosquitoes?” Roy said, and Forest punched him.

  Heidi spilled that water-over-rocks laugh all over both of them and handed Roy a mint-sprigged cocktail. “Here. Try one.”

  After that, there was no going back. Neither Forest nor Roy had any idea where mojitos had been all their lives, but after the first one, they couldn’t wait to drink up all the rest there were in the whole world. And in Forest’s case, he was almost ready to make an honest split with the former Ebola virus, who was once more elevated in his mind to the Queen of…yeah. He lifted his glass: “To the Queen of Crime.”

  At that, Roy and Heidi almost peed themselves laughing, but she managed to gasp out, “So you’ll do it?”

  “Are you kidding? How could it fail?”

  “It couldn’t.”

  Here was the setup. A man two streets over, guy named Bert Caulfield, who shared a cleaning lady with Heidi, was someone she knew from neighborhood cocktail p
arties, where he’d told her he ran not one, but three pain clinics out in Jefferson Parish. As it happened, she suffered from headaches, so he said to drop on in, he was sure he could fix her up.

  She went the next day, but almost left because there were so many people in the waiting room. However, she noticed they were all coming out about two minutes after getting called for their appointments. So she gave it twenty minutes, whereupon she was seen by a doctor with a foreign accent who asked her what was wrong and, when she said headaches, didn’t say another word. Just sat down and wrote her out prescriptions for not one, but three drugs, which could be filled at an in-house pharmacy—for cash only.

  She looked at her watch—the whole procedure hadn’t taken but two and a half minutes, including the doctor’s final words (“Be sure and come back if you have any more pain”) and paying the bill, which was a hundred dollars.

  “How good at math are you guys? That’s almost a dollar every few seconds, not counting what they’d have made if I’d actually filled the prescriptions. So I just knew Mr. Caulfield was a man after my own heart. I looked up all the drugs on the Internet, and sure enough—they were all narcotics and all highly addictive. Get it? You don’t make just one visit—you’ve got to keep coming back for your happy pills.”

  By now, they’d had quite a few mojitos and Roy evidently wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “You mean the guy’s a drug pusher or something?”

  Heidi’s teeth showed, and water warbled over rocks. “You got it,” she said. “It’s what they call a pill mill. I figure Caulfield raked in about a thousand dollars in the twenty minutes I was in there.”

  Roy was still working it out. “So, was it a fake doctor or something?”