Cheated By Death by L.L. Bartlett Page B

stairs.

    Brenda stood at the sink, rinsing a
Boston lettuce for a salad. Richard sat at the kitchen table,
hiding behind the morning’s sports section, the two of them looking
like something out of a sixties sitcom when I burst into the
kitchen.
    Brenda looked up. “How’d it go?”
    I took off my jacket, hooked it over the back
of the closest chair. “Terrible. I hate her.”
    Richard folded the paper, and set it aside.
“That’s kind of a hasty judgment.” He sounded just like Ward
Cleaver.
    “I don’t think so.” I looked at the glass in
front of Richard. “What’re you drinking, scotch?”
    “Want one?”
    I shook my head. “Got any beer?”
    “In the fridge,” Brenda said.
    Grabbing a bottle of ice beer, I popped the
cap, paused, then took a pilsner glass from the cupboard, and took
great delight pouring it. Civilized. Like my sister wasn’t.
    I took a seat at the table.
    “Well, what happened?” Richard asked.
    “I had to get rid of her.” I took a deep
swallow. “Told her I had a headache.”
    “Then you know you shouldn’t be drinking
that.”
    “I lied. I just couldn’t stand being with her
another minute.”
    “What did she do that was so terrible?”
Brenda asked.
    “Nothing. It’s just that she’s so much
like—”
    I stopped dead as I realized just who Patty
reminded me of. “Jesus,” I murmured, sat back in my chair and took
another long swallow of beer, wishing I’d taken Richard up on his
invitation of a scotch.
    “Who? Who?” Brenda asked.
    “Shelley.” My dead ex-wife. “Patty even looks
a little like her—at least how she looked toward the end.” Memories
of those awful days came flooding back. I’d never told them all the
crap my wife had put me through those last few months.
    “Want to talk about it?” Richard asked, his
voice gentle.
    I looked into his worried blue eyes. How many
times had he asked me that question in the last eight months? How
many times had I refused to answer?
    “Yeah,” I said, half surprised.
    “Why does Patty remind you of Shelley?”
Brenda asked.
    I turned to Richard. “She wanted to know
about your money. Chet told her you were a millionaire. I told her
you weren’t. I don’t want her asking you for a handout. If she
does—don’t give her anything.”
    “Jeff, first of all, she’s not Shelley. I’m
sure she wouldn’t—”
    “You don’t know her. Hell, I don’t even know
her!” I downed the rest of my beer in a gulp, got up and took
another from the refrigerator. I cracked the cap. This time I drank
from the bottle.
    “You’re getting all upset over nothing,”
Richard said.
    I let out an exasperated breath, tempted to
tell them just what Patty said about Brenda.
    No way. I wasn’t about to hurt Brenda’s
feelings.
    “What about Shelley and money?” Richard
reminded me.
    I took my chair at the table. “When Shelley
left me, she cleaned out all our joint accounts. Three years we
saved. Three goddamned years of brown-bag lunches, renting movies
instead of going out. We planned to buy a house in Jersey—have a
couple of kids. I really fell for the American dream. The quaint
Cape Cod in the suburbs, white picket fence and all. I wanted
it—probably because I never had it as a kid.”
    Anger always accompanied those memories. Or
maybe it was betrayal—I was never sure.
    “I probably pushed Shelley too hard. I tried
to make my dream into hers. Maybe that’s why cocaine appealed to
her.”
    Richard looked uncomfortable. He hadn’t
expected me to spill the whole story. Me either, but I was on a
roll.
    “After Shelley got arrested, I found a lawyer
who specialized in drug cases. He got her off, but it took almost
five grand. I was stupid. I believed her when she said she quit
using the stuff.” God, how I’d wanted to believe her. “But one day
I came home from work and the apartment looked like a bomb hit it.
I thought we’d been robbed—until I found her note tacked on a
cupboard door. She’d taken what she