Heaven and Hell Read online

  My body froze, every inch of it including my eyes which were wide open.

  “Coot’s dead, darlin’,” Ozzie whispered and that was when I started hyperventilating.

  Then I breathed, “What?”

  “Coot’s dead. Milo shot him, clocked Vanessa with the butt of his gun and then called it in himself.”

  That was…

  It was…

  “That’s crazy,” I said softly. “Why would Milo do that?”

  “’Cause he’s got a short fuse, he loves his wife, he couldn’t bear the idea of her steppin’ out on him and he lost it. He also ain’t too smart but he’s smart enough to know he ain’t so he didn’t bother runnin’ ‘cause he knows he’ll be caught.”

  I had no reply to this. Any of it.

  I couldn’t think.

  I could barely breathe.

  Ozzie stared at me.

  Then he called, “Kia?”

  I blinked and my body started.

  Then it hit me what he said.

  Milo Cloverfield, who was normally a pretty fun-loving guy, good to have around, good for a laugh but definitely he could lose it, had shot my husband dead with a shotgun.

  “Where?” I suddenly blurted.

  “Pardon?” Ozzie asked.

  “Where did Milo shoot him?” I asked and Ozzie’s stare got more intense.

  “At the motel,” Ozzie answered and I shook my head.

  “No, I mean, where on his body?”

  That’s when his face closed down and he said quietly, “Honey, not sure –”

  “Where, Ozzie?”

  Ozzie held my eyes. Then he sighed. Then he said, still talking quietly, “Got him one side of the head.”

  Closed casket then.

  “Kia, you all right?” Ozzie asked.

  Was I all right?

  I thought about it.

  I sat in my living room with furniture Cooter picked and carpeting Cooter picked in a house Cooter picked in a subdivision Cooter picked with Ozzie sitting in an armchair petting a strangely quiet but watchful (and her eyes were on me) dog that Cooter picked, none of which I liked, (except the dog but only secretly) and I thought about this.

  I thought that Cooter was never going to come home again.

  I thought that I was never going to have to pretend I enjoyed sex with Cooter again and I never had to fake another orgasm again, which, by the way, was exhausting but, fortunately, not difficult to achieve believability considering Cooter still (or did, not anymore) thought his shit didn’t stink.

  I thought that I’d never get backhanded, slapped, pushed, kicked or my arm twisted by Cooter again.

  I thought that every morning, noon and night I could eat what I wanted and not have to make exactly what Cooter wanted. I could go to bed when I wanted. I could wear what I wanted. I could watch on TV what I wanted. I could talk on the phone as long as I wanted.

  And I could finally be nice to my own, damn dog.

  Then I thought, Fuck yes, I’m all right.

  I did not say that.

  I said, “I’m in shock,” which wasn’t a lie.

  Ozzie didn’t miss much and he wasn’t missing much now and this must have been why he said super softly and very cautiously, his eyes never leaving mine, his body leaning in slightly, his hand stilling on Memphis, “You loved him once, darlin’, and, him passin’, there’ll come a time when you’ll remember that and it’ll hit you.”

  I was not surprised Ozzie knew I didn’t love Cooter now. Like I said, Ozzie didn’t miss much.

  But I wasn’t thinking about that.

  I was thinking about loving Cooter.

  And it wasn’t the first time I thought on this over the years.

  And I already knew I never loved Cooter. Not in the beginning, not now. I loved the idea of him, the golden light that shone from his local fame, the promise he squandered, I was in love with that. I was young, I was stupid and I was blinded by false glory.

  But I’d never loved my husband. Marrying Cooter had been the worst mistake I’d made in my life.

  And I knew I did not at that moment nor would I anytime in the future mourn his passing. And I also knew somewhere deep inside me that I would not go to hell for that.

  Because I’d been in hell for the seven years I spent married to Cooter Clementine.

  So I’d done my time.

  * * * * *

  Two weeks, one day and sixteen hours later…

  The phone rang.

  How I heard it over the music, I did not know but I did.

  Cooter hated my music. He never let me play it. But he played his and loud.

  I turned down The Guess Who’s live version, kickass, thirteen plus minutes of “American Woman” and strode to the phone.

  Memphis yapped.

  “Quiet, baby,” I murmured.

  Memphis wagged her tail.

  I grinned at my dog.

  She wagged her tail harder.

  I grinned bigger.

  Then I picked up the phone, beeped it on, put it to my ear and greeted, “Hello?”

  “Hello, may I please speak to a Mrs. Kia Clementine?”

  My grin became a smile.

  I was keeping Cooter’s last name. His last name was awesome. It was the best thing he ever gave to me. Hell, it was the only decent thing he’d ever given me.

  So I was keeping it.

  “This is she,” I replied.

  “Hello, this is Stacy from Biller General Insurance.”

  My head cocked to the side in confusion and I said, “Hello.”

  “This is just a courtesy call to inform you we’ve received the information from his employer that your husband has passed, we’ve sent the forms to you to complete and you should receive them in the mail within the next week. As soon as you complete and return them, we’ll process them as quickly as we can and you’ll receive your check in four to six weeks.”

  I blinked at Memphis.

  Memphis blinked back.

  Then I asked, “What?”

  “We’re very sorry for your loss and we understand this is a difficult time for you. It’s never easy handling paperwork in these times but the forms aren’t difficult to complete and the sooner they’re done, the sooner we can pay Mr. Clementine’s life insurance and you’ll have the financial security he clearly wished you to have. In preparation for that, while you’re waiting for the forms to arrive, you’ll need to see to getting a notarized copy of his death certificate.”

  Say what?

  Cooter wanted me to have financial security?

  Heck, Cooter wanted me to have any security?

  “I’m sorry, I’m not certain what you’re referring to,” I told her.

  There was a moment of silence then, “Why, Mr. Clementine’s five million dollar life insurance policy. Eight months ago, he took one out on himself and you.”

  I froze again, exactly like I did when I heard word Cooter was dead, head-to-toe, eyes huge.

  Then I whispered, “Sorry?”

  “Mr. Clementine’s five million dollar life insurance policy,” she answered.

  I blinked at Memphis.

  Memphis sat on her rump and blinked back.

  Cooter didn’t let me handle anything, not the household bills, not the bank accounts, nothing. He even took my paycheck and gave me an allowance. He wasn’t just an asshole; he was a dominating, control-freak asshole.

  “He took a policy out on me?” I asked my new best friend Stacy.

  “Yes, at the same time he took his.”

  “Was mine for five million dollars?” I asked.

  Another moment of hesitation then, “No, yours is for ten.”

  I blinked yet again at Memphis.

  Memphis got up on all her paws and yapped.

  That bastard.

  That bastard!

  Gossip had run rampant since Milo blew half of Cooter’s head off and it was so rampant, it was impossible to keep myself shielded from it.

  Not that I cared, I j
ust was trying to move on. Cooter was in the ground. Milo was in jail. Vanessa had sequestered herself behind closed curtains. And I was making plans for the future.

  My house was already on the market. My salary didn’t cover the mortgage but, upon Cooter’s death (or, not long after, his boss didn’t mess around because his boss was a good guy), his pension was released to me and even though the government took their whack, Cooter’s pension was still a whack. I was good until the house sold and we’d been living there for seven years. The market wasn’t great but his folks and my folks had given us a decent down payment. My friend Paula was my real estate agent and she said I had equity in it and would make a tidy profit in order to downsize to a condo or something more within my budget.

  I was already planning my yard sale. Everything must go. I was going to buy all new. I just hoped that the house sold relatively quickly before my living expenses bit into Cooter’s pension too much because I wanted nice stuff, I also wanted a fabulous vacation (something Cooter never took me on) and further, I wanted an entire new wardrobe that I picked.

  These were my plans and I spent a goodly amount of time thinking on them. But I still heard the talk.

  And with what I heard, I knew that Cooter had started his thing with Vanessa nine months ago.

  Nine months.

  One month shy of when Cooter took out a huge, crazy, probably insanely expensive life insurance policy on me for no good reason.

  Holy crap, they were planning on offing me!

  “Mrs. Clementine? Are you there?” Stacy called and my back straightened.

  Then I clipped into the phone, “Yes, I’m here. I’m alive, breathing and very, very here.”

  “Uh…” she mumbled, “good. So, um… the forms –”

  “You bet your bippy that I’ll be all over completing those puppies. Never fear, Stacy, we’ll get the business of filling out forms out of the way so I can continue mourning the passing of my beloved, freaking husband.”

  This outburst bought me a moment of silence then, “Uh…” she mumbled again. “Right. Okay.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “Thanks for your call. I’m certain this part of your job description is no fun.”

  “No, actually, you’re right. It’s, um… not real fun.”

  “Well, tick me off your to-do list, sweetie, and go to some fancy coffee cart and get yourself a nice coffee. Spoil yourself. Life’s short.”

  “Yes, right, Mrs. Clementine.”

  “Ms.,” I corrected her.

  “Pardon?”

  “Ms.,” I repeated. “I’m Ms. Clementine now.”

  Silence then a whispered, “Right.”

  “Have a good day,” I urged.

  “Right, uh… you, um… too.”

  “Will do,” I assured her then beeped the phone off.

  Then I walked straight to the phonebook and looked up the number to the Sheriff Department. Then I called it. Then I asked to speak to Ozzie. Then they transferred me to Ozzie. Then I told him about my boon and the timing. Then he was silent a long time.

  Then he whistled.

  Then he expressed his gratitude and got off the phone.

  I looked at Memphis and stated, “First, we’re searching every inch of this house to look for evidence those two creeps wanted to knock me off to collect the insurance and then we’re turning on the computer and then we’re calling up a map of the world and then we’re pointing at it, or I am, since you can’t, and then we’re planning my vacation to wherever my finger lands.”

  Memphis yapped her agreement to this plan.

  “Unless I don’t hit somewhere in The States,” I warned. “If I pick Okinawa, you’ll probably have to go stay with Mom and Dad while I go off and enjoy Cooter’s wife-killing money.”

  Memphis yapped again and her cute, little, brown and white body shook with her tail wags.

  She loved my Mom.

  Then again, she loved everyone.

  So much, it didn’t even seem like she noticed Cooter was gone. No staring at doors. No little doggie melancholy.

  But I had taken over the affection, treats, feedings and the like so she wasn’t missing out.

  “You with me?” I asked even though I knew. Memphis wasn’t one for solitude. She’d be with me every step of the way.

  She yapped anyway just so I knew she had my back.

  I nodded.

  Then I searched.

  Then I found the e-mails.

  My husband was so fucking dumb.

  His girlfriend wasn’t much smarter.

  I called Ozzie again.

  He came over.

  * * * * *

  The next day, Vanessa came out of seclusion mostly because she had no choice and she did it in handcuffs.

  While this was happening (though I didn’t know it), I was on the phone with my friend Teri who was a travel agent, booking my flights to Paris.

  Chapter One

  I Know You, You Know

  I stood underneath it a long time, smack dab in the middle of the vast, populated space, my head tilted way back, my back arched, looking up. So long, people probably thought I was crazy. So long, I got dizzy. But I did it. And while I did it, I memorized what I saw.

  Then I righted my head, turned and walked down the avenue.

  I took my time.

  This was because I had all the time in the world.

  When I got a fair ways away, I pulled my camera out of my purse, did the head tilting, back arched thing, aimed and shot, once… an adjustment, twice… another adjustment, then a third time.

  Then I looked at the display and moved through the photos I took of a nighttime, lit up, cool-as-freaking-shit Eiffel Tower.

  Then I grinned and muttered, “Memphis, baby, you’re gonna like that one.”

  Then I turned off my camera, tucked it in my purse, gave the Tower one last, lingering look before I moved back down the avenue to saunter the streets of Paris.

  * * * * *

  I stood in front of the full-length, freestanding mirror. It was oval. It had a lot of carving in the wood around it and black marks on the mirror which meant it was old and the silver was fading but it was fading in a supremely cool way.

  Studying the wood, I was pretty impressed with the cleaning staff at this hotel considering there wasn’t any dust in all those grooves of the mirror. It was all glossy and gleaming. Someone had to spend a serious amount of time polishing it.

  My eyes moved from the wood to me.

  It was summer. My reflection showed me what I knew, I was tan. This was because, for the last three weeks, I’d spent a lot of time outside wandering the streets of Paris, Rome and Florence.

  I’d also bought myself the new sundress I had on and I’d never owned anything so expensive or so exquisite.

  A long time ago, Cooter decreed that all my apparel come from Target or Wal-Mart, explaining that this was all we could afford within our budget and he kind of wasn’t wrong except he didn’t get all his clothing from those places. I really didn’t mind, Target, especially, had some nice stuff.

  What I minded was that Cooter also decreed anytime I bought something for me he would come along and he didn’t have a good eye to what suited me, style, fit or color. Cooter had a taste for skank so he dressed his wife like one.

  I hated it.

  My sundress did not say skank. Not even close.

  It was kind of a salmony-peach, it had a flimsy flippy skirt that was not short but it was also not long, loads of pintuck pleats around the waistline and, at the bodice, thin straps into a halter neck. It was really kind of simple but the filmy fabric, unusual color (that went freaking great with my golden skin) and attention to detail made it super hot.

  I loved it.

  But I was wearing flip-flops.

  They were cute flip-flops, with big, floppy flowers at the toes and they matched the dress nearly perfectly but, as my eyes slid up and down my body in the mirror, I just didn’t think they’d do.

  My gaze shifted to t
he windows. I’d pulled open the wooden shutters practically upon waking and all you could see was the beauty of Lake Como.

  Seriously. Did you wear flip-flops with an expensive sundress in a fancy hotel on Lake Como in Italy?

  It was morning. I was heading to the dining room. In my world, breakfast was flip-flop territory.

  But the dress wasn’t.

  In fact, inspecting myself top-to-toe, the whole gig was wrong.

  I went to my cosmetics case and back to the mirror.

  A dusting of face powder. Good.

  A bit of shimmery, peach cream blusher. Better.

  A bit of eye shadow, filling in my brows with pencil, a thin line of eyeliner pencil softened with the tip of a brush, a swipe of mascara and a touch of shimmery, peach lip gloss.

  Much, much better.

  Then I moved to the wardrobe, opened it and pulled out the shoebox.

  Then I pulled out the strappy sandals that cost way, way more than the dress.

  I’d bought them in Paris. The straps were super thin. The heel was super high. It was also super thin. And they were bronze.

  They would kick ass with this dress.

  The women I’d seen in Paris, Rome and Florence, attractive, even stunning beauties and very fashionable, would not blink at wearing those sandals with that dress to breakfast.

  I strapped them on and walked to the mirror.

  Yes. Perfect.

  Then I stood in front of the mirror, put three more coats of mascara at the very outside edges of my lashes and kapow! My eyes looked awesome.

  I pulled out the ponytail holder, fluffed out my hair and stared at myself.

  Yep, this was it. This said Lake Como. This said Europe. This said jet-setter.

  Then I blinked.

  Then tears began to fill my eyes so I blinked again, quickly turned away, grabbed my cute, little, Italian leather purse I got in Florence, my room key and I went to the dining room.

  I knew very little Italian. My Italian language arsenal included pizza, grazie, ciao and capisce and I actually wasn’t really certain what capisce meant, just that gangsters in the movies said it. Even though I’d been in Italy for two weeks, I wasn’t picking much up mostly because I was too shy to try.

  So I did my communication with a lot of smiling and hand gestures. Which was how I greeted and thanked the maitre d’ when he saw me, smiled and started babbling, nodding his head, snatching up a menu and throwing out his arm to show me through the dining room.