CHAPTER THREE

Three Hours Earlier

 

 

MARY JO SMILED as her neighbor Sam stood on the ladder in her hall and finished fixing the light that had been shorting on and off. Mary Jo had caused the short and then asked Sam, the friendly writer from three houses down the street, to help her fix it before it burnt down her house.

An easy excuse in the middle of the afternoon that no good neighbor could refuse.

Sam was one of the nicest men Mary Jo had ever met. Maybe in his late thirties, balding with only thin brown hair and a grin that reminded her of a nice puppy wanting to be petted. She had only seen his wife from a distance. She was an attractive small woman and they looked to be a happy couple. Mary Jo knew that Sam’s wife worked downtown somewhere so that he could stay home and write a novel.

How cliché as far as Mary Jo was concerned.

But perfect for what Mary Jo needed at the moment.

“Got it,” Sam said, pride at his own small accomplishment in his voice.

She clicked on the light and the bulb burnt steady.

“Wonderful,” she said, smiling as Sam climbed down and folded up the ladder.

“That calls for a quick drink,” Mary Jo said. “I owe you. You like screwdrivers?”

Sam beamed, the smile reaching his brown eyes. “Love them. And so does my wife. I think at times she might be able to live on them.”

“Well, this one is on me,” Mary Jo said, watching as Sam put the ladder away and noting carefully what he touched and exactly where. She would clean off his prints later, including inside the light fixture.

Then she led the way into the modern, bright kitchen with its stainless steel appliances, white cabinets and granite countertops. The floor was covered in a dark tile that contrasted perfectly with the cabinets. All the houses in this neighborhood had modern kitchens like this one.

“Make mine a small one,” Sam said. “Still got to finish that chapter.”

“No problem,” Mary Jo said.

She took down the bottle that said Smirnoff on the outside and two glasses.

“Ice in the fridge,” she said.

As Sam turned to get the ice, she drove a long ice pick through his back and directly into his heart. He was on the floor almost instantly, bleeding only slightly.

He had a puzzled look in his brown eyes.

“Sorry,” Mary Jo said to Sam as the light in his eyes faded. “Just needed a body and yours was handy. If you wrote mystery novels, I’m sure you would understand.”

Sam took one last breath and died.

Mary Jo got the ice from the fridge, put Sam’s glass in the sink to wash in a minute, filled her glass, then added vodka and orange juice. She had her first drink of the day watching Sam slowly bleed onto her kitchen tile floor.

Drink tasted damn good.

She loved screwdrivers.