Murder For Revenge

Carlotta had to get out. And this time, she was fully prepared to do so. She had enrolled in the Becker review course and studied several hours every day. To silence her strident i

Carlotta found her reading glasses on the desk beside a sepia wedding portrait of her parents, Rose and Sam. She cast a wistful glance at the young, loving pair. If only they were alive to see her now. For once, they would have reason to be proud of their only offspring. So what if she’d inherited her father’s lacklustre face and fireplug physique? Fiddle de dee that she tended to be a teensy bit high strung and hypersensitive like her mother. No biggie wiggy that she’d never married or had children or distinguished herself in any particular way. Carlotta Little was about to grab the gold ring, hit the heights, soar to the pi

She slashed the envelope and plucked out the lone vellum sheet. “My dearest Carlotta,” the letter began. “I’m writing in the heartfelt hope that you can find some way to forgive me. No words can express how deeply sorry I am for the pain and distress I’ve surely caused you. These past few years cruel fate has forced me to reappraise my life and recognise what is truly important. Having known the agony of loss, I’ve come to treasure precious people such as you who have touched my life.”

As she read, Carlotta’s sod-coloured eyes filled with tears. Herb’s two-year-old son, conceived after years of excruciating infertility treatments, had drowned in the family pool during a valiant attempt to rescue his beloved Barney. The child’s na

Herb’s wife, suicidal over the tragedy, had been committed to the Happy Hollows Sanatorium. Several months later, Giselle had appeared so improved, her doctor allowed her out on a day pass. She lunched with a friend, went shopping at Loehma

Carlotta shook her head in rueful empathy. Loehma

Herb’s horrendous misfortune did not stop there. His house had burned down, taking with it all precious mementos of his beloved wife and son. His family business, the venerable Lattimore Fidelity Fund, tottered at the brink of ruin following several years of lacklustre performance. In a desperate effort to save the firm, Herb had taken a huge position in the EasySlim Corporation, manufacturers of a caplet designed to liquefy body fat, so it could be redistributed from, say, thighs to breasts. Unfortunately, the FDA had ba

Herb was undone. He developed psoriasis, a cranky colon, and a powerful thirst. In short order, he found himself addicted to cortisone creams, anti-inflammatory pills, Jell-O brand pudding pops, and Jack Daniel’s. Several months ago, he’d hit bottom and enrolled in a twelve-step program.

“It’s difficult for me to believe that more than a year has passed since I buried my beautiful Giselle,” Herb wrote. “I find myself mired in grief, unable to see past the dark clouds that engulf me. Still, my twelve-step sponsor insists that Giselle and little Herb would have wanted me to carry on, which I suppose is true.

“In that spirit, I’ve decided to invite a few special friends for a contemplative, healing retreat this coming Labour Day weekend. I’m asking everyone to bring one special thing to share. It could be a memory, a private thought, a poem-something from the heart.

“Please say you’ll join us, Carlotta. Grant me this priceless opportunity to express my true feelings for you.

“Yours as ever, Chervil (Herb) Lattimore”

Carlotta’s thoughts raced like a gerbil on a wheel. Why should she do anything for Herb Lattimore after all he’d put her through? How could she not after all he’d been through himself? Yes, no? Stay, go? She placed an emergency call to Dr. Hume at the Institute, but the psychiatrist was out of town for the weekend, and could not be reached. Dr. Romanowitz was covering, the receptionist said, but Carlotta declined to speak with him. It would take months to bring a new shrink up to speed.

Carlotta struggled to evict the matter from her mind, but she was unable to focus on anything else, including her studies. Lately, her practice test scores had been ranging in the high eighties to low nineties, but today, she managed a dismal forty-six on the dreaded Auditing section. The exercises she’d learned from Dr. Hume failed to silence the chorus of self-doubts singing in her head. You shall not overcome, Carlotta. You are plain and dumb, Carlotta. Your time hasn’t come-no wa-a-a-a-ay!

The only brief distraction Carlotta found was with her plants. After di

After her parents died, Carlotta had purchased a couple of plants to ease the gloom. To her delight, she found she had a natural flair for growing things. As her interest bloomed, she subscribed to gardening journals and joined horticultural societies. Soon, the house was awash with greenery and her mailbox brimmed with catalogues and correspondence from plant pals around the globe.

Even rare, exotic foliage flourished in Carlotta’s care. Her reputation grew, and collectors began entrusting her with valuable seeds and hybrids. Her approach was simple. Plants, like people, thrived on consideration and respect. Carlotta took pains to learn each specimen’s proper name and personal preferences. Every one was treated as a dear friend and honoured guest in her home.

“Good afternoon, my darling Phalaenopsis” she crooned. “Tsk, tsk. Look at those overcrowded roots. Time to move to larger quarters, isn’t it, my sweet little Eupatorium rugosutri’.”

Carlotta’s plants could count on thoughtful, consistent care. No gimmicks; no games. From firsthand experience, she knew how damaging games could be and how they tended to grow out of hand. Herb had begun by joking about his name, and people were amused. Somehow, he’d concluded it was fine to make fun of others, to pervert their good names, impugn their characters, subject them to soul-numbing, gut-wrenching, life-altering humiliations.

Carlotta flushed hot, recalling her first day as a second grader at the Wilson School. She was the new kid in Rockville Centre, having moved at midyear from the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. When a little boy approached her during morning recess, Carlotta was overjoyed. His name was Basil, he said, and he wanted to be her friend. First, he needed to use the lavatory. Then, he would save a seat for Carlotta in the lunchroom.

Standing on the cafeteria line, Carlotta could barely contain her excitement. She was going to be accepted in this terrifying new place. She would make lots of friends, perhaps achieve the holy grail of popularity. All was well.

After heaping her tray with macaroni and cheese and ambrosia salad and khaki-coloured green beans and subsidised milk, Carlotta spotted Basil at a table in the rear. As promised, the seat beside him was empty. Carlotta hastened across the room, deposited her tray on the table, and sat.

She would never forget what happened next. She was steeped like a tea bag in warm, fetid slop. Carlotta shrieked and jumped from the chair, drawing all eyes. The mess ran down her legs, soaked her socks, and puddled in her shoes. The teacher in charge, loudmouth Mrs. Fargnioli, rushed over to investigate. “This little girl peed in her pants,” she bellowed at the top of her pipe-organ lungs. “Call her parents. Call the office. Get a mop!”