SEEING RED, by Rosemary and Larry Mild

The doorbell rang. Elise Harrenton saved the accounting spreadsheet on her iMac and trotted to the front hall. A Fed Ex guy stood on the porch. She opened the door and signed for a nine-by-twelve tan bubble bag addressed to Mr. Charles Harrenton. Return address: Cartier Fifth Avenue.

Elise’s heart quickened. Charles didn’t often buy her presents, but the package was from Cartier. It had to be for her. She carried the package into the dining room, sat down in one of the upholstered chairs, and pulled the tab. Inside sat a long blue velvet box. Under it peeked out an elegant silver envelope. Her fingers tingled as she removed the velvet box. Setting it on the table, she sprang its catch.

Couched in white satin lay a pendant: a white-gold chain and an exquisite square-cut sapphire surrounded by diamonds. In the noonday sunlight, the gems winked at her with self-satisfied knowledge of their brilliance. Elise flipped her shoulder-length chestnut hair behind her right ear, a habit when she anticipated something special about to happen.

Reaching into the bubble bag for the silver envelope, she pulled it out, opened it, and read: “My darling Melanie. Thank you for the blissful Bermuda weekend. Your devoted Charles.”

Elise’s lean body grew rigid. She felt a burning in her belly, heartburn in her chest, her neck and face on fire.

She and Charles had never taken a trip to Bermuda! They’d barely traveled anywhere the past few years. He traveled all the time, working eighty-hour weeks running his Fortune 500 company. She’d put up with his insane schedule because she loved him. Only to find out that he loved someone else?

What had gone wrong? Didn’t they have a secure marriage, with trust and all the rest, and even good sex? Every negative detail suddenly loomed as the villain. Was she spending too much time at the gym, carving her former plump self into a gaunt, athletic machine? Was it the faint varicose veins threading her thighs? Her smallish breasts? The fact that she’d miscarried twice and hadn’t been able to conceive again? Whatever it was, she hadn’t seen it coming. And there was no use denying that Charles was still a stunning man at forty: six-two, with sandy hair and confident green eyes.

Elise stayed rooted to the chair for a long time, replaying in her mind the joke Charles had made of her life. What should she do? Confront him when he walked through the door tonight? Rant and rave? Throw things? Threaten divorce? It all sounded so clichéd. She deserved better.

At that moment she stopped brooding. Her breath quickened, and a seed began to germinate within the farthest reaches of her mind. Charles would be leaving in a few days for another month-long business trip, due to return home on Valentine’s Day. She would have her gift ready for him when he returned. A gleeful smile crossed her face. Yes, it was time to redecorate.

But first she had an urgent task. She took the silver card down the hall to her office, photocopied it, and printed it out in color. For evidence. Whipping out her digital camera, she took two photos of the velvet box: the first one closed; the second one with the glorious pendant lying in the open box. She checked the two images, pleased that she had remembered to turn off the flash, enhancing the natural lighting and showing off the jewels to their best advantage.

Next, she jumped into her Porsche, zipped over to Office Depot, and bought a nine-by-twelve tan bubble bag, exactly like the one that had been delivered. Back home in the kitchen, she boiled water, and as the steam chugged out of the teakettle spout, she held the bubble bag from Cartier above the scalding puffs and steamed off the “From” and “To” labels. After allowing them to dry, she used thin coats of Elmer’s Glue to affix them to the envelope she’d just purchased. Saying goodbye to the sapphire and diamonds, she snapped the box shut and tucked it inside the bag, along with the card. Sealing the bag with great care, she placed it on Charles’s desk, under the pile of other mail that had arrived that day. Charles would probably kick himself when he came home tonight and realized he’d given Cartier his home address instead of his mistress’s, but he’d also think Elise was too wrapped up in her accounting work to notice.

All the better for her plan.

Next she needed to do her research. She couldn’t remember all the irritants that bugged her husband most. Maybe the Internet could help. Typing madly, she Googled “Phobias” and discovered a plethora of links, from simple definitions to studies in psychiatric and psychological journals. Scanning the websites, she singled several out. Ereuthophobia. Ornithophobia. Pteridophobia. Those three would needle him the most.

* * * *

February 14th dawned clear and cold, with brilliant sun. Charles returned late in the afternoon, catching a cab at the train station, looking forward to a relaxed evening with his single-malt scotch and the NBA on TV. But when the cab pulled up to 1577 Larkspurr Lane, he wondered whether he’d given the driver the wrong address. Their conservative black front door was now a screaming enamel red—like a hooker’s nail polish. The door swung open before he had a chance to use his key. Elise greeted him with a mock pinup-girl pose, in a filmy red teddy. As he stepped into the foyer, setting down his briefcase and luggage, she threw her arms around his neck. “So glad you’re finally home, darling. Happy Valentine’s Day!”

He tried an appropriate response, but it just wouldn’t come. “Elise. The front door. It’s so…garish!”

“Darling, welcome to our new décor.” She helped him off with his cashmere overcoat and hung it in the closet. “How was your flight, sweetheart? You look beat.”

“Snow in New York. Delayed takeoff. Nasty turbulence. In other words, not so great. But seriously, what’s with the door?”

Elise nuzzled his neck. “It’s feng shui, darling. The Chinese spiritual forces of wind and water. A red door symbolizes welcome—harmony with the universe.”

“Feng hooey is more like it.” Charles shook his head, spotting the new floor: a dizzying array of red and orange irregular shapes. “Jeez, Elise, isn’t this kind of busy for a front hall?”

“Not really. Mosaics are the ‘in’ thing now. They call this pattern Sunset Blitz.” She led him into the living room. “Let me give you the tour, dear. Ta da! Our new contemporary home. Quite electrifying and exquisite, I think.”

Charles’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t speak. His eyes ached from what he saw. A tomato-red leather sofa, flanked by matching bucket chairs. On a glass coffee table, a tall vase filled with long-stemmed red and salmon rosebuds. An area rug edged in a broad border of Chinese red. He gritted his teeth at the sight of the freshly painted walls: wide vertical stripes of ruby red and maroon. The motif continued down the hall to the kitchen. “I guess I can get used to this stuff, if I have to,” he mumbled.

His agreeable mood lasted about five seconds, until he noticed the hanging pots of greenery in each corner of the living room: voluptuous ferns overflowing with coiled tendrils. An involuntary shudder shook his body. “What the hell, Elise. Those damned things look downright snaky!”

It was then that he heard a squawking commotion in the kitchen. He turned pale. “Birds? In this house?” He raced toward the kitchen and lurched to a stop in the doorway. A tall cage stood beside the breakfast table. Two large parrots swayed from side to side on their roosts. Their beady eyes stared at him as if he were an intruder.

Charles broke into an icy sweat. “Elise, have you gone totally around the bend?”

“Sorry, dear,” she murmured. “I thought they’d lend a little amusement to our marriage. We can teach them to talk, you know, all sorts of cute things. They’re very smart.”

“Get those friggin’ birds out of here! I’m going to change,” he said, pressing his lips together to prevent escape of his ugliest thought. If she’s messed with our room, I’ll strangle her.

Charles entered the master bedroom, flicked on the light, and nearly fainted. He wished he were back on the road. The recessed lighting cast a sinister glow on the king-size bed. The headboard was covered in red and purple paisley; the comforter, shams, and sheets were scarlet, trimmed in purple. Vermillion curtains cascaded from ceiling to floor. And on the far wall, Elise had hung a large framed photo of parakeets.

Shivering, he tore off his business clothes and pulled on his favorite gray sweats. Would he at least be able to pee in peace? Opening the door to the master bath, he sighed with relief to discover the pristine white granite vanity top—until he saw that the shower walls were retiled in a throbbing red brick, and a potted fern sat perched on the toilet tank, its leaves curling—practically crawling—over the sides.

Dinner did nothing to soothe his anxiety. Crowded together on his Wedgwood plate were rare roast beef, a salad of grated red cabbage, and baby beets. Their juices, like blood, stained the mashed potatoes nestled against them. Famished as he was, Charles pushed the plate away. It wasn’t just the nearly all-red meal. He couldn’t tolerate individual foods touching each other. He desperately needed a glass of wine, but not the one she’d chosen for him: burgundy, in a gleaming blood-red goblet.

Elise handed him a long, slender box. What can it be but a tie? How original is that? And when he opened it, that’s what it was. Tiny, white polka dots on crimson silk.

“Elise, what the devil’s gotten into you?” Charles pounded the fuchsia tablecloth with his fist. “Have you ever seen me in a red tie? Well, have you?” His face contorted and his cheeks flushed.

A twinge of genuine sympathy clouded his wife’s face. “No, darling, but I thought it would be a refreshing change. The stock market’s been so bad, and the business news has been so gloomy. I thought this bright tie would cheer you up. It’s an Armani, a special limited edition. I thought you’d like it. I’m sorry.”

“Have you ever seen me in any suit or shirt or jacket that’s not black, gray, navy, or brown?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I hate red! You know that. And what’s with the ferns and the birds and this revolting dinner? Are you trying to drive me crazy?”

Charles suddenly bent over, clutching his stomach. “I don’t feel so well. Something’s wrong.” He bolted from the table and staggered into the powder room. Falling to his knees, he flipped up the toilet seat and vomited. His guts heaved and retched until, finally, his belly quieted down. He flushed and pushed down the toilet-seat lid. Then his head began aching as he took in the lid’s new cloth cover: red and yellow stripes. Pulling himself weakly upright to the vanity sink, he turned on the faucet to wash his hands and face. That’s when he spotted the cerise hand towels and—in a crystal bowl—cherry-red, heart-shaped soaps. Charles broke into a spasm of chills. He reached for the bottle of Listerine mouthwash he kept handy, the citrus-flavored orange one. But what his eyes met with absolute horror was a bottle of Lavoris, in fire-engine red. Charles gasped and clutched his chest.

* * * *

Elise remained seated at the table, sipping her wine, smiling widely as she gazed at all the new touches in their house. You deserve it, you louse, for cheating on me. And once your anxiety attack is over, I’ll hand you the divorce papers—with a photo of that diamond-and-sapphire pendant attached. It should be enough to get me everything. Happy Valentine’s Day.

She strode to the powder room. The door was open. She arrived just as Charles swayed forward, backward, forward—and crumpled to the floor. His large frame filled the tiny room.

She knelt beside him. “Oh, my God! Wake up, dear. Please wake up. Are you all right?” But she knew he wasn’t. His face had taken on a ghostly pallor. His eyes had rolled up into his head.

Elise felt a stab of remorse. Yes, she had orchestrated her scheme to feed on his phobias. Yes, she had intended to make him suffer an anxiety attack before serving him with divorce papers. But a heart attack? And one severe enough to kill her strong, handsome, robust husband? She hadn’t intended to take her revenge so far.

Then she remembered the stunning pendant he’d bought for someone else, and her guilt evaporated as quickly as it had come. Everything was working out—amazingly well, actually. Charles’s death was quite a bonus. A fortuitous accident! His generous life insurance policy would set her up in comfort. He hadn’t bought the diamond-and-sapphire pendant for her, but so what? Now she could go out and buy herself one. Only bigger. Happy Valentine’s Day to me.

On the way to the kitchen to call 9-1-1, Elise meandered through the rooms she’d transformed. In the dining room, pulsing with magenta accessories, a fresh thought hit her. Now she could get rid of the gauche décor, those violent, head-splitting reds. And the ferns. And those annoying parrots. Win. Win. Win.

Almost reluctantly, Elise made the call. And while she waited for the ambulance, she poured herself a large glass of white wine.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Rosemary and Larry Mild are cheerful partners in crime. They coauthor the Dan & Rivka Sherman Mysteries: Death Goes Postal and Death Takes a Mistress; and the Paco & Molly Mysteries: Locks and Cream Cheese, Hot Grudge Sunday, and Boston Scream Pie. They recently moved from Maryland to Honolulu and published Cry Ohana, a Hawaii thriller. Members of Sisters in Crime, both Chesapeake and Hawaii chapters, they have two wickedly entertaining stories in the anthology Mystery in Paradise: 13 Tales of Suspense. Rosemary also announces her new memoir: Love! Laugh! Panic! Life with My Mother. Visit the Milds at www.magicile.com.