The Perfect Affair (21 page)

A
few days later, Jacqueline entered the modest yet well-kept North Carolina neighborhood, having driven the approximately two hundred and seventy-five miles in roughly five hours. She’d turned off her personal GPS-equipped cell phone and purchased a throwaway, relying on directions obtained from a library-owned computer in inner city D.C. She drove slowly, glancing around surreptitiously, checking to see if anyone was up and about, anyone watching, anyone who could later identify the car that she drove. Not that it would have much mattered. The hookup in downtown D.C. had lived up to his reputation and been well worth the exorbitant price. The driver’s license bearing the name Anna Mae Miller looked authentic, and the employee at the small used car lot had accepted her cash payment and the additional one thousand dollar “incentive” to lose the paperwork with barely a blink of an eye. With full-access to Sherri’s computer, she was well aware of Wanda’s appearance, and had already made a trip to a second-hand store to match the woman’s horrible taste. Looking down at her hastily-scrawled directions, she turned on to a quiet street.

“Seventeen thirty-five . . . ,” she mumbled, slowing the car to better read the house numbers. “Here it is.” She stopped in front of a gray-painted home with stark white shutters. The lawn looked recently mowed, and pink, purple, and yellow flowers set in wooden pots swayed in the early morning breeze. White curtains framed the windows facing the street. When Jacqueline saw one of them move ever so slightly, she reached for her props, straightened the ruffles on her chin-high blouse, and opened the car door.

“Yes, may I help you?” The young woman who answered the door was pleasant yet curious.

“Praise the Lord, sister,” Jacqueline said in a Southern accent so authentic she could fool someone born and bred below the Mason-Dixon Line. She raised the Bible obtained from a secondhand store—the same one where she’d gotten the wig, blouse, long skirt, and shoes—clutched it to her chest and began the spiel she’d practiced all the way down I-95. “I’m so sorry to bother y’all so early on this beautiful, blessed morning, but my church is raising donations to feed the homeless and we’re canvassing the neighborhood for canned goods, staples, just whatever you feel able to provide.”

“What church is this?”

“It’s a new congregation that just started, Rise Up and Walk Ministries. It’s a ministry devoted to the downtrodden.”

“Sure, I’d love to help. Come on in.”

Jacqueline’s eyes took in everything as she entered, including the mail slot in Wanda’s front door.
Excellent.
She wouldn’t have to worry about letters piling up in a box outside. Following the unsuspecting woman into the living room, Jacqueline recalled how after securing the ID she’d returned to the house and stumbled onto the second part of her plan.

It had been early morning two days before, when she’d been flicking through the channels and happened upon a religious station. She’d paid close attention to the story and its message, and knew from what she’d heard Nathan say about Wanda that the story of helping others would ring close to home. From the way she saw the young lady’s expression change at the mention of her imaginary ministry, she knew that her deception had worked like a charm.

“Could I have some water?” Jacqueline asked as soon as the woman had shut the door behind them.

“Sure,” the woman answered. “Or I could get you a tall glass of sweet tea.”

“That would be great, my sister,” Jacqueline said softly. “By the way, I’m Vickie. What is your name?”

“Wanda,” she said, coming back with hand outstretched. “Wanda Smith.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jacqueline replied, shaking Wanda’s hand.

“Likewise.” Wanda went into the kitchen and soon Jacqueline heard cabinets opening and ice cubes dropping into glasses. She tossed down the Bible and folder filled with blank paper she’d brought, then quickly reached in her purse for a small packet containing white powder. When Wanda appeared in the doorway unexpectedly, she hid the packet in the palm of her right hand and reached for the glass with her left.

“Thank you, Wanda.” She took a sip. “This is good.”

“You’re welcome. Goodness, where are my manners. I have some Danishes in there as well. They’re not from scratch, just the bake and serve variety, but you’re welcome to one.”

“I left the house without a bite of anything this morning. A Danish is an answer to my prayer for food.”

Wanda smiled, her eyes shining with the joy she felt in helping another human being. She set her glass down on the coffee table between her and Jacqueline. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

Jacqueline sat down and as soon as Wanda rounded the door to the kitchen, she quickly emptied the contents of the packet into the second glass of tea. Looking around for something to stir the concoction with and seeing nothing, she reached into her purse and used an ink pen to help the fatal dose of tasteless poison dissolve. The same day she’d gone to the public library for driving directions to Raleigh, she’d researched various types of poisons, and then used a stolen credit card to both purchase the powder online and have it shipped overnight to Phillip’s address. She’d hated to potentially involve her friend, but time was of the essence and there’d been nowhere else close by to send it. She’d figured it was a risk worth taking. If what the research said was true, it would only take about thirty minutes for Wanda to fall asleep and, unless the same guy that helped the Bible dude came to her rescue, she wouldn’t wake up. Jacqueline snickered at the thought but sobered when Wanda reentered the living room carrying a saucer of rolls.

“These look delicious,” Jacqueline said as she reached for a napkin and the rolls Wanda offered. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem at all. It’s rare that I get to break bread with anyone, so I’m delighted.” She took a sip of tea and watched with pleasure as Jacqueline took a few bites from the Danish. “Let me go in here and see what canned foods I have.” She stood and almost drained her glass before walking into the kitchen. “Whew! I didn’t know that I was so thirsty!”

“So you don’t get many visitors?” Jacqueline asked from where she sat in the small, comfortably decorated living room.

“No.” Wanda spoke from her kitchen, where she searched her cabinets. “I moved here to take care of my grandmother. She died about six months ago.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

“I miss her but she’s in a better place. Aside from a few people at church, I haven’t made many friends.”

“No boyfriend?”

“Ha! No, girl. It’s just me and the Lord.”

Good, it will take a while for someone to miss you
, Jacqueline thought. “Hallelujah!” she said.

“What about you?” Wanda asked. “Are you married?”

“Only to my work,” Jacqueline replied. “But I believe that I’ll be married soon.”

“Me too!” Wanda reappeared in the kitchen doorway with cans of corn, diced tomatoes, pinto beans, and green beans in her hand. “Until recently, I didn’t think I was ready. But just last night I prayed for God to send the perfect man. I believe he will.”

As the two women continued to chat, Jacqueline rose from the couch and walked over to lean against the kitchen door frame as she watched Wanda fill up a small box with canned goods, boxed noodles, and a couple boxed soups.About twenty minutes after finishing her large glass of iced tea, Wanda slumped against the kitchen counter in her small, square kitchen.

Jacqueline didn’t move. “Wanda? Sister, are you all right?” “I feel woozy,” she replied, as she tried to right herself by the kitchen sink. “My stomach feels . . . my head. . . .” She looked at Jacqueline with a curious expression on her face. “Help me, sistah.”

Jacqueline nodded but allowed several seconds to pass before crossing the floor to where Wanda half stood, half slumped against the counter. “Just relax, Wanda. You’re a little dizzy, that’s all. Everything will be all right.” Her voice was soothing as she watched Wanda’s eyes close and her body relax. Wanda slumped to the floor.

“Rest well, Wanda Smith. Now you’re with your grandma, in a better place.”

After laying Wanda on the tiled kitchen floor, Jacqueline stood to her full height and looked down on her. She waited a full five minutes, continuing to check her pulse and place a finger under her nose until she was sure that the woman was dead. Then she got busy.

First, after putting on a pair of surgeon’s gloves, she closed the blinds in the kitchen and on the windows facing the kitchen entryway. She wanted to close them all but thought that it might seem suspicious to a nosy neighbor. She took the items from the box, placed them back in the cabinets, and then placed the empty box under the sink. After pulling out a garbage bag she’d brought with her, she placed the glasses, saucer and everything else she’d touched inside it. Using a sponge and industry-strength cleanser she’d also brought along, she wiped down the coffee table, counters and all of the cabinets, taking no chances that a trace of her remained.
It’s a good thing I watch
Investigation Discovery, she mused, as she tied the bag with a rubber band.
Otherwise I might make a crucial mistake, like using a trash bag from this house, one that could be traced back to the store where it was bought.
Jacqueline sneered at the thought that if someone found and traced the origin of this bag, it would be to whoever purchased trash bags for the company PSI.

Cleanup done, she dragged Wanda into the bathroom, positioning her so it would appear that the poor soul had fallen. Finally, she cracked the code on Wanda’s computer and after spending an hour memorizing pertinent information—date of birth, social security, and driver’s license numbers, family members, past employers, nursing history, and time at the agency—she downloaded everything from the computer on to a small, portable hard drive, just in case there was something else she’d need.

Jacqueline looked around in satisfaction, walking from the living-dining space to the kitchen, then into one of two bedrooms in the humble abode. She looked at the homey patchwork quilt laid across the queen-size bed, the knitted afghan folded at the foot of it, and the needlework on the decorative pillowcases. Her heart clenched. She grabbed her chest as her knees buckled and unexpected tears sprang to her eyes. Images flashed before her in quick succession, like a movie on steroids: a hodgepodge of faces, various places, and then . . . she and another little girl with a kind old woman, the three of them walking through a park, two people arguing, a frightened little girl hiding in a closet, an adult standing over her holding a belt in one hand and a bottle in the other, cuddling up in an older woman’s lap, and finally, being taken from a burning house, all alone, wrapped in a bedspread with a design similar to the one on the needlework on Wanda Smith’s bed.

Falling to the floor, her sobs muffled against the sleeve of her blouse, she murmured, “Grammy, I miss you. Mommy and Daddy were bad when you left. Why did you leave me, Grammy? Please come back! Don’t make me go with them. She’s mean and he scares me. They made me lose Sissy. They took her away! I’ll be a good girl, I promise. I’ll never be bad again. Never.” she whimpered. “Ever,” she cried. “Please come back. Please!”

A telephone rang, seemingly from miles away. It jostled Jacqueline out of a trancelike state. She became aware of the unfamiliar surroundings.
Where am I? What am I doing on the floor?
The ringing stopped. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the mental cobwebs as she looked around the room. She looked behind her at the nondescript hallway and then back at the neatly made bed.
How long have I lain here?
Slowly, the memories from earlier came rushing back, especially the smile on Wanda’s compassionate face.
Somebody killed her. That nice woman is dead.
Tears came to her eyes as she thought of the woman who’d offered her tea and a Danish. “Why did she have to kill you, Wanda?” she asked in the voice of a small child. “Why did you have to die, too?”

And then another voice, from within.
It’s not your fault, Jacqueline. Sherri made you do it. She made you kill the nice lady because she wouldn’t leave Randall. She refuses to leave your husband, Jacqueline, and Wanda was helping her! Wanda and Sherri are very bad girls!

“Yes,” Jacqueline whispered, rising to her knees and then to her feet. “And bad people die.”

An hour later, Jacqueline left the house, got into her rental car, and drove away. She drove to Durham, found a park, and put another part of her plan in motion. Pulling out her iPad, she wrote several e-mails, then sat back and read her handiwork. “Perfect,” she murmured under her breath. “You should become a writer.”

At a public library, she printed out a copy of the emails, along with copies of text messages that she’d forwarded to her email address. She placed the papers in a pre-stamped envelope and dropped it in postal service mail box. After going to a theater and watching three movies back to back to back, she returned to Raleigh to implement the idea that had come to her in the middle of a boring comedy.

Under cover of darkness and her all-black clothes, she walked the relatively short distance from the main road where she’d parked her trusty gray Toyota back to Wanda’s home. Careful that no one was watching she knocked, waited as if someone was answering the door, and then quickly let herself in. She moved Wanda’s body from the bathroom to the trunk of the brand new Ford Focus parked in the garage. Locating a piece of the dead woman’s luggage, she filled it with personal effects and then sent an email from Wanda’s computer to the dead woman’s brother in Michigan. “Doing God’s work in Africa,” is basically what it said. Her plan carried out, she hurried back to the car and headed for her next destination: a motel just ten short minutes away from the home of Elaine Carver.

E
xcept for the sound of stainless steel utensils scraping plates, it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. This was not exactly the scene one would expect from a dinner featuring four live persons including a teen and a pre-. If it was quiet because of how Chef had thrown down on the linguini, that would have been one thing, but this somber scene was brought on by something different. A definite pall was in the air. Albany had even brought her phone to the table, a definite no-no, and was texting away without repercussions. Something was definitely amiss.

“What’s wrong with everybody?” Aaron finally asked, pushing away his plate and sitting back in a huff.

“Mad because your breath stinks,” was Albany’s immediate off-the-cuff answer.

“Cut it out, Albany,” Sherri snapped, finally becoming aware of her daughter’s texting. “And put down that phone.”

Randall cleared his throat. “Your mom and I have a lot on our minds, Son.” Sherri snorted. Three pairs of eyes turned in her direction. She kept hers glued to the veggies on her plate, the ones she’d been moving from one side to the other for the past ten minutes. In an attempt at normalcy, she looked at her son. “How did baseball practice go today?”

Aaron shrugged. “All right, I guess. I want to play first but Coach has me out in center field.”

“Every position is important, Son.”

“Yeah, but the first baseman gets in on all the plays!”

“It’s summer, Aaron. There’s a lot of other things you can do besides baseball.”

“Like what?”

“Swimming, tennis, bowling—”

“Bowling! No, Mom, that’s not cool.”

“You can get a job,” Randall offered.

Albany’s eyes widened. “That’s not cool either, Dad.”

“The food is delicious, baby,” Randall said, venturing a conversation in Sherri’s direction. After days of minimal conversation about only what was absolutely necessary, and otherwise passing each other like virtual strangers, this was the first time he’d openly tried to engage in real talk. He hoped that the children’s presence would prevent Sherri from telling him to go straight to hell. “Did you make it?”

She looked at him with a dead-on stare. “No.”

“It’s good,” he said, clearing his throat again. “Do you like it, Albany?”

“It’s all right. I like her lasagna better.”

After another excruciating ten minutes, Albany asked if she could be excused from the table. Aaron followed her. Sherri stood and began gathering the plates. She reached for Randall’s. He grabbed her wrist, looking up at her with a pleading look in his eyes. “How long are we going to go on like this, Sherri?”

She pulled her arm away from him. “I don’t know.”

That evening, talk was all but missing in the bedroom. Randall kept trying to find a conversation with Sherri that would last longer than five seconds, but without success.When she said she was going downstairs to watch a DVD, he’d actually been grateful for their earlier decision to leave electronics out of the bedroom. Because honestly, he didn’t know how much more of her silent treatment he could take.

The following morning, Randall left the house on a mission. He’d spent the time that Sherri had been out of the bedroom on his iPad, and contacting a couple close friends for information that he’d have to be sure remained confidential. By the time he logged on this morning, the information that he’d requested had shown up in his in-box, and after an e-mail to the referral his New York colleague had provided, Randall was ready to move full speed ahead.

While at a stoplight, he programmed the phone number from the e-mail into his car phone and waited for the call to be answered.

“Evans Investigations.”

“Hello, Douglas Evans, please.”

“Yes, and who’s calling?”

“Mr. Waters,” Randall answered, using the code name that Mr. Evans had suggested to ensure his anonymity. “He’s expecting my call.”

Shortly afterwards, Randall heard a raspy voice he felt could have been scripted for that of a private eye. “Doug Evans here.”

“Doug, it’s Randall Atwater.”

“Oh yes. Hello, Doctor. I’ve been expecting your call.” A short pause and then, “What can I do for you?”

Randall took a deep breath before he replied. This was a big step. He hoped it would pay off. “You can find out everything you can about someone who’s been harassing me.”

“Someone in the workplace?”

“Indirectly. It’s a freelance writer whose interest in my work seems to have turned into a personal obsession. I want it to stop.”

“What’s this writer’s name?”

“Jacqueline Tate.”

“Have you crossed the line with this person?”

Randall was thrown by the investigator’s candor. But given what he was asking the man to do, he felt it fair, and knew he’d do whatever it took to get his life back to normal. “Ours was a professional relationship,” he responded. “I haven’t crossed the line.”

“What other information can you give me about her?”

Randall shared what he knew.

“Wow, I just pulled her image up online. She’s a beauty.”

“Beauty and brains don’t always equal a sound mind, or good character.”

“What exactly do you want to know about her?”

“Everything you can find. This woman came to my home, verbally attacked my wife, and accused me of having an affair. She did other things, like break into my office, all of which resulted in restraining orders for me and my wife. She knew information that was unsettling, namely, what type of bed was in our master suite.”

“Any chance she’s been in your home?”

“Absolutely not, which is why I’m determined to know how she obtained this information. I need to know everything about her. Do you think you can do this?”

“I can’t guarantee what I don’t know,” Doug said, “but I can tell you this. I’ll find out everything out there on this Jacqueline Tate, and pass on this information. What happens from there is up to you.”

“That’s as much as I can ask for. Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Thank me after I produce.”

Randall’s smile was tentative yet hopeful as he hung up the phone. Maybe the playing field would now become level. Maybe he’d learn as much about Jacqueline as the woman seemed to know about his family and him.