YOU WANT something done right, you have to do it yourself.
Max drove the shovel deep into the soft dirt at the far edge of his golf course property. No one around. Clubhouse closed at dusk. Nothing but rolling miniature hills, flags stuck in holes, sand and water traps, and the occasional deer or wild boar.
He swatted at a mosquito and tossed the shovelful over his shoulder. Sweat trickled down his chest and beaded on his brow.
The body lay wrapped in garbage bags at his side.
Dumping Amanda in a water trap would have been easier on his sore back, but he’d had enough of water. No one would find her here.
He’d wait at least a week before reporting her missing. No one would know the difference. She rarely left the house. He allowed her few friends, all of them older, heavier, uglier.
Then it would be—he came home from work. No sign of her at the house. No idea where she’d gone. Car still in the garage. Nothing disturbed. No forced entry.
Some of the neighbors would suspect a crime had been committed, but not by him. Not by the man who gave to charity and helped build playhouses for needy kids. The man whose first wife had tragically died in a horrible car accident to which he could not (had better not) ever be connected. Other neighbors might think Amanda left him, and he’d have to live with that embarrassment. But it beat the inevitable alternative—that she planned to leave him sometime in the near future for yet another fucking dyke.
Swimsuit magazines, fashion magazines, long hours in front of the TV watching Dancing With the Stars, all those girls in skimpy costumes. Amanda loved figure skating. Every winter. Every broadcast. Especially the female soloists.
She said she used to skate when she lived up north, said she competed in college.
Bullshit. Max knew the truth.
She liked watching them, those women.
He kicked at the black-plastic-covered body at his feet. “Not watching them now, are you, bitch.”
His athletic shoe dislodged the bag, revealing half of Amanda’s face—pale skin, wide, terrified eye, mouth agape. He’d caught her by surprise, his hands going to her neck as she sat in her favorite chair. A few soft, kneading strokes, the pretense to a massage and more, then a quick grab and a twist to the right, a wet pop. Done.
No screaming. No blood. Simple. Should have gone about it that way the first time around.
When the hole became deep enough to discourage curious scavengers, Max dumped the body, bags and all, into the opening and filled it in.
Now to fetch the seven boxes of petunias he’d purchased. Purple ones, pink ones. Amanda loved petunias, and he intended to plant a row along the property line, right across her grave.
In case anyone wondered at the disturbed dirt, the recently used shovel, the muddy shoes.
Everyone loved petunias.