CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
He spots her the minute she walks through the door.
Something is off, he thinks from his hidden vantage point at a table in the corner of the crowded room, although he can’t put a finger on what it is. She looks much like he remembers: the dark, shoulder-length hair, the slim build, the pretty face. More makeup than the last time he saw her. A little fuller in the chest. Not quite as sophisticated-looking as he’d been expecting, despite the obviously expensive dress she’s wearing.
Has he been kidding himself, thinking she was different from the women he usually “dated”? Did the fact that she had an actual career as opposed to just a job, that her messages made her seem genuinely smart as opposed to passably clever, fool him into thinking that she had greater depth than she did, and would prove a more challenging, more satisfying kill?
Clearly, he’s read too much into her messages.
Clearly, he’s been expecting too much.
He takes a deep breath, hoping to quell his disappointment. Maybe he’s just pissed off about her being so late, despite her promise to be there at “six on the button.”
Or maybe he’s just nervous.
Which is strange, because he’s never nervous. Oh, he gets a little anxious, but more from anticipation than fear. Usually he can’t wait to get this show on the road, which is, of course, where he’ll be taking it after tonight’s final Boston performance. So maybe that accounts for his slight case of jitters. The fact that he’ll be closing up shop, moving in the morning to another city, in another state.
Buffalo, he’s decided after much consideration. He’s heard that the city has improved greatly in the last few years, become much more cosmopolitan. It’s also close to Niagara Falls, where, surprisingly, he’s never been. And the Baseball Hall of Fame is only a four-hour drive away, and might be worth a visit. Always nice to include a few touristy things into the program. So, a few months there shouldn’t be too intolerable before he crosses over into Canada in time to take in the magnificent dying of the leaves.
He spent the day packing. Not that he has much to pack. Just one suitcase for his clothes and a few boxes, two of them still empty, awaiting his good china and cutlery, his wineglasses, his fine Irish linen tablecloth, and of course, his envious collection of knives, all of which can’t be tucked away until they’ve served their purpose. Nor can he load anything into the trunk of his car before morning. Other than Wildflower, of course. He snickers inwardly, his face remaining an immobile mask that reveals nothing beyond its handsome features. Judging by Wildflower’s slim physique, he doubts she’ll require much space.
But he’s learned through experience that dead bodies can’t always be depended on. For one thing, they usually take up more space than one thinks they will, their stubborn limbs often refusing to bend or cooperate, and he hasn’t got much time to fiddle around. He’s decided it will be best to dispose of Wildflower’s body in the early morning hours, while it’s still dark, before rigor has a chance to set in, or Jenna Lebowski comes snooping around to check that he’s vacated the premises as promised. He’ll get rid of the rope and handcuffs at a rest stop along the highway tomorrow morning, en route to Buffalo and the tiny bungalow he’s rented through Airbnb.
The changes to his dating profile will be made once he’s settled in. He’ll have to pick a new name, although he’s grown rather fond of his current moniker. Mr. Right Now has served him remarkably well these last months in Boston.
Still, it’s never a good idea to get too attached to anything—person, place, thing, or name—and a new city deserves a new online identity. He already has a few handles in mind. Hamlet is one. Prince Hal is another. A nod to his high school English teacher, the glorious Miss Brenda Williams. She of the long red hair and coral-colored lips, the mellifluous voice and love of all things Shakespeare.“Isn’t that splendid?”he can still hear her sigh after reciting several lines of the Bard’s poetry to a roomful of indifferent teens. He’d often go to sleep dreaming of making her recite those lines with his hands around her throat.“Isn’t that splendid?”he’d ask as he choked the life right out of her.
So, maybe Hamlet or Prince Hal. Or maybe something simpler. Something like Miller or Smith. Yes, he thinks, deciding on the latter. He likes Smith. It has a nice, clean ring to it. So, Smith he will be.
“Hi,” a voice chirps from somewhere beside him.
He jumps at the sound.
“Sorry,” she says, the word accompanied by an annoyingly girlish giggle. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Mr. Right Now, I presume?” She cocks her head to one side, like an inquisitive puppy.
Is it possible she really doesn’t recognize him from their previous encounter?
“Wildflower?” he asks, further surprised she has managed to sneak up on him this way. He notes that her voice is coarser, less tentative, more openly flirtatious than the voice he heard on the phone last Saturday, the voice he was looking forward to hearing tonight in person.
“That’s me,” she says, accompanied by another annoying giggle. “Have you been waiting long?”
He checks his watch. “Forty-five minutes.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry about that.”
You don’t sound sorry,he thinks.But you will be.
“My cousin dropped over unexpectedly, and she wouldn’t take a hint. I practically had to shove her out the door.”
That’s it?he wonders.That’s your lame excuse for making me cool my heels for the better part of an hour?“Well, you’re here now. That’s what matters. What are you drinking?”
“Champagne?”
“A glass of champagne for the lady,” he calls to a passing waitress, suppressing the urge to shout,Why the question mark? Do you want champagne or don’t you?
“So,” Wildflower says, settling into the seat beside him, “what do you think? Am I what you expected?”
“Even better,” he lies. “Your picture doesn’t do you justice.” No point in mentioning that they’ve met before, since she obviously doesn’t remember.