The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [1]
“How charming,” Charlotte replied. “Pun intended, of course.” Blowing on her tea, she’d cringed at the French words “Tour Eiffel.” It was so affected, like when people raved about “Habana” or “Barthelona.” The sharp cramp in her abdomen forced her to take a deep breath. Was it the girl’s smug, vacuous smile? Or the way she kept flashing her grotesquely oversized canary yellow diamond ring?
“The problem is, my husband doesn’t really appreciate its sentimental value. And I’d rather not have it in the house as a reminder, you know?”
“Well, you must love him very much,” Charlotte said, feeling queasy. “And where is your husband now?”
For the next twenty minutes, Charlotte listened to her recite the guy’s whole resume, including his nine million dollar Christmas bonus, while also sniveling on about how long he’d been gone (five days) and how “awesomely happy” they were as a couple.
What is this sob story about missing husbands? Charlotte wondered. He isn’t Daniel Pearl, for Christ’s sake. He’s some ancient I-banker screwing interns on a business trip. The more the girl whined and the more she fiddled with her enormous ring, the more angry Charlotte became. Her teeth chattered. She shivered. People always talk about the heat of anger. For Charlotte, it was the cold. She was so cold. She even looked to see if her own skin had stuck to the fire poker before rolling it back up in her bright yellow yoga mat.
Much like her encounter with the divorcee months earlier—a woman unloading a case of vintage Dom—a couple of heavy blows to the head from behind was all it took to send the girl whimpering to the floor. After eight years of Pilates, Charlotte was pretty pumped. She’d hit her so hard the first time, the poker had vibrated in her hand. She’d had to tighten her grip. It was weird, the way the girl seemed to drift down, lazily, like leaves falling from a tree, into a sitting position on the floor.
But the mechanics of killing bored Charlotte. It was the small, seemingly insignificant details that moved her. They were so preternaturally vivid: the dribble of bright red seeping into a blond sisal carpet, the darker splatter, the smears, on a shiny chartreuse chintz pillow, the pale pink sugary residue in the bottom of the teacup that matched the color of the girl’s nails. It was surreal, this saturation of color. Like being trapped in the frames of an Almodovar movie. This vividness was precisely what Charlotte enjoyed most about these moments. It made her feel so acutely, so exquisitely, alive.
Being a bit of a neat freak helped a lot with the tidying up after. The swiping of surfaces with her Handi Wipes, the change of exercise leggings, the removal of the bracelet and the cup. (The cup would make a lovely new addition to her collection of mismatched quality china.) By the time Charlotte had completed these rituals, her cramps had gone, and the girl’s bleating cries had finally stopped.
It wasn’t until she got home that she noticed the blood on the collar of her cream silk shirt. “God damn it!” she said, furiously scrubbing away at the stain and leaving it to soak in the kitchen sink. She also washed her yoga mat in the laundry area and polished the poker (a filthy job) before replacing it next to the fireplace. The scalding hot rainforest shower had never felt so good.
Unlike her mother’s spartan, functional bathrooms, Charlotte believed in the “sanctuary” concept. So what if people laughed at her silver-leaf tiles, the fuchsia pink egg-shaped tub, and her $15,000 Toto toilet? Nobody knew about clean like the Japanese. It was a cultural obsession, wasn’t it? And there was something so soothing about the toilet’s water wand, the warm air dryer, the heated seat.
“Jesus! It does everything but kiss your ass!” one of her clients’ husbands had exclaimed, after she’d installed three Totos in their brownstone.
At fifteen grand a pop, she wasn’t surprised to see that another had somehow “fallen off the truck” and