By Laura Kathryn Rogers
Gavin was sure of one thing–he wanted to kill his wife.
He was not sure how he would do it, or when he would do it, but he knew that divorce was not an option. Samantha was shrewd, and a lawyer herself, damn it all, and she would eat him alive in divorce court.
He thought of just stepping off the grid, becoming one of those weird stories in shows like “Unsolved Mysteries” where the somber host talks about the mild-mannered middle-aged guy who walked away from a mortgage and suburban lifestyle. “Have you seen this man?” The host would ask, staring keenly at America via the television camera.
No, no, no. He didn’t want to disappear. Twenty five years had built and stoked a hatred for Samantha that would only be quenched one way. She had to die.
He considered a hired gun, then disregarded that as well. Gavin was a tax attorney, making a good salary, but he figured such a person would not come cheap. And in his experience as a Caucasian-who-never-got-in-trouble (not even a traffic ticket) where the hell would he find an assassin?
He pondered this daily as he walked to his office, and walked back. As he munched on his self-made sandwiches with Fritos chips and a cold Pepsi. Considered it as he lay next to his snoring wife in bed. Thinking about how to murder Samantha was the only thing lately that put him to sleep.
When had he decided he hated her? That was perhaps a question for the ages. There had been about two good years, then Samantha’s career as a hugely successful prosecutor had really taken off, and she became (especially in her own mind) a superstar. The fun-loving, down-to-earth girl he’d loved in high school put bold high-lights in her hair, shopped at places with cachet, and spent a good deal of money recreating herself. She got contacts, and God, she was always jogging.
Sometimes, Gavin wondered what she was running from.
As her career got more newspaper headlines, she became a partner of the law firm she’d joined fresh out of college. There wasn’t a challenge she turned down. Except the things that interested Gavin. He wanted a few kids, a dog in the backyard, and game night on the weekend. As Samantha got more successful, she developed contempt for all those things and, sadly for Gavin, too.
So, there was the answer to the question. He started hating her when he realized that she, his wife who had pledged to love him forever, hated him. Not just hated, but viewed him with the scorn she might view something unpleasant on the bottom of one of her five hundred dollar shoes. He was bland, boring, and worse still, had no intention of being anything else. That one thing Samantha could not forgive Gavin for.
So, Gavin, thought, Samantha had to die.
He considered his options. He tended towards pudginess, was in no way athletic. In a fight, Samantha probably could take him. She didn’t sleep well, perhaps a cost of her ongoing climb to greater success, so he couldn’t do something while she slept. He couldn’t surprise her during sex, choking her lifeless. Samantha hadn’t slept with him in years. He wasn’t sure what she did to meet any needs she might have, but he was certain of one fact, she wasn’t doing it with him, and had no interest in that anymore.
He started watching true crime shows, reading books on unsolved murders, even became chummy with the security guard at his work, who was a retired detective. The guard, Kevin Mortimer, loved to talk about his glory days, and had, in his day, apprehended a few nasty guys. Gavin didn’t tell Kevin why he suddenly was interested in hearing all the gory details, and Kevin didn’t think to suspect a darker motive.
Gavin became an expert on his wife’s comings and goings. He realized with a start that in the years of their gradually worsening marriage, that he’d begun to ignore her as much as possible. When she saw that frequent taunting and insults were not going to motivate him to be the man she thought he should be, Samantha started ignoring him right back. It worked well for the couple, and now it was die-hard habit for them both.
She didn’t even ask him to be arm-candy at various work-related functions. In fact, someone recently quoted her as being single in an interview. Samantha didn’t correct them.
Murder often has a motive, and for Gavin, there was a big one. Far beyond hate. Far beyond the list of grievances over the years. At age 51, Gavin Roberts had fallen in love.
She was just like him, really. Normal, middle-aged, a little chunky around the waist. Amy Collins would never be a super-model. But she was nice. And she liked him. She was a fellow tax attorney who was divorced with no children.
Gavin began giving up his home-made sandwich lunches for light, healthy lunches with Amy. They went on walks during work breaks. After about six months, there was that prerequisite-to-a-love-affair first kiss, in the park next to their building.
Things really took off after that.
Amy even had a dog, a sweet natured Golden Retriever who loved everyone. Amy loved how Gavin would play ‘fetch’ with Bongo, as the dog was called, in the backyard. He even made the excuse of an out of town ‘conference’ to Samantha, who did all but yawn when he told her he would be gone for a few days. Instead of the non-existent conference, he spent that long weekend with Amy.
Happiness, an elusive stranger for Gavin, came calling, and offered him a life unlike anything he had dared hope for. Amy and he became reckless, actually, going to wine tastings, live music, and even to the library, picking out books to read together. After a year, Amy’s home was more like Gavin’s home. He hated having to leave there when he visited. He was a man given a renewed chance at a joyous life.
Now, if he could just get rid of his wife.
When he finally figured it out, he wanted to slap himself for not thinking about it before. Samantha had just had a high profile trial where she put away several notorious drug dealers with Mafia ties. All of them threatened her inside and outside of the courtroom. For a while, a unmarked police car sat at their curb, insuring his fair lady’s protection. A few months of this stifled Samantha, and she called them off.
It would be easy. He would orchestrate an alibi. He’d be sure to be seen at a local library. He’d strike up a few memorable conversations with the library workers, then ask for a private study room.
Only he would not stay there. No, he would take a gun that he would get from a pawn dealer, and he would send his wife to the great arraignment in the sky. No one would suspect the grieving husband. He would weep if he had to put onion juice in his eyes. It would be considered cold revenge for the drug lords verdict.
Case closed.
It was a frosty morning, the day of the planned execution. Gavin woke up, feeling renewed with a sense of purpose he’d not felt in years. He put on new pants that he had spent lavishly on. He wanted no chance of cheap clothing shedding tale-tale threads that would come back to haunt him. He got the gun, the rattiest looking one he could find, one that conveniently had its serial number filed off, filled it with the most deadly ammunition that he could find, and then, went about his daily business.
He went to lunch with Amy, who was amused at his joyful affect. He let her get the tiniest of details of his plan from him. Not the criminal part, of course. Only that tonight, at seven p.m. he planned to free himself from his marriage so that they could be together forever. Gavin saw an unusual gleam in his beloved’s eyes, and congratulated himself on saying just enough.
There would be no witnesses, no one to testify. No loose ends. He and Amy would lay low another year, he would act the inconsolable spouse, and this time next year, he and Amy would quietly marry.
The rest of the day flew by. Gavin went to the library at 6 p.m. Had a talk about 6:35 with the research librarian about Rodin’s sculptures, particularly one they both liked, “The Kiss.” Gavin thought of Amy when he and the librarian looked at a photo of the statue.
Gavin had timed it to the nanosecond. Once he went into the study room, he had three minutes to walk home, secret himself, point the gun when Samantha came in. She was a creature of habit and went straight into her home office every night right at seven. He would point the gun, yes, he would. And he would fire, and put the bitch out of his misery.
As fate had it, everything worked out down to the second. No one saw him leave the study room at the library. There was no window into the room, so as far as anyone knew, he was still there. Nothing slowed him down.
He got home at precisely 6:57 p.m. and waited in the quiet, cool room where Samantha did her legal research and preparations for trials. He had not been in there in years. It smelled of Samantha and some of her expensive perfume. He hated how the room smelled.
In the dark room, he thought he heard movement. No, it was his imagination. Nothing would foil his perfect plan.
Samantha walked in. She was beautiful, tailored to the toe, coiffed as if ready for trial. Good. Gavin thought.
He pointed the gun, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. Except that Samantha saw him. Revulsion and repugnance filled her face. “You can’t even pull off a marital homicide, Gavin?” She asked.
Gavin fumbled at the gun. The safety was on. He could remedy that.
Before he could shoot, he heard the sound behind him. He turned.
Amy. Oh my God Amy. And she was pointing a gun, right at him.
“Let me tell you why you’re going to die, Gavin.” Amy said, calmly. “You’re a worm. I never loved you. Never. Did you not pick up on it? There was a reason I got divorced. I guess I never told you.”
She walked over, and Gavin’s face became a mask of horror as he saw his wife and his lover embrace.
It was impossible, impossible, Gavin told himself. He wanted to love Amy. Live with Amy. He wanted to be happy. If he couldn’t have Amy, he would rather be dead.
A second later, Amy fired the gun, and the bullet found its way home. Then, she and Samantha went to the living room to discuss their upcoming wedding, which they had been planning for years.
The following day, police were called when Samantha, hysterical, found her dead husband. No one thought to question the slight aroma of onions as the officers comforted her. An intense investigation followed. The gun that fired the shot could not be traced. It was of the type that criminals preferred. Even the serial number had been filed off, and a home-made silencer had made the crime unheard.
The case was never solved. Samantha buried her husband, and about a year later, taking care to be seen grieving discreetly, Samantha married Amy.
Everyone wished them well.
And, all things being equal, everyone got what they wanted.
Lavender and Rose Soul 