The Real Mrs. Price (7 page)

Shou Shou could sense him in her spirit, shadowing Marlowe. Marlowe made his mouth water and his palms sweat. He was a devourer, a darkness that could gobble her up and swallow her whole if she wasn't careful, and Marlowe had always been too foolish to be careful. Of all her girls, she was the one who had always worried Shou Shou the most. Marlowe was the careless one, the flighty one too quick to follow her heart and give in to her emotions. Passion flowed through her veins like blood, and it was the passion in her that would be her downfall.

Shou Shou had to try, though. If she could keep that protection over Marlowe and her house, and keep that girl from opening that door and inviting him in, he would leave. He had no ties here. It was only a matter of time before he knew it and moved on. But if he got his hands on her, his lips, then he would do whatever it took to own her, and her dumb ass would let him. Shou Shou had no doubt about this. Oh, he was good-looking, a sensual character, full of charm and charisma that could make a woman lose her good sense over him. He was the most beautiful of all God's angels. Lucifer was no monster. No, chile. Not at all.

There was no need to close her eyes. Shou Shou opened up her heart and closed off her own personal thoughts as soon as she began this chant. It was old. It had been born of her ancestors from every corner of this world: French, Pascagoula, and Songhai. She murmured in all the languages from her ancestors, calling out for help, for each of them to rain down their powers of protection over Marlowe. Shou Shou rocked in slow circles on the floor in front of those candles, channeling the power of her heritage and casting it out into the universe, guiding it to Marlowe's house.

He was strong and powerful. And he had her in his sights. He wanted her, and she was too dumb to see it. Dumb? Or did she want him, too? He was beautiful, the most beautiful, and there wasn't a woman alive who could resist him. But Shou Shou held on to her hope that Marlowe would open her eyes and come to her senses before it was too late. That she would resist the magic he would weave with his mouth and hands, and turn from him. He couldn't come inside without an invitation. And she had to be the one who let him in.

Don't let him in, girl! He'll go away if you refuse him! He'll have no choice but to leave you alone and to leave you whole!

The power of her murmuring soon engulfed Shou Shou in a cloud of the spirit world. She and her ancestors had become one. They wondered about her.

Why are you here, girl?
they asked.

I'm fighting for the one that I love,
she told them.
She is in danger, and she doesn't know it.

Marlowe!
Marjorie's voice came through and stabbed Shou Shou in the heart.

Yes,
Shou Shou told her.
You know how she is.

I know how she is,
Marjorie responded somberly.

We have to protect her.

He wants her!
they said in unison.

He can't have her!
Shou Shou shouted.
We have to fight for her! We have to keep her safe from him!

Her spirit had left her body. Shou Shou wailed like an infant. He could ravage Marlowe and leave her raw if he wanted to. He could destroy her!

We can't let him!
Shou Shou shouted over and over again until finally the ancestors grew weary and released her to her sorrow and to her body.

All she could do now was wait and hope that Marlowe had enough common sense not to open the door and invite him in.

 

Where You Hide

T
HE SCENE OF THE CRIME.
The only things left behind now were remnants of yellow police tape strewn about and a big, black patch of burned ground where that car had been. Plato stood, literally, out in the middle of nowhere.

“So this is what that looks like,” he said reflectively.

A big, wide-open mass of nothingness, thirty-seven miles from the house of Mr. and Mrs. Price in Blink, Texas. He'd pulled up a news clip of the actual scene the day it was discovered by Clark City police and used it to get his bearings. An autopsy determined that the victim had been shot in the head before being burned. It was the bullet that killed him and not the fire. So why burn a dead man?

“To hide his identity,” Plato said out loud to himself.

The devil's in the details.
He walked a slow, wide circle around the burned ground, surveying the immediate vicinity of the crime scene. Police had likely done this a thousand times, and if there was anything for them to find, they certainly would've found it by now. Perspective was everything when you're trying to find something. Tall people see what's on top. He squatted. Short people see what's below. In this case, he didn't see a damn thing.

Nearly three miles from here was a frontage road. If the killer had come from there, they'd have had to turn right into this field from that road and drive across it. From where he stood, you couldn't even see the road. Plato turned slowly again, surveying the expanse and outlying areas of this place. On the one side, the nothingness continued for as far as the eye could see. Behind him was a mass of trees. He had no idea how deep that forest went or what was on the other side of it. But those trees were a good half a mile away, at least.

Scenario one. “I'm Ed Price,” he muttered, staring out at where he knew the road was. “I need to get rid of this body.”

Why? Because he didn't want anyone to be able to identify it. “I'm gonna burn it,” he said, speaking the thought he speculated that Ed Price had. “But why in your own car?” Plato turned his attention back to the burn spot. In his mind's eye, he saw the scene unfold.

It's late, and Plato looks up and sees Ed Price's silver Cadillac STS driving slowly across the field with the headlights off. Price is sitting behind the wheel, sweating, his eyes wide and filled with panic. He glances in the rearview mirror over and over again. The dead man is where?

“In the seat next to him?” Plato speculates. Nah. What if he were pulled over? What if some cop got suspicious?

“Laid out in the backseat or in the trunk,” he concluded.

Already dead or still alive. Ed could've had the other guy drive with Ed sitting next to him. No. In the backseat behind him with the gun pointed at his head.
Stop fucking around with scenarios and shit that doesn't matter.
Focus. Only on the facts. Only on what mattered.

Price is checking his list and checking it twice, going over the details in his head: accelerant, lighter, or torch. Escape. Direction? Destination. If he were smart, he'd have figured all this out before he decided to come here. Did he have time to plan? Or was all this one big-ass random feat? Had he planned on killing the dude, or had it been spontaneous? Questions. Too many. Stick to what's relevant.

Climb out of the car. Pull the body from the backseat or the trunk. Put him behind the wheel.

Did he fit? Were the pedals close enough or far enough away? Was the seat adjusted for his size?

Stop.

Focus.

Pour the accelerant. On the body. Inside the car. Outside the car. On the ground surrounding the car. Poof! Up in flames.

Step back. Wait. Watch. Breathe.

“Could anybody see?”

Plato imagined Price frantically turning in circles, looking for signs that anyone could see the flames, the smoke, and if anyone was headed in his direction.

“Go!” Price would run.

Run! But where? Back out to that road? Too risky. Someone might see him walking down that road and eventually tie him to this scene. Plato turned to the forest. Where did it lead? What was on the other side? Then he turned to the wide-open nothing. Eventually, all that nothing would turn to something. And it might not be nothing for long. But would Price know that? He wasn't stupid. If he was alive, then he'd been hiding for the last month and had the whole world thinking he was dead. This spot wasn't random. He knew where he was going. He knew what he was doing, and someplace around here was his escape route.

Scenario two. He smiled. “I'm Marlowe, and I'm going to kill my husband.” The only way she could've gotten that man behind the wheel of the car by herself is if she forced him to drive here at gunpoint or if she had help. He let that thought linger. Images flashed in his mind of Marlowe sitting in the passenger seat next to Price. Of course, Price could've been a dead man in the backseat or trunk. Marlowe driving with Ed on the passenger side. If she was alone, and she forced him to drive here, would she risk sitting next to him? Or would she be smart and sit in the backseat, behind him, with the gun pointed at his head?

No scenario that he played in his head with Marlowe as the killer made sense. So she got him here. He was shot. Burned. It didn't work, unless she had an accomplice. Who? Ed? Why? Ed Price could be alive, and if that were the case, then it was someone else's body burned to a crisp in that car. Money. Money made the world go round, made wives and husbands shoot dudes and set them on fire. Then he was a cad for leaving her behind. They'd have had to have planned for him to disappear. But plan for her to take the rap for his murder? He frowned. That part they hadn't planned. At least, she hadn't planned it. “He could've planned it,” he said aloud. “Set her up.”

They'd have to get out of here together. Unless! Did she drive and follow him here? Did she wait for him to burn that car and then drive off with him in her car?

“Things that make you go…”

She'd tell, though. Of course she would. If he'd been her accomplice, did that mean she knew about the money? Did she know about the missing account numbers and PINs? Would he trust her with that information?

In most states, wives can't be forced to testify against their husbands if they choose not to. He'd heard that once in a movie. Plato sighed. She would have needed help to get a man here. Her husband was one option. But then another thought occurred. Lucy.

No one could say with certainty that these two women didn't know each other before Ed Price disappeared. Lucy Price was on her way to Dallas and, likely, on her way to Blink. She reported her husband missing six months ago, and the Internet barely hiccupped. Her missing persons story was a local news story at best, until Marlowe's name came up along with evidence of the missing man's car less than fifty miles from his second home with his second wife. But again, Marlowe's ass was on the line. Not Lucy's. More money? Another setup? Was Marlowe just a sucker? A victim? He wondered.

Women were brilliant creatures. They put men to shame in the brains department, and as smart as Ed Price believed himself to be, as cunning, and as secretive, Plato knew from personal experience that a woman could crack the code on a man's cell phone faster than any hacker, if she so desired. She could interpret cryptic conversations better than any intelligence specialist or linguist. And if indeed she did discover that there was another in your heart, then God bless you. Tag team? Enemies? He wasn't sure. But if Lucy Price did bring her ass to Blink, then he'd soon find out.

 

Can't Buy a Thrill

L
UCY SAT IN THE LIVING
room of Marlowe's small bungalow, numbed by the experience of finally seeing this woman in person. Marlowe Price had been larger than life since Lucy had first seen her on the news, but nothing could've prepared her for actually meeting her face-to-face and seeing the very literal contrasts between herself and the other woman her husband had married.

Marlowe was a curvy woman, slightly bigger on the bottom than on top, with a waist so narrow it hardly seemed sufficient enough to support both halves of her. She had a youthful face, round and smooth, with an explosion of hair that overwhelmed absolutely every other part of her except those hips. And all that was compacted into a body that couldn't have been more than five four on a good day. Lucy stood five eight.

The tension in the room was stifling, and for the first five, maybe ten minutes, all the two of them could do was stare at each other. Roman's voice broke through the fog and snapped them out of this trance they'd fallen into at the sight of each other.

“Mind if I ask how you met Ed Price, Marlowe?”

Without looking away from Lucy, Marlowe responded, “Cancun. I was supposed to go with my sister, but she passed away, and I decided to go alone after we buried her.”

Lucy made note of the cadence in which Marlowe spoke, slow, steady, and even. Not a twang, but a drawl. Most Texans she'd met didn't even have noticeable accents. But there were twangs. And there were drawls. And there was a difference. Why this mattered, Lucy couldn't say. But with Marlowe, everything mattered.

“How long ago?” Roman asked.

“A year ago.” Lucy responded with the answer because she'd remembered Ed going away for a week to an investors' conference in Mexico. She remembered because the two of them hadn't been married but a few months, and she was disappointed that he was going out of town without her. He'd started seeing this woman three months after he'd married Lucy.

“He came on to you?” Lucy asked, breaking the rules of the deal she'd made with Roman before they'd come here.

“Let me ask the questions, Lucy. If you ask them, things could get heated,” he'd warned her. “Follow my lead, or we won't do this.”

“Lucy.” He said her name with warning.

“Did he?” Lucy asked again, ignoring him.

“I was sitting on the beach, and he came over and offered me a drink. I declined because I don't date white men,” she explained bluntly, “and then he asked me to dinner.”

“So you don't date white men or accept drinks from them, but you have dinner with them?” Lucy asked callously.

Everything about Marlowe Price was insulting to Lucy. Everything from her smug demeanor to her big hair to her unapologetic attitude that she purposefully seemed to be directing at Lucy.