A Person of No Importance

I always lie more convincingly in a red dress. Good thing I was wearing one when the police arrived. And the bloodstains! They would have been positively lurid against the cream-colored Stella McCartney cocktail dress I was this close to putting on the night before. Well, I always have been lucky. If you met me in person, you’d hate me. You really would.

You’d admire my flawless good looks, expensive clothes, and frolicsome charm. You wouldn’t be the first to go weak in the knees for my Rolls-Royce Sweptail. Oh, you thought they only made one? Officially maybe, but the world I live in is a few steps higher than exclusive. The word “no” does not exist here. Not for me.

So, as I said, you would hate me on sight. I have that effect on people. It’s not anything I do precisely, although I have done some very unpleasant things. It’s more a function of who I am: blessed from birth, incalculably rich, and someone you will never be. Life is hard. For you, I mean.

Fate deals you cataclysmic events while tossing me nothing but minor inconveniences like the one sprawled at my feet in an embarrassingly awkward position on the second most expensive rug ever sold at Sotheby’s auction house. Cagey of me to kill him on that rug, don’t you think? Only a fool would commit premeditated murder and ruin a $30 million-plus rug in the process. And nobody’s ever taken me for a fool, I can assure you.

I suppose you’re wondering who the dearly disposable victim of my cold-blooded crime can be. One of the usual suspects? A cheating husband, a faithless lover, an abusive father who’s had it coming for far too long?

Do you think someone like me would kill anyone so ordinary? Please, give me some credit. Everybody else does. I’ve got the Amex Centurion card to prove it. (Sorry, but I do have the most vulgar predilection for bad jokes!)

Anyone who knows their Hitchcock knows the best way to get away with murder is to kill somebody you have absolutely no reason to kill. Oh, yes. I know it didn’t go so well for those fellows in Strangers on a Train, but this is me about whom we’re speaking. Let’s remember that.

Motive, means, and opportunity: hit that trifecta, and you’re in trouble. If you’ve no good reason to kill a person, your odds of getting away with it increase exponentially. Every day we are each presented with the means and the opportunity for murder: A lone jogger and a palm-sized rock, a subway train and a well-timed push, a pedestrian, and a little confusion over which pedal stops the car.

Means and opportunities abound. But, it’s a motive that pushes regular people like you over the edge. I don’t include myself because we’ve already established I don’t need one.

The curious thing is that everyone does have a motive, whether they know it or not. Your life might be better without a spendthrift spouse who’s dipped into the retirement account one too many times if there’s a substantial amount of life insurance on the line. The only thing standing between you and that promotion is Dave. Somebody cheated, so someone must pay. People have killed for so very much less.

But enough about you. I’ve got a murder weapon to dispose of, condolence letters to write, and a crime scene clean-up crew to engage. Of course, I have people to do those things for me, but I believe some things are best attended to by oneself. Tiresome though they may be.

You’re still wondering about my victim, aren’t you? Please don’t. He was a person of no importance, beneath your consideration, even in death. Why is it that when someone becomes a murder victim, suddenly they’re a big deal? All they do is stand there. It’s we murderers who do the heavy lifting.

Oh, dear. Someone’s coming. How unfortunate! I’ll be back in a jiffy. Just let me go put on my face.

“Ms. Timmons? You done with that breakfast tray? Hey! What happened to your tomato juice? Did you knock it over again?”

Brandy stands with her hands on her hips and surveys the scene muttering under her breath, “Clumsy old bat.”

She crouches down beside the bed. “Oh, no! Look what you’ve gone and done to your poor Mr. Cabbage Patch doll! This place looks like a crime scene. I don’t think the girls in the laundry room will be able to do a thing with that. I do not.”

Brandy scoops the juice-soaked doll in a cheap area rug and deposits the mess in the bin with the soiled linen. She turns back to the bed.

“Oh, now, Ms. Timmons, don’t fret. I’m sure it was an accident. I’ll talk to your caseworker and see if she can find you a new one. Maybe a little girl dolly this time or a nice cuddly stuffed animal, would you like that? Gotta have your little lovey, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Brandy doesn’t wait for a reaction, knowing there won’t be one. She pulls down the old-fashioned, rolled shade at the window. “You just try to get some rest now, Mrs. T. Forget this ever happened.” She leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

What’s going on in your minds, I wonder, after witnessing that remarkably mundane scene? I can only imagine. You may even be just a tiny bit shocked.

Didn’t think I’d get away with it, did you?