Page 135 of The Grave Artist
She was a killer. They were kindred souls. But was this a step too far? He’d have to see. Maybe he could bring up the topic tangentially. The last thing he wanted to do was alienate his newfound love.
Selina paid little attention to the preparation. “Where is Miss Spalding now?”
“Dead.” The lighting wasn’t quite right. He removed a lampshade.
Much better. Stark, which meant a perfect blending of form and substance.
“How did she—”
“I killed her.”
After he figured out what Miss Spalding had done on his wedding day, he decided she had to die too.
His bride-to-be’s death was no accident. He’d been suspicious from the start, never fully believing Felicia had slipped and banged her head on the edge of a swimming pool she swam in nearly daily and then conveniently fell into the water and drowned. The body is an amazing thing. The coughing reflex would have brought her around in seconds. Unless somebody was in the pool with her, holding her feet high.
Miss Spalding had murdered Felicia, slipping over to her house before her friends came for the hair and makeup, while Damon was at the venue.
Jealousy was the motive.
He should have known.
With a creased brow, his former governess had asked him, “Moving into a house of your own? The two of you? Without me, Little Pup? You really think you’ll be happy?”
He had ignored her deliberate use of the pet name and didn’t answer the question. He’d thought no more of it until a few days later when he was at the funeral with all the mourners. Everyone was dressed in black, except Miss Spalding, who wore her customary pale-gray outfit.
Tears had stung the backs of Damon’s eyes—another unfamiliar sensation. He reached into his breast pocket to pull out a handkerchief. With his gaze momentarily diverted from the casket being lowered into the ground, he noticed Miss Spalding standing alone.
Clearly unaware anyone was watching, the corners of her mouth lifted briefly with the ghost of a smile.
Or had the fleeting expression been a satisfied smirk?
That was the first inkling, followed quickly by certainty, as he put the pieces together. Suddenly her choice of funeral attire made sense. Miss Spalding was dressed as if this were just another ordinary day—because she was not mourning a loss. To the contrary, she seemed pleased.
Damon’s grief transmuted into cold rage as he planned his retribution. Going to the police was out of the question. With zero proof, he refused to sit through endless legal wrangling only to end up with an acquittal. Besides, the courts would never mete out the kind of justice he demanded.
Instead, he made a private vow to avenge his bride before the week was finished. He would have preferred the symmetry of doing to her what she’d done to Felicia—head trauma and drowning. But that would have been suspicious.
So, he opted for an electric dryer short in an old house without a ground-fault interrupt circuit. Electricians will tell you that 120 V will push you away from the source so it’s rare to die by electrocution that way—from a lamp or toasters. But the 240 V of a dryer or electric oven?It grabs you and doesn’t let go until the muscles, including the heart, cease all function.
And that’s how Hattie Spalding, who had murdered Felicia McNichol on Saturday, joined her in death the following Wednesday.
Four days later.
Setting in stone the pattern for his future murderous career.
Now, the cameras were ready.
As for Selina Sanchez’s prolonged death, how should Serial Killing 2.2 unfold?
Thoughts of Miss Spalding gave him the idea of electricity. He could use house current, but that risked the inconvenience of tripping the circuit breaker. Better to schlep the car battery inside and connect lamp wire to the positive and negative and go at it.
Strip her, hook the negative lead to a toe and then touch the exposed copper strands attached to the positive wherever he wished.
Delightful . . .
But the battery was so heavy ... he’d have to unbolt it. Too much work.
Any other ideas?
