Charmaine Morris

The ink on Simon's insurance policy was barely dry when a detective arrived at Michelle's house to tell her Simon was dead.

Instantly, Michelle calculated she would get five million dollars from the policy. Five million dollars! But then she remembered that the man - Detective Omar Duncan, he said his name was - would expect a very different reaction. After all, he'd come with the news that her husband had been shot on the corner of some road in a neighbourhood he had no business being in. Except, she knew Simon, and to her, him being there was no more news than the time she caught him in the bed with a 16-year-old.

'Oh my God! No! He can't be dead!' The tears came easy enough. Years of pent-up anger and rage poured forth, as refreshing a face bath as it was convincing. Her hand shook enough for her to find it difficult to insert the key into the grille lock. The detective obliged. He murmured words of comfort which Michelle didn't hear, for she was considering how long she would have to wait before she could cash in the policy.

She led the detective to the sitting room where she dropped herself in the nearest chair, instantly regretting the action for the spring poked her bottom. 'W-what happened?' She asked, emphasising the quiver in her voice. She wiped her eyes and sniffed hard.

'We're not sure yet. His body was found by a passing motorist just after five this morning.' It was eight o'clock; Michelle quickly calculated it'd taken him three hours to come to her gate. She pictured them not immediately recognising Simon because he'd let himself go these past few years.

'I would rather not be doing this, Mrs. Milner, but it's important that we find out all we can in as short a space of time as possible - you understand?'

She nodded.

'Do you know what he was doing in that area at that time of the morning?'

She shook her head but suggested Simon might have taken a shortcut. They both knew this to be nonsense. Simon's habits and exploits were well-known secrets. 'Was he robbed?'

'Apparently. We couldn't find his wallet, hence the time it took us to get to you.' 'Simon ... Mr. Milner is ... a little different from what many remember.'

Michelle said people changed but the public rarely noticed until you dropped out of sight for a time. The detective agreed. He said they would do their best to get whoever had done this terrible thing. 'Maybe you should call someone?' Detective Duncan slid forward. 'Family ... a friend?'

'No ... no. I'll be all right.' Michelle wouldn't tell this stranger that the last time she spoke to her family was the night of her wedding. She'd parted ways with the whole lot of them, bundling them on a bus back to the country after a rather steamy argument involving money and the fact that her mother wanted to come live with her. But after escaping her mother's over-crowded, dilapidated house on a farm where nothing grew except cow grass and love vine, and she and Simon struggling till they made it to a house with 12 bedrooms, Michelle had no intention of letting her family drag her back to that.

'There's no one,' she said, and rose.

Detective Duncan reached into his pocket and withdrew a card which he handed to her. It had his division, name and number on it. Black script on a white background. Clean and neat. Easy to read. Impressive.

Michelle examined it, then him. He was much younger than she thought. He was clean-shaven, with a tapered nose and beautiful eyes with thick lashes. His lips were slim and he had a slight dimple in the middle of his chin. His suit was of cheap fabric but well-made. The hand with which he shook hers was soft except for a small callus. He had long fingers. Clean nails. Shiny shoes.

'Believe me, Mrs. Milner. I'm probably your husband's biggest fan. They don't make them like that anymore.'

Michelle didn't know what to say or do: to smile or not to smile. She remained distraught.

Detective Duncan continued. 'I do mean it when I say that we, no, I will find out who did this.' The muscles pulled across his face and sharpened his cheekbones. 'If you ever need anything, day or night, just call.'

Michelle determined then that she would have to be careful of Detective Omar Duncan.

During the drive to identify Simon's body, Detective Duncan and his partner - a scruffy older-looking, overweight detective named Williams - tried to prepare her for the horror of viewing her husband's body. They cautioned that Mr. Milner would not be what she remembered when last she saw him. She hoped not, for the image of him pointing his gun at her head and screaming about how she'd kept him back all these years was one she would rather forget. Hold a minute .... could Simon have killed himself? No, they would have found his gun unless some criminal happened by and took it. How ironic would that be? But if he did kill himself, would it affect the insurance settlement? These thoughts and more were floating around Michelle's head as the detectives babbled on about her preparing for the shock and that she should have brought someone.

Michelle fainted when she saw Simon. She came to in the back of the squad car with Detective William's shoe over her nose. The smell roused her but was ghastly enough to shock her. She slapped it away. Williams said she fell flat and had to be carried to the car. The people outside thought she was dead. It caused quite a commotion, he said.

'I want to go home.'

'You still have to identify the dead body.'

She thought Detective Williams had been raised by mongrels, for how uncouth he was! 'Are you mad? I'm not going through that again.'

'There's no need, Mrs. Milner. Just sign this.' Detective Duncan produced a clipboard with a form.

Michelle had never seen anyone more dead than how Simon was. She recognised the face as his, but it was the hole in the side of his head which sent her in a tailspin. Her stomach bubbled and she clamped her hand across her mouth.

'Better get out the car if you going be sick,' Williams said, stepping back as if she was infectious.

Detective Duncan slid his hand behind her head and bent her forward, head between knees. 'Deep breaths ... death breaths,' he said until she no longer felt ill. His fingers moved on her scalp in circular motions, caressing the tender spot at the back of her head. She wondered if he could feel the scar, but didn't really care. His touch was heavenly and she felt she could go to sleep right there with her head between her legs and him standing before her in the open doorway of the car. It didn't matter that she could sense everyone watching them.

Later, when they dropped her off at the house, Detective Duncan walked her to the grille. He took the keys. Opened the lock. Stepped back for her enter, relocking the grille when she did. She felt special, like she'd been on a date and was being seen safely to her door. It would have been nice, except Detective Williams was staring at them.

'What happens now?'

'The body will be released to the funeral home today, so you can make plans for the service.'

Michelle hadn't thought about a service or a burial. She thought she could have Simon cremated and toss his ashes in the backyard near the fence.

'Do you need help with the planning?'

'I think I can manage but thanks just the same. Sorry for the bit at the morgue.'

'Don't apologise. I fainted my first time too.' She sensed he lied but thought better of him for doing so. He turned to go.

'Detective Duncan?'

'Omar, please call me Omar.'

'Omar. Do you have any leads?'

She could tell he was a little embarrassed to say no, they had no leads, but he was quick to add that soon they were sure to catch a break. It was how these cases were. But his expression also told her he didn't quite believe what he said.

Simon's funeral was the worst thing Michelle had to go through. Not only was she tired from sleepless nights of dreaming about Simon's body, but planning the funeral was more than she anticipated. The phone rang constantly. Everyone wanted to pay tribute. Her mother arrived in the midst of it all and was still camped out in the empty guest room from where she'd forage, searching for items she felt Michelle no longer needed. Michelle didn't have the time or strength to throw her out, nor did she have the amount of money it would take to bribe her mother back to the country. She and Simon had been living on bread and water and dribblings of royalties from his songs. But that was about to change: his songs were playing again. And when the time was right, she would have the insurance money.

The funeral lasted four hours. Michelle thought it would never end when the congregation was instructed to stand for the singing of the last hymn. The organist hit a chord and the gathering was taking a breath to belt out the recessional hymn when a scream was heard from the back of the church. Michelle swung to see Simon's daughter Carolyn dressed in a terrible black dress with her arms thrust to the sides as if for a dive.

'You killed him! You killed him!' Carolyn cried. 'You killed my father!' Then, for dramatic effect, she tore past Michelle and flung herself on the coffin. It tipped. The congregation gasped. Carolyn and Simon's steel coffin rocked precariously. By the time the ushers reached the altar, the coffin was well on its way to the floor. It dropped with a loud thud. The lid clicked and sprang open, with a rather stark echo for such a soft sound amidst wild screaming. Simon landed face down on the altar steps. Within seconds the church was empty save for four embarrassed ushers, the pastor, Carolyn, Michelle, and Detective Duncan, who'd rushed to Michelle's side at the same time Carolyn had flung herself on the coffin. In no time he had her in the limousine, safe behind the heavy tint and away from the cameras.

Michelle laughed till tears spilled down her face. She was hysterical, frustrated and amused, all at the same time. Trust Simon to have such a dramatic and stupid child. It was too much to hope that Simon's burial would be a quick event. Detective Duncan thought she was in shock and fretted aloud, urging her to take deep breaths ... deep, deep breaths.

Carolyn stayed long enough to give several exclusive interviews about the mistreatment meted out by her stepmother, Michelle, and declared her non-interest in anything but her father's framed gold records. She was gone on the next flight when she discovered he'd sold them and snorted the proceeds. She didn't bother attacking Michelle for the house because she knew that was safely titled.

Weeks later, when the media had lost interest and the public was happy hearing Simon's songs on the radio without having to think about him much, and Michelle's mother had gone back to the country with her bits of treasures, Michelle sat alone on the balcony overlooking the city and thought about the money she would have leftover after Simon's bills. It was enough for a fresh start. Maybe she could go back into music management?

In the early years, when no one wanted to represent Simon because they thought his music too 'foreign', Michelle had taken to the streets, literally spreading her legs for producers and disc jockeys alike so they would play Simon's songs. That was how much she believed in him. She knew all it took was one song. One little song to get them started and the rest would fall into place. The song had been Golden Moments, a song Simon wrote after one of their fights which landed her in the hospital and him almost in jail. He said the words came to him while he was being driven to the station and he penned it on a sheet of paper supplied by the booking officer. It was a cruel God which gave Simon fame at the expense of 13 stitches, two broken ribs and three missing teeth. But he'd earned enough from the sale for a good dental job. Twenty-five years later, the dental job was like new

but they were yet to see a dime in royalty for Simon had sold the rights to the song in return for money he blew in no time. It seemed the more fame Simon achieved, the poorer they became.

She remembered a reporter asking her about their formula for staying together. She wanted to tell him there was no formula. She'd stayed as a caution, for she'd always felt the moment she left Simon some other woman would step in, and, to spite her, Simon would get his act together and truly begin to earn. No, it was easier to stay in the pretence of the life many thought they had. She gave the reporter the usual spiel - true love, years of hardship together, strong bond - knowing very well that he knew what everyone else knew but wouldn't say.

Carolyn came later. Born on a rainy night in a dump of a hospital to a mother who was strung out on drugs. Simon took her ho but they were yet to see a dime in royalty for Simon had sold the rights to the song in return for money he blew in no time. It seemed the more fame Simon achieved, the poorer they became.

She remembered a reporter asking her about their formula for staying together. She wanted to tell him there was no formula. She'd stayed as a caution, for she'd always felt the moment she left Simon some other woman would step in, and, to spite her, Simon would get his act together and truly begin to earn. No, it was easier to stay in the pretence of the life many thought they had. She gave the reporter the usual spiel - true love, years of hardship together, strong bond - knowing very well that he knew what everyone else knew but wouldn't say.

Carolyn came later. Born on a rainy night in a dump of a hospital to a mother who was strung out on drugs. Simon took her home to Michelle and together they told the world Carolyn was adopted. Michelle never forgave him for Carolyn; she assuaged herself with her own secret indiscretions.

Detective Duncan had become a fixture in Michelle's life. She knew he liked her. It was written on his face and showed in his actions. Michelle had forgotten how nice it felt to be liked and desired. Still, she was cautious around him. Detective Duncan never gave up hope he could find Simon's killer. Michelle half-hoped he wouldn't because it would mean a trial and her possibly not ever collecting the insurance money, lest suspicion be drawn her way, especially if it was discovered that she'd signed the paper mere days before Simons' death. Because it wasn't as if Michelle hadn't thought of killing Simon herself.

The first time she thought of it she considered poison, but was swayed by the fact that she didn't know where to source anything lethal and undetectable. Once, she thought she would shoot him with his gun and cry self-defense - there were enough medical records and scars to prove it - but she had no gun experience and feared wounding him rather than killing him. Killing Simon was a daily consideration, until it became a joke. And then, as if someone knew her wishes, it happened. And here she was, worried just the same and afraid to collect what was honestly hers. The comedy of the situation did not escape her.

Michelle took a sip of wine and regarded the view. Spectacular! None compared. From the vantage point of the hill she had a good view of the harbour and all that was spread out around it, from east to west. Lights and more lights, in all sorts of urban shapes. It was her house. Bought in broken bones and blood. A long time ago, when Simon threatened her with divorce, she told him he would never get the house. He said she would get it over his dead body.

She brought to glass to her lips and sipped. The telephone rang and she frowned at the interruption.

'Hello, Michelle?'

'Yes.' She didn't recognise the voice.

'Is Ivan.'

'Ivan?' She searched her memory - family, entertainer, business associate ...

'Yes, Ivan. You don't remember me?'

She did. How could she forget that deep sultry voice, with the dangerous undertones? Ivan who used to drive Simon; who was dumb as an ox but exceptional in bed. She'd last seen him months before when he came for vacation.

'Of course I remember you, Ivan. Where are you?'

'The airport.'

'Airport?'

'You can come pick me up?'

'Ivan, I don't-'

'Me do it for you, you know.'

Michelle furrowed her brow.

'Did what?'

'Kill Simon ... me kill him for you.'

The glass fell from Michelle's hand.

END