Derailed (41 page)

“By the way, the gorilla is leaving.”

“Who?”

“Bradley’s friend. Richard…?”

“It’s Ritchie. And he’s not a gorilla, Daddy, he’s just buff and…nice.”

“Mm.”

“Why’s he leaving?”

“Don’t know.”

I don’t want Ritchie to leave. I know he’s going to Rival. I’ve seen how distraught he was when she was performing for all and sundry at the funeral. Putting on a show with her crocodile tears. I’m not dumb, I know her M.O. She just wanted sympathy. That bitch has Ritchie eating out of the palm of her hand even though they’re not together. I’ve got to do something.

Quickly, I remove my hat, mess up my hair, rub some red lip gloss over the tip of my nose and summon a fresh batch of tears. Just in time, because Ritchie knocks at the door.

“C…come in,” I say in a tearful voice.

He enters. “I’ve come to say goodbye, Scar –” His eyes pop at the sight of my tears. “You okay?” he asks, moving swiftly towards me, concern all over his face.

“It’s so hard,” I lament. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this, Ritchie.”

“I’ll be there to help you, Scarlett,” he says giving me a hug. “You aren’t going to be alone. I promise. I’ll be there to help you with everything.”

“Thank you,” I say. “You’re going now?”

“Well…”

“Can you come back? Tonight? Late tonight? The nights are the hardest.”

“Sure. Of course. Absolutely.”

I smile at the use of the word absolutely. Bradley used that word a lot days prior to his death. I hope I don’t have to kill Ritchie too. Oops! Did I just say that? Well…

SCARLETT

I guess it’s time to come clean with you and tell you everything. First of all, I did not kill Bradley. Norman did. At my behest, of course. I had to. Bradley left me no choice. Did you really expect me to let Bradley keep the house while I went back to living in an apartment with is wraparound balcony? No frigging way. (Please don’t tell me you bought that drivel about setting Bradley free, and people changing and happy endings and...you did? C’mon! Seriously? Why, you surprise me. Surely you know me by now?) Rival would have cruised into the house the moment I left and would have replaced me as easily as I had replaced her. Sure, Ritchie would be hovering like a stubborn shit fly, an emotional imbroglio would arise, hearts would be on the line – messy.

Rival would have been weighed down with guilt, and for the sake of the children, she would have eventually gone back to Bradley. It would be like I was never in the picture.

People would have laughed at me. Facebook would have lit up with my name, but not in a good way. People would say,
See? He went back to his wife in the end.
Ditched wives the world over would cling to my scenario as an example, live in hope that their errant husband will be ditching their new wives/mistresses and returning to them, and the marriage counseling business would flourish. Because of my example. I simply couldn’t tolerate that.

Besides, being divorced was not an option with me, because…? That’s right, I’m Catholic. Your memory is impressive.

When Bradley became prime minister, where would I be and where would Rival be? Exactly. Picture it, Rival standing at the podium, dressed in a repressed suit of red, blue and white, an arm flabby and like that of a tuck-shop mum’s raised in victory, while I sit alone on my couch in my apartment with its wrap-around balcony, vodka-drunk and rancorous from loss, watching them become the most famous couple in Australia. Me, who had initiated the whole journey? Me, who used all my father’s connections to accelerate Bradley’s rise to prime minister? Not me, not I.

I had invested far too much in him and our marriage to be discarded like a used Kleenex. I’ve seen what happened to Rival when Bradley was done with her, so I didn’t need a crystal ball to know what the future promised for me. That bastard failed to realize that without me, he really would have still been that two-bit attorney with pleather couches and hazy dreams to become prime minister.
Dreams
. That’s all he would have had. I barged into his life, took the reins and rocketed him to stardom. Yet, his stomach churned when he thought of me? Tell me he didn’t need to die. 

With death, my work of art would be immortalized forever and so would our union. Now, I will always be remembered as the tragic almost-first lady, flawless, adored, and in the same league as Jackie Kennedy.

If a man leaves you after you’ve been that good to him, he needs to be taught a valuable lesson. (Boiling his bunny is so 2010.) That’s the only way. If you plan to steal a leaf out of my book, be sure to heed the words of Abraham Lincoln: “
If I had nine hours to chop down a tree, I’d spend the first six hours sharpening my ax.”
 

Well, I guess I should regale you with details of my ax-sharpening. I know you have questions that plague you. After all, with one stone, I have successfully managed to kill two ungrateful birds – I’ve sent Bradley six feet under so he can never belong to anyone else, and I’ve got Rival to take the rap.      

So sit back, relax and brace yourself for a scintillating account of revenge. You might want to grab a bottle of your favorite alcoholic beverage (that’s right, a bottle, not a glass) because remember my motto? Always mix pleasure with
absolute
pleasure. Go on, go get yourself a drink. You’ve earned it with your patience.

Ready? Take careful note of this detailed and meticulous plan which is nothing short of brilliant, the operative words being “preparation is key.”

A mental list: Do you realize just how challenging it is to work with a
mental
list? A mental
murder
list at that? It’s downright impossible, I tell you. I had a mere forty-eight hours to compile it, so yes, it was not easy. I couldn’t risk someone finding a real list, so all my preparation had to be done in my brain. Luckily, I’m astute enough to remember minute details, and I was able to successfully implement my plan with no real hitches. 

Hire a hitman: Norman could be trusted to carry out the task. He was head over heels in love with me, he cost me zilch, and he was able to obtain the firearm from one of his clients he supplies drugs to. As I’ve said before, Norman can be rather useful. 

Display a rock-solid marriage: I knew that Rival would be shouting from the rooftops that Bradley was leaving me and that is why I killed him. To repudiate her claims, I, using Bradley’s credit card, quietly booked and paid for a weekend away. A
honeymoon
suite.

Not only that, but for our last Broadway show, I used Bradley’s credit card. How can anyone fail to notice us arriving in such style at the party? How can anyone not be impressed with our dramatic entrance? My groundwork paid off and we were the most noticed and talked-about couple at the party. 

Bradley, as promised, performed like a zoo monkey at the party, dancing and kissing my hair, silencing those naysayers who hinted at problems in our marriage.

I was so overwhelmed with Bradley’s touch, his niceness, his desire to make me look good in front of everyone, that I broke down and cried. Tears wasn’t part of the plan, and I hated that it ruined my makeup. But I knew he was going to die, and since I truly I loved him, I began to grieve long before he actually departed this earth. I have to admit, when he showed me such tenderness and affection at the party, for a nanosecond, I had second thoughts about killing him.

Keeping the children away: I arranged for my mother to take care of the little pests while Bradley and I went away. “Bradley is so impulsive and…and …spontaneous, and I just don’t have the heart to point out that the children have to be considered, Mum.” That’s the line I fed my mother. Being the darling that she is, and liking Bradley as much as she did, she agreed without hesitation.

Look good for the photos, post Bradley: I spent the most amount of time on this part of my ax, because as you know, looks are
everything
in life. Don’t let the ugly spinsters of the world tell you otherwise. I shopped for some beautiful lingerie because I knew the cops, the press, good-looking doctors and family would come calling after Bradley was dead, and I needed to look my best during that crucial period. I bought the sexiest red satin nightie. It had spaghetti straps, a plunging neckline, and a matching thong. I doused it in Chanel No.5. See, this was the nightie forensics would be studying for months, so it had to be sexy and intriguing. It would be confiscated by crime scene technicians, then along with photos of me in it at the crime scene, this nightie would be passed on from one formaldehyde-scented forensic technician to another. The world would soon get a glimpse of just how sexy Scarlett Murdoch can be behind closed doors. The widow in red. That was going to be me. The
sexy
widow in red.

In preparation for the funeral, I purchased a short black Galliano shift with a modest neckline. It was seemingly simple, however, it showcased my figure. Photos of me at the funeral would be shown around the world, so I needed to convey sexiness and stylishness even when somber, even at my worst. My black hat had a net, but a diaphanous one at that to avoid obscuring my features.

That afternoon at the party, I had my hairdresser wash and blow-dry my hair with massive roller brushes for volume, tease the top for
added
volume, then curl the ends with a flat iron. I insisted on huge amounts of hairspray on the curls so the style would hold for at least twenty-four hours. To my absolute delight, it did! I was really annoyed with the blood spatter on my hair though. Thanks to Norman shooting Bradley in the forehead. Had he stuck to the plan and shot Bradley in the chest, there wouldn’t have been so much blood spatter and my hair would have been perfect.

Even though I had to wear that God-awful cap when I went into the operating room for hand surgery, I managed to look good when I emerged out of anesthesia. (Anesthesia straightens your hair, by the way.) When I viewed the photos of me post-op, I was most satisfied with the way I looked. 

Change manicure: I had my nails shellacked in a clear varnish in anticipation of surgery. From past experiences I knew that surgical staff would check circulation by looking at my fingernails. A bluish tint meant poor circulation. Nursing staff would have removed my nail polish and my nails would look hideous. So I preempted that problem with the clear nail varnish. How’s my ax grinding thus far? I’m going to say it again. I thought of
everything,
and I’m not bragging when I say, my plan was nothing short of brilliant.

Pack a bag in preparation for my stint in hospital: In anticipation of my home being sealed off with yellow police tape, and knowing that it would be difficult to get stuff out of a crime scene, I packed stuff I could use for about two weeks. Although my bag was packed mainly with the hospital in mind. I threw in lip gloss and long-staying lipsticks in neutral shades, mineral face powder to give me that no-make-up look, Macadamia nut oil to add sheen to my locks, some collagen-enriched hand cream to keep my hands soft and kissable, scented lotions, and perfumed potions. Also my iPhone charger, my iPad so I can keep current with the news, my purse with all my credit cards, tons of sexy nighties and matching panties, and a ridiculously sheer gown. Finally, I added a small pack of sexy toys, a tube of lube, and some breath mints to ensure my breath is always fresh when I talk to the handsome doctors I anticipated meeting. 

The packed bag with its sexy contents not only confirmed my story about us going for a dirty weekend, but the sexy toys also spoke of a healthy sex life, which in turn suggested a happy marriage.

Had I not packed the bag with such preparation, I would have had to call my mother to fetch me stuff. Ever had your mother pack you a bag? Let’s hope you never find yourself in that situation. You will scream in frustration. 

Explain sleeping in the spare room: As you know, Bradley slept in the spare bedroom ever since he saw those compromising photos of me and Norman. So I had to come up with a plan as to why we were sleeping in the spare room when Bradley was murdered. I placed an aerosol insect fogger on the floor of the main bedroom. “We had some baby spiders that suddenly appeared on our ceiling, Detective. I was too scared to sleep in our bedroom, so Bradley fogged the place and we spent the night in the spare room.” As expected, the dumb detectives bought that.

The thing about Bradley is that he is a heavy sleeper. Falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillow, and is always the last to awake. I toyed with the idea of drugging him to make things easier, but I had the toxicology report to consider – it would show any drugs. I didn’t care about the cocaine, I just didn’t want any evidence of foul play.

Luckily, Bradley didn’t stir as I removed stuff from the bedside drawer I had planted earlier on – lube, an eye mask, a glass of water, and a pack of condoms with a couple missing. The reason I placed them on top of the bedside unit? For visual purposes and to ensure I have blood spatter on those items. It lent credibility to the scene.

Bradley did not stir when I placed a tape recorder at the open window. He did not stir when I slipped into the vacant side of his bed, while Norman stood over him, feet slightly apart, both hands clamped over the revolver, ready to fire if Bradley awoke. A heavy sleeper can be a great victim. 

Frame Rival for Bradley’s murder: This was the part I had most fun with. Here’s how it went down:

The first time Rival showed up at our door yelling her head off and throwing pot plants at our window, I had the foresight to record her yelling and her threats. My sapient mind believed that the recording would come in handy in the future. I was correct – because of that recording, there was no need for me to point fingers at Rival. Her threats rang loud and clear at 3 a.m. the morning Bradley was killed. Not mentioning Rival’s name once to the detectives, now that was strategy on my part.

That pink and white striped top of Rival’s – I pinched it from her car and saved it for Norman. They are around the same build, so add a blond wig and voila! We’ve successfully placed Rival at the scene of the crime.