Consciousness of Guilt
written by: Richard Bishop
Charles opened the door to find her standing on his front step, flashing a grin.
The first thought that bounced around his balding cranium was Oh crap!
The second thing that occupied his confused noodle was the memory of the last time he’d seen Mary-Elizabeth Webster. She lay on the living room floor of her apartment, blue eyes open, face frozen in shock. Her appearance marred by the thirty-two caliber bullet hole in her forehead Charles had placed there.
The speech center of his brain kicked into gear. “Didn’t I kill you yesterday?”
Mary-Elizabeth’s face, minus the bullet hole, broke into the award-winning smile she was known for. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
Charles, his brain still addled, and his confidence somewhat shaken, stepped back from the door and squeaked, “Sure, come in.”
She strolled past him into the living room and sat in his recliner. “Nice place for a killer. Did you decorate it yourself?”
Charles shut the front door, grateful to have something to do, and comforted by the reassuring weight of the Sig-Sauer 9mm in his pocket. He retreated into his living room, unsure whether to engage his guest in conversation or shoot her. As shooting didn’t take the first time, he opted for talk. “Are you …?”
“Dead.” Mary-Elizabeth filled in the rest of his sentence.
He nodded.
“Very.”
Charles’ spine felt like someone had dipped it in ice water. None of his previous assignments had returned to talk to him. “Are you here to exact revenge?”
Mary-Elizabeth, still smiling, shook her head. “No, silly.”
“Are you here to haunt me?”
What Charles really wanted to know was about Heaven, which meant there was a Hell, but was too afraid to ask.
“Do you have any coffee? I’m dying for a cup.”
Charles, totally baffled, shuffled towards his kitchen and threw a pod into his Keurig. “Hazelnut okay?”
“Fine, thanks.”
In the two minutes it took the coffee to brew, Charles scrambled for a way out of his predicament. He poured the coffee into a mug that had a photo of his late cat, Bruno, on it. “I don’t have any cream or sugar.”
“Black is fine.”
She took the mug from his shaking hands and inhaled the rich aroma. After a tentative sip, she said, “Delicious, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Mary-Elizabeth laid the mug on the glass coffee table beside her chair. “No doubt you’re wondering why I’m here?”
Charles nodded and fondled the Sig.
“Before I go up there.” She gestured towards the ceiling with her eyes. “There are some things I want to know.”
“Like what?”
“For instance, who paid you to shoot me?”
Charles never spoke about his clients, but in this case, what harm would it do? Who was she going to tell? It might get rid of her. “John Thompson.”
“My boss?”
“Yup. He thought you might tell his wife about your affair.”
“I would never do that. One last question.”
“Sure, why not?”
“What was my life worth?”
“Five grand.”
Mary-Elizabeth frowned for the first time. “That’s all.”
“It’s been a slow year.”
Mary-Elizabeth stood. “Well, my time is up, and I have to go.”
She marched out the front door, leaving a puzzled Charles in her wake. He expected her to float up through the ceiling or some other ghostly means of departure.
As she turned the corner, two large men in rumpled, cheap suits approached her. The taller of the two asked, “Did you get it?”
Mary-Elizabeth’s twin sister, Mary-Ellen, removed a small tape recorder from her pocket and handed it to the detective. She continued down the street, passing a SWAT team bailing out of a black van, and surrounding the house she’d just left.
As she strolled towards her car, the sound of gunfire reached her ears, and a smile spread across Mary-Ellen’s face.
Gotcha.
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