Howard Leppens raised the crowbar over his head and with a whack so violent it made Louise sick to her stomach, he buried the claw end in the kitchen wall, then tugged, putting his considerable weight behind it. The ancient plaster and lath exploded outward, sending white shrapnel zinging across the room.
Louise left her husband to do the demolition work and went for a walk. She’d pick out the new cabinets, appliances and wallpaper later. She was happy the remodeling project was finally under way, but not so happy about doing dishes in the bathroom for the next three weeks. Oh well. A new kitchen would be worth the inconvenience.
She took the cell phone along to tell her best friend Julia that the work had begun in earnest. The whole kitchen remodel had been Julia’s idea. She was the realtor who sold them the house and she was Louise’s new best friend.
A half hour later, she walked back through the front door to find Howard’s sweat-soaked back to the door. He stood staring at the exposed studs in the wall where the refrigerator used to stand in front of that ugly wallpaper. Plaster dust hung in the air and coated Howard, and rubble was thick on the ancient linoleum.
“Look,” Howard said, leaning on the crowbar. Louise looked. Written on a two-by-four in white chalk, big as life, was the name Pursley. She caught her breath. “What does that mean?”
“Means he built this house is what it means,” Howard said. “They wrote his name on the shipment of lumber.”
“That doesn’t have to mean Lawrence Pursley,” Louise said. “There could have been other Pursleys.”
Howard threw down the crowbar and left the room. Louise began sweeping up, taking sidelong glances at the evil name inscribed within the walls of her home. Soon, she heard the shower. She was afraid this would put Howard off so much he’d want to sell the house. If they did that, he’d want to move back to Boston, and she wouldn’t be able to stand that. No, now that Kevin was grown, they had their final, permanent retirement home in White Pines Junction. And it was paid for, thanks to their son Kevin’s good fortune, and no thanks to Howard. So what if their dream house was built by the notorious Lawrence Pursley. That was not her fault and she would not be punished because of it. This was her new home. She had new friends. She had a new life. She would not go back to Boston. Kevin had settled here, and she would never leave Julia, the best friend she’d ever had.
~~~
Howard tossed and turned in his sleep all night, and he rolled around so violently and sighed so loudly that he made sure Louise didn’t get any sleep either. At the crack of dawn, he was up and into his work clothes. Louise, bleary-eyed, got up after him and went down to plug in the coffee pot that was currently on the screened front porch. She’d had Howard put the storm windows on before he started ripping the kitchen apart, but the November cold was not to be kept out. When she got back inside, Howard was in the kitchen again, staring at the name on the stud.
“Just paint over it,” Louise said.
“We’re moving,” he said, then put on his work boots. “I’m going to get breakfast at Margie’s.”
She watched him slam out the porch screen door, get into his truck and drive down the lane. We are not moving, she said to herself, and poured herself a cup of coffee. Then she went to the kitchen and looked at that name again. Pursley. “We are not moving,” she told it. Damn Howard and his righteous indignation based on nothing religious or moral that she’d ever seen. Howard had no particular moral code that he lived by, at least nothing he had ever exhibited to her in all their years of marriage. Howard was the first to grab a great deal, no matter who he screwed, and he justified it in a million different ways.
Howard. A master of justification, that’s what he was. And now he was trying to justify going back to Boston. Well, Louise would not leave Kevin here by himself, and she would not be bullied by her husband and his meaningless pseudo-ethics.
An hour later, Louise had drained the pot of coffee and still Howard hadn’t come home. He was probably gambling at one of those Indian casinos. Gambling away money they didn’t have. She picked up the crowbar and started prying plaster. They had to fix the kitchen anyway. Howard would change his mind about moving, once the new kitchen was in.
Demolition was kind of fun, she discovered, especially when the big hunks came loose and she could see real progress. She felt a kind of freedom in forcing the destruction.
Instead of plaster behind the pantry, the wall was plywood. Louise stuck the crowbar in the edge and pushed with all her overly caffeinated strength. The board splintered. She pried up the nails all the way around, and when it came free, she looked with amazement at what lay inside the wall. On a shelf was a small caliber pistol, a half-full bottle of whiskey, a carved wooden heart, two sealed envelopes, and three bullets lined up in a row. Two of the bullets were whole, and one was just an empty casing. Written on one sealed envelope was one word: Marcy. And on the other: Louise.
~~~
When Howard returned home, he found Louise sweat-soaked and covered with plaster dust, crowbar in her hand. One whole wall of the kitchen lay open to the studs. Where Pursley’s name had been was now a white streak of paint, and, on the stud next to it, she had painted LEPPENS.
“Good work,” he said, then pointed at their name on the stud. “But we’re going back to Boston.”
Louise took another whack at the plaster and let her anger vent there instead of where she really wanted to put it.
“I’m not going to live in a house built by a murderer,” he said.
She turned to face him. “You’ve been living in it.”
“But it’s different, now that I know.”
Louise remembered Howard’s obsession with the Pursley case. Lawrence Pursley had been charged with the murder of his wife, but no murder weapon had ever been found and, in fact, no body. No body, no crime, the jury effectively said, and let him go free. Howard had raged. Louise had privately cheered. She was always one for the underdog, and there was no evidence at all that Lawrence Pursley had murdered his wife. She wanted to see the evidence before convicting him, rock hard evidence, not mere circumstantial, innuendo-based rumor. Some knee-jerk jerks she knew were satisfied with that, but not Louise. She figured if you were going to put someone away for life, you better have solid evidence.
“You’re just looking for a reason to go back to Boston, because you miss your bookie,” she said, “and this isn’t a good enough reason. Pursley was never convicted of her murder.”
“He bragged about it,” Howard said. “He was evil. I remember the case. It happened while we were in school.”
“I remember. So?”
“So he slept in our bedroom, Louise. She may be buried under the floorboards up there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and took another whack at the wall.
“Regardless,” he said, and put a hand on her shoulder. “The movers are coming tomorrow. I found a contractor to finish the kitchen and called Julia to list the house. We’re leaving.”
“I’m not,” she said, and buried the crowbar once again in fresh plaster.
~~~
In the morning, Louise dismissed the movers when they showed up. She called Julia and told her that she and Howard had had a big fight. She’d taken him to the bus station that morning, and put him on the bus back to Boston. He’d get himself another car when he got there—she needed to keep the one they had—and that they had agreed to a trial separation before making any real decisions.
Julia sounded very practiced in her words of comfort. Realtors had seen other marriages go belly up over a remodeling project.
Two days later when the contractor arrived, there was a fresh piece of plywood on the wall where the new pantry would go. Louise had learned a few skills—the art of saw, hammer and nail being among them.
She had learned those skills by following the very specific instructions Lawrence Pursley had left in his letter to her. He must have been evil, Louise decided, or at least psychic. He knew her by name, and he knew the problem she was up against. After reading the letter at least a dozen times, she decided he was right. She’d tried it her way, and she’d tried it Howard’s way. Neither of those had worked. Maybe she should try it Lawrence Pursley’s way.
The evening of her discovery in the wall, she had showered, powdered and perfumed, took Howard to the screen porch, sat in his lap, gave him the carved heart to soften him up and a glass of the drugged whiskey to make him woozy. When the time was just perfect, she shot him in the head with one of Pursley’s two remaining bullets. Then she dragged him to the basement and laid him to rest alongside Pursley’s former wife, or what was left of her, inside the wooden casing of the old sump pump. It was a nice fit. Louise took off his clothes, opened him up, and emptied a bag of quickset cement on him. Then she re-nailed the old boards back into place. The cement would draw out his moisture and harden in place. He’d become a desiccated, petrified statue in no time, just like his very unattractive roommate. Ugh. No wonder Lawrence had murdered her.
Then, on the shelf inside the kitchen wall, she placed two empty bullet casings, one whole bullet, the whiskey bottle, the carved heart, the gun and the remaining envelope. She nailed the plywood down good.
The relief she felt was beyond amazing. She felt young, invincible, and completely at ease. She wondered why she hadn’t thought of that simple solution to all her problems before. She was going to have an amazingly simple life from now on, a life without Howard and his debts. It would be a few years before she could file for Howard’s life insurance, but all good things come to those who wait.
Julia stopped by a week later to see how the remodel was progressing. Her eyes were puffy and they had dark circles under them.
Louise, feeling like the epitome of the counseling neighbor, put the pot of coffee on and they sat in the screen porch, where the air was a little fresher, and talked while the contractor installed the kitchen cabinets.
“It’s my son,” Julia said. “He’s a drunk and a druggie and I’m afraid his wife is going to divorce him. I’d hate to lose her. She’s the daughter I never had. They live downstate, where he’s been in and out of treatment facilities. I’m thinking of having them move closer so I can keep an eye on him. Otherwise, I’m sure Marcy will leave him, disappear with my grandsons. I don’t think I could bear that.”
“Marcy?” Louise said.
Julia nodded as she dabbed her napkin at smudging mascara, then wiped at her nose, completely ignoring her coffee.
Louise felt a surge of affection for Julia, and wanted to help her grieving friend. The thought flitted through her mind that it was a well-justified offer.
She felt a flush of pleasure in the freedom of accepting that which has been preordained.
“I don’t think Howard’s coming back,” Louise said, trying to sound matter-of-fact without sounding pleased, “so I’m thinking of moving to a smaller house. Think Marcy’d like a place with a new kitchen?”