Drink Up, Dear

The warm, inviting smell of caramel coffee can’t cut through the tension in the Rapp’s kitchen.

“Is it too much to expect you home at a reasonable hour to cook dinner?” Randall asks.

“What are you, six? There’s plenty of cookbooks around,” Rosemary retorts. “For the hundredth time, our company has interests in Europe, Japan, and Australia. When our clients want a business call at midnight, we have to be available.”

Randall seethes, spitting out, “You and Lavar Dowd.”

Things weren’t always so contentious between Randall and Rosemary.

They met when they literally ran into one another at a skating rink, and their whirlwind courtship culminated in marriage fourteen months ago. Twenty-six-year-old Rosemary is Chief Technology Officer for Gigabytes, Inc. Pleasant, erudite, and knowledgeable with freckles and a figure resembling a hydrant, Rosemary hardly seems like the type who would attract an insanely handsome, self-assured, broad-shouldered rake. Thirty-seven-year-old Randall calls himself a musician, although his collection of guitars has been gathering dust in the basement, and he hasn’t played a gig in months.

Randall pours Rosemary a cup of coffee. Adding in the caramel, he frantically stirs the concoction, as if he’s hoping the workout will quell his anger.

“I know you’ve been stepping out on me with that little dweeb, Dowd. You go to lunch and dinner with him almost every day.”

“Of course I do. He’s the boss!”

Randall practically slams the cup down in front of Rosemary.

“You’ve been in his house more often than this one.”

“Can you really blame me? I can accomplish something there. Here, all I get is criticism, jealousy, and threats.”

“You’d better start toeing the line…”

“Me? I make $200,000 a year. You’re lucky to make $200 a week. I’ve bought you enough guitars for you to open your own store, yet I’ve never seen you even pick one up to practice.”

She breathes in the coffee’s sweet aroma.

“…Mmm…”

“Drink up, dear.”

Rosemary takes a sip, grimacing.

“And another thing… The coffee… Yuck. It’s not that hard to make caramel coffee, Randall. Why is yours always so bitter?”

“I guess I can’t do anything right, not as good as Dowd. How’s his coffee taste?”

“Sweet… Oh, so sweet,” Rosemary replies.

***

Celia Seale shuts her car door, exhaling heavily. She can hear her daughter and her husband fighting from the driveway a hundred feet away.

She looks over at their neighbors, the Whimmers, who are busy weeding their garden.

The couple looks up. Their dour expressions make them look like the bleak-looking couple in Grant Wood’s “American Gothic.” Betty Whimmer pokes her husband, who smiles placidly at Celia.

“Sorry for the noise,” Celia offers.

“Counseling,” Betty replies. “It did wonders for us. Right, dear?”

Boylan Whimmer offers another weak smile.

Forty-eight-year-old Celia raised her only child alone after her husband decided to adopt the get-rich-quick transient lifestyle associated with working on oil rigs. A slender, brunette farm girl from Iowa, who was once pretty enough to win the Miss Buttermilk contest, life’s cruelties have left her wearing an ever-present scowl. She sees Rosemary heading for the same fate.

The shouting ends when Celia rings the doorbell.

Rosemary lets her in.

“He’s so lazy he can’t even answer the door?” Celia asks.

“I heard that,” Randall says.

“Good! Now hear this, you loafer. I’m tired of coming over here to referee your arguments. What kind of man relies on his wife to support him? Don’t you love her? Don’t you have any pride?”

“Brian Wilson said I have talent.”

“Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys played piano in a sandbox and didn’t leave the house for ten years. And P.S., he’s dead.”

Rosemary glances at the clock above the stove.

“I’m late. We’ve got a conference call with our reps in Japan in half an hour.”

Randall protests. “What is this, tag team ridicule? You leave, and your mama takes over?”

Rosemary picks her laptop and pocketbook up from the kitchen table, kissing Celia on the cheek. “See if you can get clueless to realize the trouble we’re in.”

Randall and Celia stare daggers at each other.

“Coffee?” he asks.

“Sure. It smells good.”

“She’s cheating on me with her boss, Celia,” he says, pouring her a cup.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Have you seen that little twerp? He looks like a troll. Sure, Lavar Dowd is smarter, richer, and more important than you, but you’ve got your looks.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

Celia sighs heavily. “I warned her. I told Rosemary you were a self-centered, money-hungry gigolo, but she wouldn’t listen. Maybe it’s my fault that she fell so hard for a mooch. She didn’t have enough boyfriends growing up to know any better.”

She takes a few sips from her coffee.

“It’s strong.”

“It’s the caffeine,” Randall offers. “It takes some getting used to.”

“Kind of bitter, too. Caramel is supposed to be sweet. How in the world did you screw up a cup of coffee? I know what your endgame is, Randy. You intend to work my girl like a mule, while you party and line up your next victim.”

“That’s not true. I love Rosemary.”

“The only person you love is you.” Celia scoffs. “When the divorce comes, you’ll take half of everything and live the life of Riley for a few years. I don’t want to see my little girl get hurt. So, I’ll make a deal with you. You end this marriage right now, and I’ll give you $100,000. Think about it. I’m going to visit my sister in Modesto for a few days. I want good news when I come back.”

Celia pours the coffee into the sink.

“Think about it. And go to YouTube and learn how to make a decent cup of coffee.”

***

A few hours later, Celia calls Rosemary on her cell phone.

“Got a minute? How did the conference call go?”

“Great. We’re doubling our production in Japan.”

“…I know you don’t like it when I get between you and Randy…”

“What did you do, mama?”

“I played Don Corleone and made him an offer he can’t refuse.”

Rosemary hiccups.

“Are you all right, dear?”

“Fine. I can still taste that nasty cup of caramel coffee Randall made me. My stomach is killing me.”

“Mine too. Speaking of which, I’ve had a belly full of you supporting that bum. You need to get divorced before he gets violent.”

“Thank you, mama. I love you.”

***

Randall checks his watch. Whistling at Morganna Martin, the bartender, he orders another scotch.

“You’ve been here all afternoon, Randy,” Morganna notes. “Don’t you have a home?”

“Are you saying you don’t want my business, gorgeous?”

“I would if you actually bought a drink or paid your tab.”

“You just wait. Pretty soon, I’m going to have enough cash for you and me to go on our honeymoon to Cabo.”

“Your wife might object.”

“What wife? Listen to this…”

Randall dials his home phone. It eventually switches over to the answering machine.

“See? Eight o’clock at night, and that little mutant still isn’t home.”

Randall tries again two hours later, cursing when he gets no answer.

“Go home and check on her. Better yet, just go home,” Morganna says.

“I’ll get the Whimmers to look in on her. They love watching our melodrama. Now they can be part of it.”

Randall calls Boylan Whimmer, telling him the spare key is under the flowerpot next to the door.

***

Betty Whimmer opens the Rapp’s front door. “He’s such a bad husband that he can’t face her when he’s drunk.”

“Let’s just get in and get out, dear.”

Betty gasps. Rosemary is lying face up at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes are wide open. Her hands are clutching her stomach, and a white froth is issuing from her mouth.

“I think she’s…”

“As a doornail,” Boylan concludes.

“What’s that smell?” Betty asks.

“Smells like caramel.”

***

Zion Logue, the County Coroner, is the last to arrive on the scene. Always smartly dressed in tailored suits and shiny shoes whose sheen matches his bald head, the bony, fifty-eight-year-old Zion is usually the picture of poise. Tonight, he arrives at the scene huffing and puffing.

Detective Taren Thompson greets him. A fifteen-year veteran of the Millwood police force, Taren is blessed with an intensely melodic basso voice and the appearance and airs of a distinguished gentleman. He prides himself on always being right when assessing a crime.

“Sorry I’m late,” Zion says. “I was at a charity ball with the mayor…”

“Say no more. I spoke with the couple who found her. Based on what they told me, it sounds like she had a heart attack.”

Zion is surprised to see Randall wailing uncontrollably as he holds his wife’s body, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief.

“He shouldn’t be doing that. He’s contaminating the scene.”

Zion’s phone rings. He answers it, listening intently.

“…A pair of murders on the east side. A couple was found trussed up and shot execution style in the back of a store. They want me there yesterday.”

Taren’s phone rings. “Me too, apparently.”

Zion approaches Rosemary’s body.

“I need you to let go of her, sir, so that I can examine her.”

“No! No! She was the love of my life!”

Taren pulls Randall away.

“She had a heart attack,” Randall sobs. “She had a weak heart.”

Zion’s phone rings.

“There’s been another murder. All right, based on my observations and her husband’s knowledge of her medical history, I’ll certify she died from heart failure.”

***

Celia returns home, exhausted from Rosemary’s celebration of life service, not surprised, but grateful that Randall didn’t attend. She hasn’t spoken to Randall for weeks, since she left him a message condemning him for having Rosemary cremated before she could return from California.

She falls into a deep sleep, muttering her daughter’s name.

“…Mama…”

Rosemary’s voice wakes her. The sweet smell of caramel coffee fills the room.

A fluttering, translucent image hovers at the end of her bed.

Rosemary whispers, “…Murder… Murder…”

***

“I called Rosemary all day. I finally called her neighbor, Betty Whimmer, and she told me that Rosemary had died the night before from a heart attack,” Celia says.

“I was there. Randall Rapp struck me as a man in shock,” Taren replies. “He was devastated that a woman so young could suddenly die. But he said your daughter had a weak heart…”

“He’s a liar. Rosemary didn’t have heart problems. She was as healthy as a horse.”

“Some people handle grief by saying goodbye to a loved one as quickly as possible.”

“First off, he didn’t love her,” Celia says. “They were headed for a divorce. In fact, I’d offered him a sizable amount of money to leave her. He never bothered to call me to tell me my daughter was dead. Even the most heartbroken husband on earth would remember to do that. Then he has her cremated before I can get home to see her. Those aren’t the actions of a grieving husband; those are the deeds of a criminal. You want to know what kind of man he really is? He’s trying to collect on a $250,000 life insurance policy he took out on her. He’s also talked to her lawyer about taking over her stock portfolio. Rosemary hasn’t been gone for two weeks, and he’s already put her house on the market. I tell you, he murdered her.”

“You said you had proof,” Taren says.

“My daughter came to me in a dream. She said, ‘Murder,’ repeating it over and over.”

“Are you saying your daughter’s ghost accused Randall of murdering her?”

“He’s the only lowlife who could have done it.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Seale, but you have to know how preposterous that sounds.”

“It’s Miss, and my daughter wouldn’t make that kind of accusation if it weren’t true.”

“I can’t go to a judge with this story. He’ll laugh me out of court.”

“A con man like Randy, whose only loves are money and himself, is bound to have murdered before. Find another victim. I bet I’m right. Please, Rosemary deserves to be at rest.”

Lorelei Rapp crosses her legs, leaning back on her plush sofa. The attractive brunette’s gray-eyed, no-nonsense stare drills into Taren.

“You must have something solid on Randy to come all the way to Florida from New York to talk to me.”

“Let’s just say, your ex-husband is a person of interest. What kind of man is he?”

“Everybody’s entitled to a mistake. Mine was falling in love with a tone-deaf guitarist. But he was cute and, at first, charming. Maybe I should have gone for the singer. He liked that I had a good-paying job. That way, he could hang out in bars with his band buddies while I paid his way. About a year after we were married, he started hassling me about getting life insurance. There was a part of me that thought I’d be dead if I did. I told him we were through if he didn’t start acting more like the man I married. He started by helping more around the house, or trying to. The man was a disaster in the kitchen, totally incompetent. He tried making caramel coffee. It was so bitter that I threw it out. I’m a runner, so he made me protein shakes. Not long after, I got violently ill and wound up in the hospital.”

“Do you think he doctored your shakes?” Taren asked.

“I didn’t want to believe it at first. No one could be that cold, that maniacal. Then I came home from the hospital, had a shake, and got sick again. So, I started making my own shakes, and I was fine. That’s when the alarm in my head went off at peak volume. I accused him of trying to poison me. He took a few swings at me, and I swung back. I called the police and had him removed. After our divorce, he changed his name to Randy Warhol because he thought it sounded cool. I heard he hooked up with some groupie and moved to Utah. Soon after, he was back to being plain old Randy Rapp. I bet the relationship with the groupie didn’t last either.”

“It didn’t. He got married a third time. That’s why I’m here. I think his third wife died under mysterious circumstances.”

“There’s no mystery to it. That sleazebag murdered her.”

***

“So, the great Detective Taren Thompson admits he may have made a mistake.”

“You didn’t exactly cover yourself with glory by releasing the body so quickly, Zion.”

“Rapp said she had to be cremated right away, citing his religious beliefs.”

“Randall Rapp’s not Jewish.”

“I was thinking there might be something fishy going on that night, but the world was spinning. When I examined her, I was wanted in three places at once. I did it too quickly,” Zion admits. “I thought it was odd that Rapp kept wiping her face. He smelled like a distillery, but for a brief moment, I thought I smelled something different, something sweet.”

“…Like caramel coffee…”

“Right. But we obviously can’t do a thorough autopsy.”

“No, not on Rosemary. But Randall’s been married three times. I located his first wife in Sarasota, Florida. She didn’t paint a pretty picture of her abusive husband.”

“And contestant number two?”

“Dead. Sunshine McDuffie drowned in her backyard pool in Spotsylvania, Virginia, less than a year after they were married. Funny thing, she was an expert swimmer. And Randall benefited from a $300,000 life insurance policy he’d taken out on her. Sunshine’s mother swore Randall murdered her.”

“You get the court order,” Zion says. “I’ll call my colleagues in Virginia and have Ms. McDuffie exhumed. Sunshine will rise again.”

***

A week later, Zion summons Taren to his office.

Red-faced, Zion hands him the report on Sunshine McDuffie’s remains.

“Maladrine?”

“A rare poison. Small doses will destroy the stomach lining and intestines,” Zion replies. “A large dose can linger in the body and stop the heart hours after it’s ingested. Sunshine McDuffie probably felt pretty sick when she took a swim. The maladrine stopped her heart, and her lungs filled with water, giving the impression that she drowned. As for Rosemary Rapp, she probably ignored the stomachache she had, went to work, came home, and keeled over. An overdose of maladrine leaves behind a sweet scent, which would account for the sugary smell I briefly detected.”

“And it could easily have been mixed in with her morning coffee. I’m going to love putting this creep in handcuffs.”

***

Randall kisses Rosemary’s life insurance check.

Looking around the barren house, he says, “All I have to do now is finish packing, get on the plane tomorrow, and it’s goodbye New York, and it’s hello, Turks and Caicos and the easy life…Time for a real cup of coffee, Irish style.”

Randall ventures into the living room, which is packed with boxes. Opening one of the small boxes, he pulls out a bottle of whiskey.

He doesn’t see the misty white cloud coalesce in the kitchen.

Rosemary’s spirit hovers over the coffeemaker.

Randall enters the kitchen. Pouring a cup of coffee, he adds a generous amount of whiskey.

He takes a few gulps, laughing greedily.

He freezes when Rosemary’s apparition drifts into view.

“…Drink up, Randall…”