Free The Murder Seat by Noel Coughlan Page B

deserved
some leniency.
    The
Murder Seat was where she had originally placed it. She must have
washed the floor around it. That was the trouble with the youth of
today—no attention to detail. He walked around to the far side of
his desk and sat down. He picked up the receiver of his black
telephone to find the coiled cord had telltale knots. The cleaner
must have used it, probably to ring some pimply boyfriend. Or
perhaps she had merely cleaned it.
    By the
time he had unwound it, the dial tone had cut out. He replaced the
receiver and lifted it again. Carefully, he dialed Concepta’s
number.
    “ Hello.” It wasn’t Concepta’s voice. It belonged to an older
woman. Perhaps the speaker was her mother.
    “ Can I speak to Concepta, please?”
    “ Sorry?”
    “ Can I speak to Concepta, please?” he yelled.
    The old
woman roared for Concepta. Feet hammered down a flight of stairs.
Hands fumbled with the other receiver. It fell and clattered
against the wall. A hushed curse came through the line as someone
picked it up.
    “ Yes?” This time it was definitely Concepta.
    “ Come to the museum,” he said. “I’ve thought about what you
said, and I’ve come to a decision.” He slammed the receiver down
before she could reply.
    He
yanked open the stiff bottom drawer and removed a bottle of whiskey
and a pair of tumblers. He poured himself a drink and lifted it to
his lips. His wife and son smiled at him from the photograph on his
desk. It must be at least twenty years old. Margaret’s hair was
long, straight, and blond. She had been really beautiful back then.
As for Francis, he must have been—what, maybe twelve?—when the
photograph had been taken. The boy beamed as he held a massive
trout in his arms. Such happy, innocent times. Herbert turned the
photograph facedown and swallowed his drink.
    By the
time Concepta knocked on his door, he had emptied half of the
bottle. “Come in,” he said. “I’m alone.” His eyes drifted to the
Murder Seat. It sat as still and innocent as a Venus flytrap
awaiting its victim.
    She
entered. The enamel disks visible beneath her bushy, permed blond
hairdo matched the blue of her severely tight dress. The whiskey
and bleach couldn’t protect him from the reek of her vulgar
perfume. Her makeup was heavier than normal. If anything, it
detracted from her appearance. Evidently, she wanted to make an
impression.
    She had
succeeded, but not in the manner she had intended. Her attire, like
her comportment, was too gauche for his tastes. The only thing that
he had ever really loved about her was her unquenchable attraction
to him. Now that it had turned into an obsession, it no longer
titillated. It had become a very real threat.
    “ Please, sit down,” he said, waving at the Murder
Seat.
    She
didn’t move. Did she sense something was amiss?
    She
slowly walked over to the dreaded chair. Herbert cringed as she sat
down, but nothing happened. The chair behaved like any
other.
    She
crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing into suspicious squints. “So
what do you want to say to me?”
    He
cleared his throat. “I’m going to leave Margaret.”
    Her lips
pressed into a defiant line. “You’ve promised that before. But the
time’s never right. There’s always some convenient
excuse.”
    Resting
his elbows on the desk, he opened his hands in a pleading gesture.
“All I ask is three months. If I haven’t told her by then, you
can.” Three months would be enough for the Murder Seat to do its
magic. Hopefully.
    She
nodded at the desk. “I hope you’re doing the talking and not that
half-empty bottle.”
    “ Of course not.”
    A wan
smile crept across her face. “That’s a start, I suppose. But
remember, I’m not some floozy. I won’t be satisfied with being your
mistress.”
    Now that
it no longer mattered, the best course was to humor her fantasy,
but Herbert couldn’t help himself. Separating from his wife would
be a scandal, but divorce was a legal impossibility. “If