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Devil's Delight
by
Andy Echevarria
The private investigator pulled out pictures from a manila envelope and laid them on the table. “Here,” he said. “Twelve in all.” He glanced nervously around the café.
Adam grabbed the top photo. A cold sweat gleamed down his face as he glanced at it. It was of his wife and the unknown man leaving a bar. He put that one down, picked up the second. A picture of her and the same man in a car. Threw that one down. Then, several others of them hugging each other.
Adam shook his head.
“So, she’s been cheating on you,” announced the PI. “Your suspicions were well-founded.”
Other pictures: in a restaurant; at an amusement park; just outside a sauna. With the same fellow.
“Need me to still work on this for you?” continued the investigator, enthusiasm in his voice. “I can continue to—”
“No, that’s fine,” Adam interrupted. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I think now I have enough evidence.” He handed the photos back to the private investigator, except for one in which the stranger has his arms around her as they’re entering the bar.
“You sure you don’t want all the pictures to show?”
Adam shook his head. “No, this one’s fine. Wait ‘till I confront her.”
“Now you know how women are.”
Adam dug into his pocket, pulled out a fistful of cash. He handed it to the investigator. “Four hundred dollars. I do appreciate what you’ve done for me.” A frown formed over his face. “If I need you in the future I’ll give you a call.”
“Compare me to others—I’m rather reasonable, at least I think, for my services,” announced the private investigator. “Well you do have my card. Do call if you’re ever in need.”
“I will,” Adam said quietly, and bowed his head. The coffee before him no longer looked appealing; he’d lost his desire for the drink moments ago. “One other thing, though?”
“Yes?”
Adam lifted his gaze. “What else have you found out about him?”
“For once, this guy’s rich. Has two houses—one in Malibu and another in Seattle. Has accounts in both Switzerland and the Bahamas.”
“Millionaire?”
“Must be. One thing I do know, is he didn’t inherit the houses.” The private investigator took his first sip of the coffee. “Looks like you need to divorce this woman—seems to be of the dangerous type. Whatever you do, be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. You know how marital woes can turn up being deadly. If my mother was right, O.J. did what a lot of people think he did.” The investigator smiled enigmatically.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the rain had started falling. Adam went to the corner of the street, hailed a taxi.
During most of the ride home, he’d thought that he’d throw up. What a witch. How nice he’d been to her and she did this to him.
Ten minutes later the cab stopped in front of his apartment building. When the driver held out the change—seven dollars—he told him to forget it, to keep it.
Adam didn’t need the money; by this time tomorrow he’d be dead—but not before murdering his wife. Then he’d kill himself.
For about three weeks now, he had the plan in mind: He’d find out if she was cheating. He’d need proof, of course. He’d begun getting suspicious ever since she’d refuse to answer her phone when he’d call her after work. Then, two weeks before, after she’d arrived home for two days straight, she’d told him that her job required additional hours on those days.
And so he’d hired the private investigator after looking in the yellow pages.
And if he found that that she’d been cheating on him, he’d kill her. Either she was his or no one’s.
In the lobby, he punched the four-digit code. As he did, he had the uncanny feeling that he was being watched. But from where did this sense come? He wasn’t sure, only that he felt a little uneasy this morning.
He shared the elevator with an overweight, stinky woman and a well-dressed elderly man. He was thankful she didn’t have to share the lift a long time. He arrived on the twelfth floor moments later, leaving both of them alone.
I want to see to it that she pays, he thought, then let out a loud laugh.
After fumbling with the keys for about a minute he finally managed to open the door.
Always soft-spoken and eager to listen, his wife—now soon-to-be—never failed to impress others with her vivaciousness while at the same time imparting a sense of humbleness and congeniality to those with whom she comes in contact.
From the stereo on a tripod table in the far corner, flowed a song—more a chant: “Ave Maria,” sung by a high-pitched male singer whose voice mingled with the sweet yet somber strains of a violin. He’d forgotten to turn the radio off when he’d gone to the meeting with the private investigator.
He turned the set off.
A glance at his watch revealed that it was 7:34 a.m. She usually left work at 5:00 p.m. She’d be here in less than an hour…unless of course she was cheating again.
He went into the kitchen, grabbed a chair, then made his way into his room, where he opened the closet. He reached behind a stack of books and felt for the gun. After about a minute he found it.
Holding the gun tightly in his back, he returned to the living room and threw himself onto the sofa.
“You know,” he said aloud to himself, “I’m sorry I have to do this. I really am. But you should’ve thought before you did it.”
Moments later, he heard a knock at the door. He rose and put the gun behind a pillow.
“Coming,” he said.
He hesitated at the door before opening it. “You seem to be home early today.”
“There was a fire at the office. Firefighters were all over the place. They sent us home early.”
She went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. “What’ll you be having today, dear?”
“You.”
Her face turned rosy. “You’re funny—sometimes too funny.”
What an evil person she’d become, he thought. And she hadn’t been like this when he’d first met her twelve years before. Prior to that they’d dated for six months before he’d popped her the all-important ‘Will you marry me?’ question. Maybe they should’ve remained just friends. Sometimes just looking at the cake was okay—you didn’t have to have it. That had been the problem, he thought to himself. He’d wanted to have the cake as well. Oh well, that’s life.
Only three months into their marriage, the arguments began; their sexual life had taken a plunge almost immediately afterwards, like a seagull that one moment is flying high in the air and the next diving down after being shot. Just what had shot it neither she nor he could pinpoint, which had only exacerbated the problem.
In spite of being a witch, he loved her dearly. But he could not fathom her being with someone else.
“Let me go downstairs and get some tomatoes,” she announced. “I’ll need that for the sauce.”
“Actually—there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.” He grabbed her by the arm, making sure he didn’t squeeze it too tightly for then she’d scream, telling him that he was a violent person, that it was his fault that their relationship had taken a turn for the worse. She didn’t like it when she screamed; sometimes it even scared him.
She pulled her arm away. What a strong bitch, he told himself. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Something wrong?”
He thought he could see a smirk on her face, one that was part hate, part an expression that wanted to say ‘I’ve gotten under your skin, you jerk, and for that I’m so happy.’ He always hated to see that smile on her face. His hands curled into fists. “I got a private eye to follow you. You’ve been cheating on me, haven’t you?”
“Adam, I’ve told you many times, and I’ll tell you again—I’ve no one but you,” she had said after he had asked her if she was cheating on him. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
He’d known that she was lying. She was a lying bitch who deserved to be slapped, or worse. “I know you’re lying,” he mumbled. “You’re a lying bit—”
He was going to do something different this time. He was going to shoot her…to death.
“Look at this picture!”
“It’s not me!”
It was the same woman—the blond hair, the thick behind, even the fur coat was the same.
He went to the pillow on the sofa, took out the gun. He pointed it at her and said, “Time to die,” before pulling the trigger.
* * *
He remembered the look of hate on his client’s face. Forget the money.
He loved destroying marriages.
He loved to fabricate pictures. He was able to do that. After all, he was the Devil.
The private investigator smiled. Another marriage ruined.
He’d had her and the stranger under hypnotism throughout the whole time. Then he’d made them forget moments later that they’d ever met. Just as he had with everyone else.
The phone rang.
He picked it up. “John Roberts, Private Investigator—how can I help you?” He listened for a long moment. Then: “Sure, Ma’am, we can find out if you’re husband has been cheating on you.”
The Devil smiled. Soon, yet another marriage to be ruined.
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