You're Not the One I Want

By Catherine A. Winn

Madeline Grant made sure she was at the dealership at seven thirty to have the oil changed in her husband's SUV. She didn't want to give him a reason to get angry. It was important to keep things nice and pleasant—for him—even though she was miserable. He was at the house every night but he was never home. Like last night, at dinner, when he looked so worried.

“Stan, I know something's wrong. You're not acting the same.”

“Nothing's wrong, just business,” he said, stabbing his steak.

“Then tell me about it, honey. Maybe I can help.”

“Don't make me laugh; it has nothing to do with shopping .” He slammed his fork down as he shoved his chair back. “I've got work to do.”

Madeline just sat there, cringing. When the door to his study banged closed her jaw clenched. If only she had the courage to march down that hall, throw the door open, and demand an apology. Instead, she swallowed her tears along with the wine.

By two in the morning he hadn't come to bed so she padded barefoot to his study door. Her knuckles stopped in midair. “Thanks, Donna, you make me feel better,” he said, in the soft, loving tone he used to use with her. “I'll meet you tomorrow for lunch at the usual place.”

A horn beeped. It was enough to bring her back to the present. She dug her cell phone out of her purse and stepped outside so the other customers wouldn't hear. She called Geoffrey and begged for an appointment. “I need to get my husband's attention, Geoffrey,” she said.

“Oh-oh, I know what that means. You've been married, what, six years?”

“Yes.”

“Come in as soon as you can,” he said. “I'll make you gorgeous, but you simply must give me a free hand to do whatever I want.”

Madeline hesitated only a second. Geoffrey had a flair for the outrageously dramatic, but he did accomplish miracles. “Of course, Geoffrey.”

She breathed the cool morning air deeply, calming the panic. It wasn't that she loved Stan the way she had in the beginning, it was security. What would she do if he left her? She couldn't go back to clerking in a department store. And she absolutely refused to become one of them—those women she left behind—the ones who look faded and washed out from life. If only she had a child or two, Stan wouldn't even think about leaving her until they were grown.

“Mrs. Grant? It's ready,” the service tech said, giving her the once-over as he held the door.

Geoffrey made a pouty face when she got there. They exchanged hugs. “Poor little Maddie. Geoffrey will make it all better.”

“Thank you, Geoffrey,” Madeline said, sitting in the chair. “I don't want to lose him. He was talking to some girl late last night. He thought I was asleep.” She knew she was rambling but she couldn't stop.

Geoffrey nodded furiously. “Honey, you need a big change to shock him into paying attention. Remember when I went pink to get Rodney back?”

Madeline burst out laughing. “I don't want anything that drastic!”

“No—no, you're leaving it to me, Maddie-pie,” Geoffrey said, lifting her hair in both hands and studying it with a tilt to his head. “I know exactly what to do.”

Two hours later, Madeline couldn't believe the difference. “You are a genius!”

The other hairdressers, even the shampoo girl, applauded. She swung by the specialty store for Stan's favorite wine and cheese. Tonight would be a special night—she would make him change his mind about leaving her. Madeline dug her fingernails into the steering wheel as she remembered the last thing he said to that horrible woman and how pitifully sad he sounded. “I can't do it, Donna, not tomorrow. Soon, though, real soon.” She still had a chance to save their marriage.

Madeline carefully maneuvered the SUV into the garage and turned off the engine. Suddenly the door jerked open. A man in a ski mask shoved a gun in her face. His brown eyes registered surprise. “Relax, you're not the one I want!” He slammed her door and dashed out of the garage.

Trembling, Madeline pressed the garage door opener. When the door was down she leaped out of the SUV and ran into the house. She twisted the deadbolt, then keyed the alarm and reset it. “Oh, God, Oh, God…” she kept repeating as she ran to the front door to make sure it was locked, then the sliding patio doors.

She grabbed the kitchen wall phone and dialed Stan's private line. “There was a man in the garage with a gun!”

“What? Madeline, you're talking too fast! I can't understand a thing you're saying!” His angry impatience hurt. “What happened?”

“I'm trying to tell you!”

“What happened ?”

She closed her eyes to steady her nerves. Faltering, stuttering, she managed to explain. She listened, waiting to be comforted. There was only silence on the other end.

“Stan, are you still there?”

“Yes, I'm thinking.”

Madeline sighed. “I better hang up and call the police.”

“No, don't do that, we don't want to get them involved,” Stan insisted. “The man is gone; he obviously made a mistake and picked the wrong house. Just make sure everything's locked up and keep an eye out. If you see anyone suspicious hanging around call me back or hit the panic button. Maddie, you're fine. I've got to get back to work.”

Madeline sagged against the wall. “Sorry, I bothered you.” She hung up, hoping he would call right back. The phone remained silent. She checked for a dial tone. Stan just didn't care.

Her purse and the groceries were still in the car. Biting her lip, she turned off the alarm, peeked into the garage, and ran to get them. Once back inside, she reset the alarm and opened the wine with trembling fingers. She carried the glass into the hall and jumped. The wine glass shattered on the floor. “Oh, you idiot,” she said. It was only her reflection in the mahogany framed mirror on the wall. She gave a scornful laugh. “You definitely look like a different woman, but you're still the same old…” Her eyes flared as she stepped closer to the mirror.

Relax. You're not the one I want.

The gunman expected to shoot a shoulder length brunette driving the SUV, not a sleek blonde with chin length hair and bangs. Waves of fear washed over her. “I can't do it, Donna, not tomorrow. Soon, though, real soon.”

Madeline sank to the floor wrapping her arms around her knees. Donna must have changed his mind. The tears came, how could he do this to someone he used to love. She swiped away the tears with her palms. “Okay, okay,” she said, getting to her feet. “You've got to think.” She was one up on him. He had no idea she had figured out he had hired someone to kill her. Madeline Grant would do exactly what her loving husband wanted.

By the time she swept up the broken glass and washed the tile, she had a rough but simple plan. Later, during a long soak in the Jacuzzi, she finalized it. Strange, she didn't feel like she was part of her own body any more. She had heard people say things like that, but now she knew exactly what they were talking about.

After carefully making up her face, she dressed slowly, black lace underwear, garter belt and hose. The coral gown he bought her, hugged her curves, and the subtle scent only used for special nights added the special touch. She ran her hands over her body in front of the full length mirror. It would be up to him whether she carried it out.

When Stan came home he was visibly startled. That crooked smile she loved so much spread wide and he dropped his briefcase on the tiled entry and reached out his arms. Her heart melted as she ran to him. He still loved her and everything would be all right.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “I didn't mean to be unfeeling. There's just so much going on and you weren't hurt or anything.”

“That's okay,” Madeline said, running her fingers through his hair. “So you really like the new me?”

“I can't wait to show you off,” he said, giving her a long kiss, absent of passion. “You don't mind, do you, honey?” he asked, picking up his briefcase. ”Got work to do.”

Madeline shrugged. “Sure.”

Stan took his briefcase to the study, came back, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and picked up the tray of cheese and crackers. She watched him balance a glass on the tray, then grab the bottle of wine. With a quick smile he went back to his study and closed the door.

Madeline quickly kicked off her shoes and tiptoed down the hall. “She's gone blonde, looks totally different. She'll be in her own car tomorrow,” he said. “Right, a red compact. Make sure he knows which one. Here's the license number…”

Madeline shoved her fist in her mouth and ran back to the living room. She grabbed her shoes and ran upstairs.

Stan came to bed late. She waited until he was sleeping soundly before getting up and going to the garage. She put on her garden gloves before searching his old tackle box. Inside she found the fishing line, used a utility knife to cut off the length she needed, and put everything back where it was. By the time she went to bed everything was ready.

It had rained during the night. Madeline could see through the kitchen window that the yard was clean and fresh. She considered cancelling the whole thing. But if she went to the police, he could still go through with his.

The bacon, the smell that would summon him, sizzled in the pan. Her hand froze when she heard Stan scream then the horrible sounds as his body tumbled down the stairs. She put the fork down on the paper towel. Okay, it was time to go into her act. He might be fine. “Stan! What happened?” She ran to the foyer and found him in a twisted heap. “Stan!” she got down and shook him, he groaned.

Madeline took the steps two a time, pulled scissors out of her pocket, and cut the fishing line from each post. She wadded up the pieces, hurried down the steps, hopped over Stan, and scuttled to the kitchen. She hid the fishing line in her purse, put the scissors in the catch-all drawer, and snatched up the receiver. She stretched the cord to keep an eye on Stan and dialed.

“What is your emergency?”

Madeline screamed, “My husband fell down the stairs—he needs help!”

The operator made Madeline repeat her story. “Stay on the line with me.”

Madeline spotted Stan's shoes. Her stomach tightened. “Wait! I have to open the door for them. I'll be right back.” She dropped the receiver on the floor. “Stan, help is coming!” she yelled and opened the door. The alarm blared. She screamed obscenities as she punched in the code. Then dropped down to his feet and untied the laces of one shoe. As an afterthought, she rushed to the living room, grabbed an afghan from the couch, and covered him. Then she raced back to the phone. Acrid smoke filled the kitchen. Burned bacon would be a good touch. “I'm sorry,” she said, surprised that real tears flowed. “I covered him so he won't get cold.” She burst into sobs. “He looks bad, please tell them to hurry!”

She disconnected when the paramedics arrived. One of them asked her what was burning. “Oh, the bacon—I forgot,” she said, dashing to turn off the stove.

The police arrived as they were wheeling Stan to the ambulance. Madeline looked pathetic in her nightgown, red faced, tears mixed with mucous. She wiped her nose and rubbed her hands on her gown. As the paramedics wheeled him away she tried to follow, hoping a police officer would stop her. He did.

“I want to go with him,” she wailed. He told her she could follow later once she was dressed. They would even drive her but did she have a friend she could call? After she had washed her face and threw on some clothes, the officer agreed she was okay to drive. She left them there at her house knowing they wouldn't find anything.

Two hours later he died in surgery. His spine had been broken; he would have been a paraplegic if he lived. She drove home and was surprised to see investigators still there. The garage door was open and her heart stopped as a young man with FBI on his cap turned from the work table. The tackle box seemed to signal her. He came forward motioning for her to stop.

Swallowing hard, Madeline stopped the engine and got out. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Ma'am,” he said.

“Mrs. Grant, it's okay.” Stan's friend from next door was coming around the drive from the front door. “You need to come inside.”

“Phil, what's going on?” Madeline gripped her purse as he took her elbow. He took her elbow as he escorted her to the front door. What was the FBI doing here? Did they know? She glanced at her purse. The fishing line! She forgot to throw away the fishing line.

“I know you're in shock but you need to hold it together for a little while longer.” He held onto her as if she would collapse and led her through the front door. A tall, nice looking man with graying temples watched while a woman examined the stairs. “Agent Lawson, this is Mrs. Grant.”

Agent Lawson gave her a floor to head appraisal, and then looked directly into Madeline's eyes. “I'm sorry about your husband, Mrs. Grant. I really liked him.”

Madeline hoped she looked more tragic and unkempt than startled. She touched her lips with trembling fingers. “You knew my husband?”

Phil pressed her elbow. “Let's go into the living room where you can sit. Agent Lawson will explain.”

Her mind was racing as she let herself be led to the sofa. Agent Lawson took the wing chair across from her. Madeline tucked her purse beside her and clasped her hands in her lap. She would have to be very careful.

“Donna, you need to come in here,” Agent Lawson said.

Donna? Madeline jerked her head around. The woman stopped examining the floor where Stan had fallen. Madeline studied her as she took the matching wing chair. Forties—way too old to attract Stan. Obviously dyed red hair, crow's feet, and in desperate need of a tummy tuck. She couldn't be the Donna.

“Mrs. Grant?”

She pulled her attention back to Agent Lawson. His brows were furrowed. She shouldn't have reacted that way. “Yes?”

“This is Special Agent Donna Tabor.”

She looked back at Donna. “Agent Tabor, I'm glad to meet you, I-I don't see many policewomen.” She glanced back at Agent Lawson who gave her a tight lipped smile.

“FBI, not police, I'm sorry about your husband. It was a terrible accident,” Agent Donna said. “He loved you very much.”

Cold chills went through Madeline. She dug her fingernails into her palms. She had a bad feeling. She saw Agent Lawson looking at her hands. She smoothed out her skirt. “Could someone tell me what's going on here, Phil?”

“Of course, Madeline,” Phil said. “Mrs. Grant really needs to rest, can you move things along?”

As Agent Lawson opened his mouth to speak, Agent Tabor jumped in. Madeline caught his look of annoyance.

“Mrs. Grant, your husband was a whistleblower. He contacted us about some things that were happening in his firm's construction company.” Madeline felt Agent Lawson's eyes studying her. She forced herself to concentrate on Agent Tabor's mouth.

“…shoddy work and kickbacks on government contracts,” Agent Tabor finished.

“Wait a minute.” It had suddenly registered. Waves of anxiety rose like bile. She managed to hold it together as she looked at Agent Tabor.

“Whistleblower? Is that what you said?”

“We just found out last week that someone wanted him killed. So we have to investigate even if it's just a tragic accident,” Agent Tabor said.

Relax. You're not the one I want.

She gasped. “There was a man with a gun…I thought…”

“Yes,” Agent Tabor said, “Stan told us...”

“I was driving his car that day…” Madeline started rocking back and forth, hugging her stomach. “Stan? He wanted to kill Stan ?”

“Mrs. Grant?” Agent Lawson said. “What is it?”

She kept rocking. “I thought he didn't love me anymore. He should have told me— you should have told me!”

“He was supposed to tell you but he said he couldn't do it. He asked us to keep you under surveillance…” Agent Donna stopped in midsentence when Agent Lawson raised his palm in front of her face.

“Go on with what you were saying, Mrs. Grant.” He had lowered his voice.

Madeline's eyes locked on his. “I heard Stan on the phone with someone named Donna. I thought he was leaving me.”

“Oh, gosh, I'm sorry,” Agent Tabor said.

Relax. You're not the one I want.

“Stan wasn't…oh, dear God…” It was all a horrible mistake. “I need to lie down,” she said, jumping up.

Agent Lawson moved fast. He caught her as she swayed against him. “I'll help you to your room.”

“My purse,” she said, remembering the fishing line. She held out her hand. Phil handed it to her. Agent Lawson's arms were firm. His scent was clean—outdoorsy—nice. It was ironic, the things that cross your mind at the wrong time.

She let him draw the drapes as she left her purse on the dresser. She kicked her shoes off, piled up the bed pillows, and stretched out against them. It was good they were alone. He was already suspicious. It was time to confess without everyone listening.

Agent Lawson pulled a coverlet over her legs. That small kindness touched her.

“When's the last time you ate, Mrs. Grant?”

“Ate?” She looked at him. Her stomach quivered at the smoldering expression he couldn't hide.

“Yes,” he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Dinner—last night,” she said, picking at a thread in the coverlet.

“You rest while we finish up downstairs, then I'm taking you out for a good meal.” Agent Lawson tugged at his collar as he stood. The tips of his ears reddened. “That way you'll be more comfortable while I explain the last few months.”

“That's very kind of you,” Madeline said, fully expecting him to toe the carpet.

Tough choice, Maddie; confess to murdering your husband or dine with an admiring male.

She waited until he pulled the door closed, then she grabbed her purse. After wrapping the fishing line in toilet paper she flushed—twice.

Dinner it is.