Last Words

I’m not built for this kind of thing anymore. I thought as I shimmied down the trunk of an old oak. The tree in question was in the back corner of the sprawling estate where I used to live, a place I was no longer welcomed. It had been almost three weeks without a Mitch sighting. The for-sale sign was planted out front, and I was beginning to get desperate. Mitch is my husband and I really wanted to have a word with him.

I wasn’t stalking Mitch, not quite. But, I think I would have been justified if I was. What would you do if your husband locked you out of the house you bought, and shacked up with a girl less than half your age? Then--to add insult to injury--he cancelled all my credit cards and decimated the bank accounts. You would probably do what I was doing now; track his sorry ass down as soon as possible. I knew I still had some time, because he hadn’t been able to liquidate the stocks or unload the real estate. If I had to roost in an entire forest, I would. I wanted to see the expression on his face when I finally hunted him down.

I probably should have someone objective to do the dirty work. But, I just couldn’t. I had been a private investigator for almost fifteen years and this was what I did by choice everyday. I knew I hadn’t lost my touch. Mitch knew I carried a gun and was pissed off enough to use it. That explained more than anything why there was no Mitch or Courtney--the little tart--in sight.

I checked every hotel, spa, and bed-and-breakfast within a two-hundred mile radius. I called every friend and acquaintance I could think of, still no luck. There were not hits on his credit cards--Mitch and Courtney had to be using cash--and they hadn’t taken any domestic or international flights. Mitch hated crowds and enclosed spaces. Ships, trains and any other pedestrian form of transportation were definitely out of the question. That only left places within an easy driving distance. Mitch hated to drive, but I seriously doubted he would be comfortable enough to let lead-foot Courtney drive his car, let alone chauffer him. Just to be sure, I checked all the local car services; nothing. In all likelihood, the two of them were tooling around in one of his sports cars.

It was another week before it hit me; they must have lit out for Mexico. An uncle had left me a cute little cabana in Baja, right on the beach. Mitch and I hadn’t been there since our honeymoon, and that was over twenty years ago. I couldn’t recall why we never managed to get back there, but I do know I refused to let him sell it. Mostly, we rented the cottage out or loaned it to friends. It made perfect sense for Mitch to hide out there. Even though he has the means to go anywhere in the world, Mitch is a cheapskate. He will always take whatever he could get for free. Especially if that place is warm enough for a girl to strut around in a string-bikini.

Mitch is a body man. Long legs, lush breasts, flat abs, and a tight ass transformed old Mr. Sourpuss into a quivering puddle. In fact, I was wearing a skimpy, white two-piece the day we met. I never wear anything like that now. I still have the figure to get away with it, but I always thought that kind of exhibitionism was meant for the young. Courtney is young and doesn’t have any such qualms. Whenever we go out of town, which was frequently, she always begs to house sit for us. It means she can lounge around by the pool all day in a little something close to nothing and perfect her tan.

Courtney is a nice enough girl, but she has a nearly fatal flaw. She loves money, or more specifically, what it can provide. I kept hoping she would get over her obsession with what Mary Kate, Sienna and Paris were wearing and stop wanting to look exactly like them. Over two years later, nothing’s changed. She still keeps her eyes glued to Vogue, Harper’s and every gossip blog she can find. Whenever she can, Courtney augments her Target and Forever 21 wardrobe with designer duds from trendy secondhand stores. In retrospect, those Chanel pumps should have been a clue. The stilettos were from this season’s line. Courtney doesn’t make nearly enough for those, and unlike me she didn’t come from money.

Courtney always doted on Mitch--silly me--I thought it was cute. Even in his younger days, Mitch was never what you would call handsome. He is funny, and often quite charming. He knows how to carry himself and has style and grace to spare. Mitch can also be unexpectedly generous, usually with my money. Courtney hasn’t been to work since the day Mitch left me. That’s how I know she’s with him. I guess in the end Courtney figured the easiest way to earn all those greenbacks she desperately wants is the old-fashioned way, on her back. Being with Mitch means living in style, usually someplace that provides the opportunity to catch some killer rays.

Anyone who sees them together might think they’re a perfect match--Courtney the Aphrodite to his doting Hephaestus--I know better. Within another ten years, Mitch will trade her in for a younger model, just like he did with me.

I met Mitchell Johnson-Rand on the beach one day. I was twenty and fresh out of the police academy. I was also an orphan with a tragic past. More than anything, I wanted to be loved. Mitch was happy to provide me with whatever I thought I needed. With all my training, I probably should have seen through Mitch. But I was naïve and blinded by his effortless style and charm. He was older, more experienced, and knew just what to say to a girl like me. In less than a year we were married.

I didn’t think about it then, but there was more about me that might appeal to a man like Mitch besides youth, a great figure and the ability to provide an in-law free life. I happen to be an heiress. When we met I was just a few months shy of reaching my majority. I didn’t think Mitch was aware of the money when we met, but it must have factored into his decision to elope with me later. By the end of the honeymoon Mitch had sweet-talked his way into a power-of-attorney and complete control of my trust fund.

In the beginning, we were happy. After the honeymoon wore off, the time and energy I devoted to police work started to wear really thin. I was often exhausted and sometimes got snappish. Then, Mitch would get surly. There were too many evenings we both moved around in a heavy silence. Mitch never seemed to understand why I needed to be so busy. Or why I wanted to be so involved in the community. After all, I don’t actually need to work. By our fourth anniversary, it was clear. I could quit my job or get divorced. I absolutely loved my job--long hours and stress aside--but I love my husband more. I decided to leave the force.

Without a clear direction, I faltered. I was always underfoot and Mitch and I spent too much time together. By year five, I desperately needed a hobby. Even in my debutante days, it was evident I would never be one of the ladies who lunch. I didn’t give a fig for manicures, charity balls and proper society. I entered the academy with the hope I could help solve intricate puzzles and find a way to make my parents violent death seem less senseless. After a lot of soul-searching, it seemed like the best substitute for police work would be to become a private investigator. The work would be equally challenging, and I could pick and choose my cases. I could also set my own hours. Finding runaways, tracking down long-lost parents, and chasing wayward husbands kept my body and my mind well-occupied.

Our marriage stayed on an even keel for the next fifteen years. Everything changed when I met Margot Minton-Kimball. A mutual friend referred Margot to me as a client. She looks strikingly like me, down to the shape of her face and the tawny golden shade of her hair. Seeing her was a lot like looking in a funhouse mirror that showed your reflection in fifteen or twenty years. In a way it was really flattering--Margot looked amazing--in another it was frightening. Even more so when I learned Margot and I had very similar backgrounds.

Margot is a wealthy orphan who also married young. Her husband, James, started out as a charming romantic who slowly morphed into a philanderer. He dumped her after twelve years of marriage for a younger blonde. Margot seems to have dealt well with the breakup. What she can’t forgive is the fact that James took off with most of her money. He also never bothered to file for divorce. Margot needed to find him so she could remarry. She also wanted closure.

“This is my husband. The picture was taken over twenty years ago,” Margot said sliding a photo across the desk.

The photo Margot handed me of a young James Kimball looked remarkably like Mitch. She just stared at me, waiting. I didn’t know what to say at the time, so I thanked her and wrapped up our financial arrangements quickly.

Once Margot was out the door, I had a drink. Chugging chardonnay at 10:30 in the morning wasn’t my usual habit, but I didn’t like the direction my thoughts were turning. After giving myself a stern talking to, I got to work.

I started with the internet, before I explored more traditional avenues. A few days I paid a visit to the hall of records and started making phone calls. Everything I learned kept the storm clouds turning over my head. After a short trip up the coast to San Clemente--where Mitch is from--it became apparent the resemblance was no coincidence.

I went to my office and called Margot, “Well Mr. Kimball, James, is most definitely alive. I know exactly where to find him.”

“I bet you do,” was her smug reply.

We chatted a bit from there, but Margot didn’t seem remotely surprised by my revelations. After more idle chatter on my part, she asked if she could come see me. When I said “yes”, she informed me she would see me in twenty minutes.

When Margot arrive she didn’t speak; she just she passed me a thick manila folder. It turned out Margot had already done a good deal of research on her own. The file contained, among other things, the police report for the shooting deaths of John and Isabel March--my parents--and several articles related to the death of a second couple, Louise and Brighton Minton. My parent’s death was a carbon copy of hers, down to the style of the shooting, the location and the caliber of gun used to commit the murder. When I finished reading, I just stared at her wordlessly.

“It’s a lot to take in. When I figured it out, I probably felt the same way you do now, Sarah. Do you understand why I hired you?” She asked me. I nodded mutely. “I don’t want to add to your misery, but compare the dates. There seems to be a good deal of overlap,” and with that, she rose and sauntered to the door. At the last moment, she called over her shoulder as she left, “call me if you need me. I mean it.”

I suppose I should have been angry with Margot; it was a lousy way to learn your entire adult life was built on a bed of lies. In retrospect, I’m not sure I would have listened if she told me up front why she wanted to hire me or what she thought had happened to my parents. I knew what happened, Mitchell Johnson-Rand happened.

Like an idiot, I took all my anger and frustration home. I barely made it in the door before I started shouting, “Tell me about Margot!”

“Margot who?” Mitch replied, clearly unruffled by the name.

“Margot Kimball. Your first, or should I say current, wife,” I spitted, turning an alarming shade of pink.

Mitch kept a tranquil expression as he approached me. Stopping just out of arms reach he replied, “I think you need to calm down. I have no idea what you’re screaming about.”

He just stared at me until I unclenched my fists. Then, cool as ice, he walked to the door and said in parting, “When you do get a hold of yourself, I’ll be by the pool. Then, you can tell me what you’re going on about and just who this Margot person is.”

I guess I was in shock, because I just let him go. Mitch always managed to make me feel irrational, even when I knew I was right. In a fairly short amount of time, I was upstairs with Milagros, our housekeeper, taking a sleeping pill and getting put to bed like an errant five-year-old.

I wish I hadn’t been so hasty, roaring in and giving away my hand. Before I could shake off the drugs and process the situation, my loving husband--Margot’s husband--had absconded with my money. At first, I was too embarrassed to start confessing to people that we had never been married. Then I got mad. To add insult to injury, Mitch also took off with my twenty-year-old assistant. History had indeed repeated itself; Courtney is a dead ringer for me.

It took me about a day to setup an airtight alibi. I had one final stop before heading to Mexico. I needed to see Margot. She was expecting me. Margot poured me a scotch and handed over her passport and a sizeable wad of cash with no questions asked.

“Don’t you want to know where you’re going, just in case?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Sarah. In fact, there was just a break-in. Later this afternoon, I’m going to call the police. It might take a few days for me to realize my passport is missing.”

“I see,” I said, and smiled. Margo knew she would be getting married soon.

Mexico did indeed turn to be the destination of choice. I found Mitch and Courtney less than two days later, lazing about on the beach in two striped canvas chairs sheltered by several giant palms. A small table with magazines and a pitcher of cocktails was between them. Their bodies gleamed with oil as they soaked up the sun that beat down on the sparkling white sand. After what seemed like an impossibly long time, they finally got up and wandered down the beach to “frolic” in the surf. They were oblivious to anything but each other.

I left my hiding place and spiked their drinks, making sure I gave the double-dose of Rohypnol to Courtney. I had time to change into a skimpy outfit, very similar to one I’d seen Courtney wear. By the time I was done, they had drifted off. I tore through the house like a tornado, scattering clothing and paper in my wake. The method was messy, but thorough. Thankfully Mitch was predictable. My wave of destruction yielded a slew of legal documents, including several deeds and the power of attorney. The keys to Mitch’s convertible and several wads of cash were a happy bonus.

I pulled the Miata over to the side of the house and used a fireman’s carry to haul Courtney up the beach and into the waiting trunk. Fortunately for me, she was small and the trunk was surprisingly roomy. It was a blessing they hadn’t taken the Porsche or the Lamborghini. With Courtney dealt with for the moment, I went to tie up loose ends with Mitch.

He was a much heavier burden than Courtney. I was really tempted to complete our business on the beach, but I didn’t want to worry about witnesses. Once I had him inside, I doused his face with water and slapped him silly until he was lucid enough to speak.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I could; because you let me,” was all he could manage.

It wasn’t the answer I really needed, but it was the one I got. The drugs I’d pumped into Courtney would only last so long and I really didn’t have the patience to wait.

“On the off chance you end up with my parents, tell Isabel and Johnny I love them,” I cocked my pistol, “otherwise, enjoy hell,” were the last words the bastard I married heard before I dispatched his lying, cheating, murdering ass.

I really wish I had taken my time--maybe started with busting a knee cap--but I couldn’t wait. All the rage that had been building needed an outlet. The heavy sense of loss and sadness that had a stranglehold on my heart finally lifted. For the first time in years, I could really breathe. I couldn’t stop to savor the moment. I hopped in the car and ran.

A passerby heard shots and called the police. Witnesses reported a leggy blonde speeding away from the scene in a red convertible. Courtney woke up later that evening in a roach-infested Tijuana motel with a monster headache and minus her panties. Thanks to an “anonymous” tip, she was promptly taken into custody when she finally managed to stumble outside. The police found the murder weapon--with Courtney’s prints all over it--in the glove box of the Miata.

The authorities concocted a scenario where Courtney and Mitch had a fight that got physical. During the ensuing struggle Courtney shot Mitch in the heat of passion. Then, she headed to town to drown her sorrows in tequila and men. At the moment, she’s whiling away her days in a Mexican prison. I won’t be too surprised if I hear from her again some day.

I suspect my name came up quite a few times during Courtney’s incarceration and subsequent trial. In the end, I suspect the Mexican police felt the same way I do about trashy, little gold digger’s. The only time they ever contacted me was to inform me of his death. I never heard from them again, even though Mitch had given me ample motive. I had to read about Amy’s conviction in the papers.

If things had gone down here in LA the end of my story would probably be very different. The LAPD might have found the connection between me and Margot, changing a random burglary into something much more sinister.

No matter what anyone tells you, revenge is sweet. I couldn’t bring back my parents or recapture those lost twenty years. I did help Margot and liberate myself in the process. I also accomplished something all the procedurals say can’t be done. I committed a perfect crime. It just took the proper genetics to be a beautiful, long-limbed blonde; like Margot, like Courtney, like me.