Murder For Revenge

The incident brought Carlotta to her emotional knees. She was unable to show her face at the high school. She missed several weeks of classes and nearly failed to graduate. Hiding at home, she became bitter and reclusive and terribly depressed. She found herself unable to trust men or much of anything. From then on, aside from her plants and the occasional Sara Lee chocolate swirl poundcake, Carlotta’s life held precious little pleasure.

But that was about to end. At long last, she knew how to beat Herb Lattimore at his own game.

Irwin Draper noticed the change immediately. When Carlotta strode into the bookkeeping office the following morning, dumpy Irwin popped his thumb from his nose like a champagne cork and frowned. “What’s up, Carlotta? You look different.”

“Why, nothing at all.”

“Oh, yes, there is. You’ve changed. I can see it. You look-I don’t know-taller somehow.”

“Is that so, Irwin? Well, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’ve grown.” Irwin had certainly not grown, she noted smugly. The man was positively potbound.

“She can’t grow, you big ni

Carlotta squinted at the brown spots on Martha’s ham-sized hands. Definite sign of root rot. “Forgive me for being blunt, Martha, but you could benefit from less moisture and a hoe.”

At their next session, Dr. Hume probed for the reasons behind her improved frame of mind. “Frankly, Carlotta, I’m surprised you’re not upset about this latest development with Herb.”

“I’ve told you, Dr. Hume. I can handle this.”

“And I’ve told you, the only way to handle it is to be rid of the Herb issue, once and for all. You need to get done with him, Carlotta. You should have been rid of this long ago.”

“I hear you, Dr. Hume, and I could not agree more.”

“Why go to this so-called retreat, then? What can you possibly hope to gain?”

Carlotta smiled. “I think the better question is, ‘What do I have to lose?’”

The next months passed with striking calm. Nothing fazed Carlotta, not even the letter from the state board stating that she would have scored several points higher on the CPA exam had she decided to stay at home.

No biggie wiggy.

Her travel arrangements proceeded apace. She lost five pounds and bought three striking new ensembles. She indulged in a complete makeover at Peoria’s Salon des Dames Frumpees. A teenager down the block agreed to plant-sit during her absence.

Carlotta was a trifle nonplussed by Mr. Detuzzi’s response to her request for extra time off around the Labour Day weekend. “Fu

Fiddle de dee.

She had far more important issues to address. Uppermost in her mind was the special offering Herb had asked her to bring along to share. Something from the heart, he’d said. Carlotta’s heart was full of things she’d love to share with Herbert Alton Lattimore IV. But one particular idea crept in and germinated. Carlotta compiled the necessary details from medical, horticultural, and culinary specialists. She consulted with the top criminal attorney in all of greater metropolitan Peoria. Everything she learned confirmed her belief that she’d hit on the perfect contribution.

Soon, Labour Day weekend was upon her. Carlotta primped and packed and bid adieu to her precious housemates. “Have a lovely weekend, my sweet Cypripedium calceolus,” she said. “Don’t cry for me, Artemisia.”

A liveried chauffeur awaited Carlotta at the arrival gate at JFK. “Greetings, Ms. Little. I’m Hathaway. Mr. Lattimore asked me to drive you to the retreat.”

He held forth a nosegay of sweetheart roses and baby’s breath. “These are for you, ma’am. Compliments of Mr. Lattimore.”

Carlotta recoiled in horror. “Murdered in their infancy, no less. Is there no depth to which that creature will not sink?”

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“I most certainly will not,” Carlotta huffed.

Herb’s house was an imposing Tudor in the ultra-rich Old Canterbury section of town. Years ago, Carlotta would have been humbled by the opulent surroundings, but now she stood apart from such frivolities. Above them.

The Southside High School class of seventy-two elite was assembled among the priceless antiques in the living room. Julia and Apulia Venable, the cheerleading twins, looked terminally perky as ever. Wendy Whitley, prom queen emeritus, stood beside bull-necked Chip Savage, football captain turned shopping mall mogul. Googie Nathanson, sporting two extra chins and a mail-sack belly, stood puffing a fat Cuban cigar. There was pretty Pinky Goldhaven, willowy Raquel Morgenstern, pompous Myron Peltz, and-

“Hey, boys and girls, look who’s here,” Herb bellowed from across the room. “Carlotta, baby. Great to see you. Come give your old pal Chervil a great big smooch.”

Carlotta stared him down. “So sorry to hear of all your troubles, Herb. I do hope you’re feeling better than you look.” For a specimen hybrid raised in prime hothouse conditions, he was in frightful shape.

Pinky Goldhaven tittered behind her palm. Googie Nathanson gesticulated with his stogie, spewing ash. “Have to say she got you that time, Herb. Looks like Carlotta’s grown herself a backbone.”

Herb sniffed. “Hey, I’m terrified. Really.” He loped over, ferrying a full champagne flute, and draped his free arm across Carlotta’s shoulders. “I’ve got a confession to make, kiddo. All that boo-hoo stuff in the letter I wrote was made up. I just wanted to be sure you’d come to our little reunion. Wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without you.”

“How resourceful, Herb. You wished me here, and here I am.”

Herb eyed her quizzically. “You’re not mad?”

“Certainly not. Why? Do I appear to be?”

“Hell, no. You appear to be zoned out. What are you on? Valium? ‘Ludes?”

“It’s called i

“You? Yeah, right.” Pretending to stumble, Herb slopped his bubbly all over Carlotta’s cream silk dress. “Oops. Hey, let me help you with that.” He ducked into the kitchen and returned with a filthy sponge. Muddy blotches bloomed as he dabbed the wet spots. “Oh, my. Look what an awful mess. Not miffed, are you, O unflappable one?”

“About a little soil and moisture? Heavens no.” Carlotta turned her back on him. “How are you, Pinky? Julia and Apulia, so lovely to see you girls again.”

For the next three hours, Herb exhausted himself trying to light Carlotta’s fuse. He served her Campari and soda in a dribble glass. He assailed her with shocks and rude noises and plastic vermin. When she needed to use the rest room, he directed her to a toilet rigged to back up with a menacing gurgle, then overflow in a rush of vile debris.

Slogging forth, Carlotta found Herb waiting in the hall. With a look of revulsion, he sniffed the air. “Nice aroma, honey. What’s that you’re wearing? Eau de Poop?’”

“I can’t say what it is, actually. But I’m so pleased you find it agreeable.”

“Anything’s better than the way you usually stink, Carlotta. Reminds me of that puke they used to serve Thursdays in middle school.”

“How lovely that I bring back fond memories for you, Herb. Childhood was such a happy, carefree time, as I recall.”

“Yeah? Then I bet you’re going to love the little surprise I’ve pla

Carlotta checked the chair for booby traps and sat.

Holding his fist like a microphone, Herb boomed. “Our pest-I mean, guest-of honour has provided us all with so many laughs, I thought it only fitting that we offer her a special tribute tonight. Come with me now on this amusing jaunt down memory lane. Carlotta Little, this is your life.”