Kill Jill (4 page)

“Mighty astute of you,” he says. “You’re right, by the way. I’m not normally part of the welcoming process. But your situation’s a bit unique.”

“How so?”

“You appear to be moving into a man’s home.” He pauses. “A man who’s not here.”

“So?”

“Well, pardon me for putting it indelicately, but we don’t know a thing about you.”

“We?”

“The town.”

“And that’s a problem because?”

“To be blunt, there’s no ring on your finger. And no marriage license, from what I’m told.”

“Does the state of Arkansas require an
engagement
license?”

“No, but it’s customary to have an engagement ring.”

“We haven’t had time to shop for one yet. But I do have his house key. That should count for something.”

“I’d feel better knowing he gave it to you voluntarily, and that he’s not lying in a ditch somewhere.”

Emma frowns. “Are you accusing me of killing Jack Russell?”

“Not yet. But from what I hear, you came into town with no suitcase, no purse, dirty clothes, and a substantial amount of cash.”

“Is there a local ordinance against any of those things?”

“Not if the money’s rightly yours.”

“Good to know.”

“Is it?”

“What?”

“The money. Is it yours?”

“How much money are
you
carrying, Sheriff?”

“That’s not really your business, is it, Miss Watson?”

“It seems reasonable for you to answer the same questions you’re asking me. And by the way, my name’s Emma
Wilson
, not Watson.”

“Can I see your ID?”

“Can I see yours?”

“I don’t have to be civil here, Miss Wilson. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. You can’t just take over a man’s house without showing proof you’ve been invited here.”

She fishes her ID from her pocket, hands it to him. He photographs it with his cell phone camera and says, “Can you confirm your date of birth?”

She does.

He returns her license. Then says, “What’s your relationship with Jack Russell?”

“What’s your relationship with Linda Craig?”

His face grows beet red. “I’ll give you ten seconds to furnish proof of your right to be here.”

“Or what?”

“Or you can spend the night in my jail.”

They glare at each other a minute.

“I’m not playing around with you,” he says.

“Your wife will be pleased to hear that, I expect.”

She removes a folded piece of paper from her new purse and hands it over. As Cox unfolds it she says, “The letter you’re reading is addressed to you, Sheriff. It’s in Jack Russell’s hand, authorizing me to stay in his lake house as long as I see fit. Read a little further and you’ll see he admits to being my fiancé. He also authorizes me to use his personal credit card. At the end he asks you to extend me every kindness you’d show a new resident of Willow Lake, since it’s his wish we eventually marry and settle down here.”

Sheriff Cox studies the letter a few minutes. Then says, “You’re quite the little gold digger, aren’t you, Emma?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Sheriff.”

“Don’t.”

After Sheriff Cox leaves, Emma takes her new pre-paid phone from her purse and presses a button on her speed dial for the fourth time today.

When the young man answers, Emma asks if Fanny has shown up for work yet. He says no, and asks if she’d like to leave a message. Emma says no, and asks for Fanny’s cell phone number. He says he’s not allowed to give out personal information. Emma sighs, and apologizes for bothering him.

She retrieves the new stepladder from the hall closet. Sets it up near the master bathroom toilet, then opens the bathroom door. Standing on the fourth step of the ladder, she pulls a permanent marker from her jeans’ pocket and writes her new cell phone number on the top edge of the door. Then puts the stepladder back in the hall closet, goes to the laundry room, transfers the sheets and towels to the dryer, and sets the time.

Then she walks to the back of the house to check out the closet where Jack keeps his freezer.

9:45 p.m.

After folding her laundry and making her bed, Emma fluffs three pillows, props herself against them, opens the pack of balloons she bought at the Jessup Mall party store. It’s an assortment of twenty-four balloons, all colors, shapes, sizes. She closes her eyes, sniffs the latex. Lets her fingers pick through the bag. Touches and rubs the stretchy texture. She hears herself murmur, and smiles with mild embarrassment.

She opens her eyes, selects a pink one.

Stretches it, to enhance the scent, and weaken its structure.

Puts the valve to her lips.

Chews it gently, allowing her tongue to flit around the rim, back and forth, up and down.

Breathing heavily, she works her tongue inside the valve, and feels her pulse quicken. She stops momentarily, to calm herself, then turns her attention back to the balloon, takes a deep breath, and begins blowing it up.

Balloon fetishists are generally poppers or looners, but there are endless variations of each classification. Looners love balloons, and treat them like frail children. When one pops or becomes deflated, they become devastated, as if a part of them has died.

Poppers are different.

They attach sexual emotions to balloons. A typical female popper blows a balloon till it pops, at which point she experiences an intense orgasm.

Emma’s a popper, but not in the classic sense.

For her, balloons are seductive. Everything about them—the touch, smell, feel of latex against her skin—is sensual. When she blows air into a balloon she feels the life force enter it. Revels in knowing she’s turned an inanimate object into a living thing.

Emma’s selective. She doesn’t attach feelings to random balloons. She buys packages of assorted balloons, chooses perhaps one of twenty. When she’s ready, she gets completely naked, blows her select balloon to its absolute maximum, to tease herself. When she’s convinced no more air can enter the balloon without bursting it, she ties off the valve, lies back on the bed, tosses it in the air, watches it fall, taps it back up with her fingers.

Looner foreplay.

Each time her fingertips make contact with the balloon, her senses become heightened. When she can stand it no longer, she spreads her legs, places the balloon snug against her triangle, squeezes her thighs gently, while touching herself. Ideally, her climax occurs at the moment the balloon pops between her thighs. When that happens, she gushes. But if the balloon proves too durable, she stabs it with a fingernail at the moment of fulfillment. This causes a different type of orgasm, less intense, less fulfilling, but like any man will tell you, there’s no such thing as a bad one.

Emma’s not a screamer.

A few gasps, the occasional low moan, assorted facial grimaces—and she’s done.

The balloons usually burst against her inner thighs, causing a delicious sting that lasts ten or fifteen seconds. But when a balloon happens to burst against her clit, the pain is intense, long-lasting, and memorable.

Unlike most poppers, Emma doesn’t require a loud explosion. In fact, she prefers a muffled pop, which is why she covers her legs with bedding after putting the balloon in place. If you were in her bedroom right now, with the lights off, you’d have no idea what’s happening under the covers.

Until you hear the little gasps, and the muffled pop.

If you’ll listen you’ll hear…

There
!

Did you hear it? And that little sound just now?

A shudder.

Moments later, she falls into a deep, sound sleep.

Doesn’t even hear the sound the front door makes, as someone turns the knob and tries, unsuccessfully, to enter.

10:45 a.m.

“The casserole was wonderful!” Emma says, handing Milly the empty dish.

Milly places it on the counter, opens the refrigerator, frowns.

“You hardly touched it,” she says.

“I don’t eat much. But what I had was truly delicious. I plan to have some more for lunch.”

Milly says, “You’re slim, all right. Guess that’s why Jack chose you.”

She glances at the kitchen countertop, then starts opening cupboards.

“Can I help you with something?” Emma says.

“Where’d you put all your canned goods?”

“They’re scattered about.”

Milly frowns again. “You don’t have a bomb shelter, do you?”

Emma laughs. “Can I make you some coffee?”

“Might as well. I’m not planning to leave till I’ve told you who in town can and can’t be trusted.”

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, forces herself not to scream.

2:15 p.m.

The knock at the front door comes so soon after Milly’s departure, Emma wonders if her new friend forgot her casserole dish. She opens the door to find Sheriff Cox standing on the front porch.

“No crimes to investigate?” she says.

“I might be investigating one right now,” he says. “Mind if I come in?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“To let me in? Yes. To answer questions? No.”

She motions him to enter.

“Coffee?” she says.

“I’m coffee’d out. Let’s sit at the kitchen table.”

They do. He says, “I’ll get right to the point. Your ID doesn’t check out.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re thirty years old, but the first record anyone has on you is a month’s worth of wages at the Pancake House in Davis, Kentucky. And that was last month.”

“I came late to the work force.”

“No shit you did.”

“Is it a crime not to receive a salary before attaining the age of thirty?”

“It might be, depending on how you managed to support yourself all these years without a husband or parents.”

“What makes you think I have no parents?”

“Your social security number belongs to a girl whose parents died in an automobile accident twenty-one years ago.”

“Did it ever cross your mind I may have inherited a substantial sum of money from their estate?”

“Not for a minute.”

“Why’s that?”

“According to the police report, you died in the same wreck.”

“Well, here I sit, Sheriff, so whatever police report you read is obviously bogus.”

“How do you explain having the same social security number as a dead girl?”

“Government ineptitude.”

“Ever been married?”

“None of your business.”

“Where’s Jack Russell?”

“Traveling the country, seeking buyers for his business.”

“Let’s give him a call.”

“Go ahead.”

“What’s his number?”

“If you’d come here last night and treated me with a modicum of respect, I would’ve been glad to tell you. But I don’t appreciate your tone, your comments, or your demeanor.”

“You’ve got a fancy way of talking.”

“And you don’t.”

His lips curl into a sneer, but his voice remains civil. “I’ll make you a deal, Emma. Or whatever your name is. You get Jack on the phone, let me corroborate your story, and I’ll get my nose out of your business.”

Emma pauses a moment, then reaches for her cell phone. She opens it, places her index finger slightly above the key pad, then closes the phone and says, “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“Why should I make your job easy?”

“Why shouldn’t you?”

“Because you’re an asshole, Sheriff. Either arrest me, or get out of my house.”

He shows her a thin smile. “It’s not your house, Emma.”

“I have more right to be here than you.”

He stands. “For now.”

“Run along, Sheriff.”

4:20 p.m.

Emma puts her cell phone in her jeans’ pocket, walks to the end of the hall, opens the closet door where Jack keeps his freezer. Last night she did this with the light on, but this time she closes the door and tries it in total darkness. She reaches behind the freezer, and pulls it toward her. It slides easily, twenty-four inches, same as it did last night, same as Jack said it would.

She takes a moment to think about Jack. Wonders if he’s alive. If so, she hopes he shows up soon, because her story’s unraveling faster than a Taylor Swift romance.

She climbs over the freezer top, turns her back to the wall, hoists herself down into the narrow hole behind the freezer, till her heels find the top step of the built-in ladder.