Janet Anderson-Murch, author of Nothing Personal, is a member of the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance and Sisters in Crime, both nationally and in New England. In 2019, she won the Maine Crime Wave Flash Fiction contest with short story called “Never Forgotten”.
*****
Three-inch heels clacked across the marble floor as the woman dressed in Christian Dior strutted across the lobby of the Prudential building on Water Street. She was young, thin, and blonde. Everything I was not. I was a fish out of water—a chubby, middle-aged brunette with graying roots dressed in a denim jacket and running shoes. A nine-millimeter strapped under my arm. The blonde didn’t notice me tailing her as she hurried onto the elevator. “Third floor,” she said to the attendant. I ran for the stairwell.
I’m Jersey Esposito, failed housewife by day, barely employed, private investigator by night. But this was not a case. This was personal.
Diane McFarlane was my husband’s mistress. Ed only came clean after I followed them to the granite quarry and knocked on the steamed window of his F150. Like long-married couples, we didn’t need words to express our feelings.
I knew something was up in how he said goodbye, overattentive to make sure I had packed everything.
Ed communicated volumes with his jaw-dropping silence in response to a hand gesture I learned in the fourth grade. In his defense, I was supposed to be at my sister’s that weekend. I knew something was up in how he said goodbye, overattentive to make sure I had packed everything. A wife knows when something is off. A wife always knows.
When Diane drained my checking account, the real story emerged. The bimbo had stolen my identity. That was the goal. Not the illicit affair. Either way, she ruined me. The bank went good for the money. Too bad they couldn’t do the same for my marriage.
I was gulping for air when I peeked out the third-floor fire door and heard voices from behind suite number seven. The sign on the door read, ‘Jerald Chesterfield, Attorney at Law.’
Jerry Chesterfield hated me. He was awaiting trial for drug trafficking and was out, free on bail. He had lost all rights to his two sons in the process. It seems that pictures of his meetings with drug pushers were given to his soon-to-be ex-wife. In them, his sons, ages two and four, peeked out of Jerry’s BMW’s backseat. He had every right to hate me. I was the photographer.
I had no plan when Jerry’s office door swung open. Jerry held goldilocks gripped in one hand, a forty-five in the other pressed into her side. The slut was crying. I unholstered my handgun. For just a second, I thought I’d shoot them both.
“Get going, Diane. Quit the sniveling.” Jerry shoved blondie towards the elevator doors.
The elevator pinged. Time was running out. Searching the stairwell, I came up empty. I did the only thing I could think of. My wedding band flew over their heads. Their attention shifted as the gold connected to the back wall and bounced down the hall.
I was on them in three strides. Jerry turned and saw me coming, but it was too late. My gun slammed into his temple as my full weight landed against him, forcing his head onto the cold marble with a thud, knocking him out cold.
Diane’s sobs brought me round as I extricated myself from the man lying unconscious on the floor. She made her way to me.
“I’m sorry, Jersey. I’m so sorry,” Diane cried out. “It was nothing personal. He made me do it. He made me go after Ed. And you.” She reached out and laid a hand on my forearm. Her eyes were wet with tears.
“That’s assault,” shot out of my mouth as my fist broke her nose.
“Nothing personal,” I added. It was the first time in weeks I smiled.
*****
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