Penelope's Gambit

Cover Art by PatrickB-new biz with MissBee

Penelope’s Gambit
by Patrick Bernardy



He will be home soon.

Dinner is almost ready. The pots on the stove are simmering and steaming.

I sit at my dresser, applying eye shadow, a pale rose. My lips next, a demure pink gloss. A darkening foundation for my cheeks and then rouge. I spread my left palm and look at my fingernails. There is no time to clean them and paint them properly. I notice a stain on my ring finger, pinkish, like a pressure-bruise just above my wedding band. Tomatoes, I think. He won’t notice anyway. He never does.

I stand and gather the sleek black negligee, satin sliding pleasantly across my fingers. I pull off my robe and let the garment slide over my body, a cool shimmer, a breathless gasp. Lingerie is more for women to enjoy wearing than men to enjoy seeing.

I sit back at the dresser, cross my legs, and begin on my hair. I gather the black strands, pull them tight at the sides, bunched them in a bow, and let them cascade down my bare back. It is tingly, and I shiver. I smile seductively at the woman in the mirror. She smiles back.

Oh, if there was time…

I wink at her and leave my bedroom for the kitchen, a saunter, hips swaying. I slide my hands down the front of the fabric, a thrilling caress. The hem of the negligee excites my thighs; a draft reminds me I am wearing no panties.

The aroma coming from the stove is heady, the spices mingling in the air -- sage and rosemary, oregano, even cinnamon, anything I could think of to doctor the new concoction I am preparing. I have experimented in the past with his dinner. He never complains. He eats with a hearty appetite. He will tonight, too.

I lift the lid from the skillet, inhaling deeply. A cloud of steam melts my rouge as I stir the meat chunks that swim in kraut and stewed tomatoes, diced onions and green peppers. I lift the lid on the rice and take it off the burner, checking the timer on the biscuits in the oven. There is still time to dry my face and reapply my rouge.

I rush back to the master bedroom, for he will be home any minute.

There he is at the front door, hanging his coat, placing his umbrella in the stand. He inhales deeply the aroma of his dinner. It is the same every night. I smile again at the woman in my mirror and dash to meet him.

I stop in the foyer, left hand on a hip-curve begging for attention, right arm up, pressed onto the wall and folding back at the elbow to allow my fingers to pluck at my hair bow. I smile at him and force my eyes to tear just enough to glisten with desire. My mouth is held slack, breath rapid, tongue darting over my glossy lips before I speak, tasting strawberries.

“Hello, my love.”

He smiles at me -- a thin line. There is a short pause, then a nod, courteous and respectful. Duty and honor are there, but no cherish.

I expect as much.

“Hey. Is dinner ready?”

“Almost.”

He moves past me, casually grasping my forearm with an amicable squeeze. He is sniffing, but not my perfume. He is led by his stomach not his loins, reptilian appetites, one suppressed willingly to the other, night after night. I turn around and watch his back, crossing my arms across my breasts, tilting my head, a smirk.

Predictable.

“I'm going to go out to the kennel and check on the dogs,” he says, returning for his jacket. When he passes me again, he does not smile. “Did you spend time with them today?”

I wait until he passes me before I answer. “The dogs aren't here, darling. They're staying overnight at the groomers.”

“I thought that was tomorrow night.”

“I had to change the appointment. I'll have the carpet cleaners here all day tomorrow and that meal to prepare for your guests.”

He nods and hangs his jacket back on the hook. “How were they during the trip? You know Mia is frightened of the highway. You took them the back way?”

“Of course, baby. Just like you want.”

“I hope they treat Mia gentle. Did you tell them about the skin abrasion I found the last time? They need to be more careful with their brushes or else I'll take my business elsewhere. Did you tell them?”

“I did, sweetheart. They apologized and promised it would never happen again.”

He nods and moves past me again, this time with no amicable squeeze. I follow him into the kitchen, arms still crossed. He is at the stove, lifting lids, balding head enveloped in steam, the sweat of hunger beading.

“What is this?”

“I’m not sure, yet. I was hoping you could help me name it after you dine.”

“It smells wonderful.”

“Thank you, darling.”

The oven timer begins to ring. He clicks it off and moves to the dining room table, sitting at the head, an anxious boy waiting to be fed. He pours a glass of wine and absently spins his salad spoon, clanks and tings, impatient sighs and restless shifting. He is a pig at the trough with the farmer approaching.

I am brisk but not hurried, like a self-important chef, pacing myself. I put the biscuits in a basket and take the handle of the skillet. On the table I set down the basket in front of him and the skillet on a warmer. He barely waits for me to take my hand away before snatching a biscuit. He wields his butter knife with the skill of a samurai, smearing butter on the bottom half of the cut. When I return with the rice, he smacks his lips around a half-eaten biscuit.

I take off the lid of the main course. He lifts his plate near and waits. I scoop a sizeable portion of rice, first, and then the concoction, with plenty of meat, sauce dripping, steam rising. I spoon his salad into a bowl as he jabs his fork into a chunk of meat. He blows on it with impatient breath before plunging it into his mouth, cheeks working, sucking air, tongue tasting. He lifts his gaze to mine, and he smiles, the brightest of the night.

“Fabulous! So tender and seasoned to perfection!” He scoops up some kraut and tomatoes with an eager fork.

“Thank you, my love. I’m glad you like it.”

“Is it beef? Sirloin? Filet?”

“Filet. The best cut at the market. It's really good?”

He pops another chunk of the meat into his mouth and talks around it. “Perfect.”

I watch him eat for a moment, disgust in my eyes, a sneer on my lips, but he doesn’t notice. He watches an invisible point on the table-top, eyes glazing, jaws working.

I move my gaze to the skillet, steam still rising, the chunks of meat basting. I think of the old saying, “Revenge is a dish that’s best served cold.” My sneer morphs into a smile. Not always.

“Are you going to wait and eat, Penelope?”

He only uses my name when he’s distracted. “Yes, I lose my appetite when I cook.” He knows this. I tell him every night.

“Mhmm.”

No more voices, only chewing, fork on plate, clinking and scooping. I glide into the kitchen and check the crystal clock on the wall. Any time now.

Five piano notes in a descending scale fill the house, the doorbell. I smile at the clock. Right on time, giving thirty seconds for nerves. That is forgiven. I rush to the bedroom, check my make-up, and smooth my negligee.

“Can you get that Howard? I’m not dressed!”

He belches. Grumbling, chair scooting, his heavy footsteps echo in the foyer.

Voices. I flatten myself against a wall in the hallway, listening.

“Mr. Franklin? I am a personal messenger from Arthur Greer. I have a gift for you.”

The messenger’s deep voice echoes against my stomach. The negligee seems to quiver at the hem, and warmth erupts in my thighs. I absently lick my lips, taste strawberries, and suck in my breath in anticipation.

“Oh, Arthur Greer? How thoughtful of him! I didn’t think our meeting was that successful.”

“He's asked that I remain until you can send him back a message.”

“Oh yes, of course. Come on inside. Would you like something to drink? Penelope!”

Biting my lip, now. Indecision. I can’t appear in my negligee. Sighing, I dash to the bedroom and don a robe. I then swarm into the dining room. My husband is busy with a note, reading glasses perched on his nose, oblivious to my entry and attire. The messenger looks at me, eyes screaming his attraction. I give him a demure smile, a head tilt, and a raised eyebrow. I quickly kiss the air and blow it. He winks at me.

“What does it say, darling?” I ask my husband.

“It only says, ‘I hope you enjoy this gift. They were personally extracted just for you.’ Odd.” He looks at the package, a white cube of cardboard wrapped with a red ribbon, the size of a softball.

“Open it, sweetheart!” I can barely contain my anticipation. I move closer, letting my robe fall open, staring at the pretty package with eager eyes. To my right, the messenger shifts his stance and inhales deeply.

My husband lifts the package and removes the ribbon. His face is puzzled, scrunched, hesitant. He suspects something amiss, but is too rational to heed ghostly voices in his mind. I scoot as close as I can so I can peer into the box. I know what’s in it, but I want to see the same moment he does.

He flips open the top.

Everything stops. The air in the dining room freezes; no breath. I focus on the red and white in the box, the colors mixed together like a broken and smashed candy cane. Teeth -- bloody roots and pearly tips. Fangs and molars, to be precise.

“What's this? Is this a joke?” my husband asks the messenger. His gaze moves from the box and into the barrel of a gun. The messenger is smirking.

I pull off my robe and let it fall to the floor, my black negligee breathing, the satin crackling with static. I saunter over to my lover and kiss him on the cheek. He is tall, and I have to pull myself on my tip-toes, my hand tugging at the arm holding the gun. His aftershave makes me dizzy with longing.

I return my gaze to my husband, a sultry smile, a coy leer, sending off waves of lust in his direction, just like every night of our marriage. For once, he watches me carefully. He sees me. He is such an attentive boy all of the sudden. Guns tend to do that.

“I've waited a long time to have you look at me like that, Howard.”

He licks his lips but doesn’t move. “Like what?”

“With interest. Oh yes, you are interested now. I have finally gotten your attention.”

“Penelope, are these what I think they are?” He shakes the package.

“Mhmm. Extracted just for you, just like the note says.”

“The little one was no picnic,” the messenger says. “She bit me.”

“Mia?” My husband's eyes fill with tears, his lip quivers. He is a little boy on the edge of a fit. He disgusts me. I've never hated him more than at this moment, and that's saying much.

“Did you figure out a name for my new meal, darling?”

He looks at the skillet.

“Maybe you can name it after Mia. She was vital to the recipe, a featured ingredient.” I can feel my eyes give a devious sparkle.

Dawning thoughts, a gasp from him and the package falls, clattering teeth on the hard wood floor. He stands. The gun points truer.

He holds his stomach, nausea creeping, eyes bulging like putrid boils. “Why?”

“You'll have an eternity to figure it out, Howard. Start now.”

I am jarred as the gun is fired, and move back a step as my husband falls across the dining room table. His balding head is blasted open, blood and brains mixing with the chunks of his beloved dog in the skillet. A wine glass tips and rolls off the table, shattering on the floor. The smell of the discharged gun is curiously arousing.

My lover sets the gun on the table and gathers me in his arms, lifting me up, sitting me beside the gun, strong hands finding warm places on my body. His mouth is hungry for mine; he licks and tastes with ardor, his favorite flavor strawberry. As he devours my neck, I wrap my hands around his head, combing his hair with passion -- moaning and whimpering.

I look over at the corpse of my husband and revel in the hot lust of murder and revenge. As my lover takes me, I cry out in bliss, rocking into him with deliberate carnality. As the moment of our release nears, I slide my hand onto the gun, its hot metal still seething, the grip clammy with palm-sweat. My lover throws back his head, engulfed in orgasm. I lift the gun without hesitation and fire a bullet into his mouth. He falls back against the cream-colored wall, which is now splattered with chunks of flesh and brains. He slides to the floor, blood oozing from his mouth and nose, eyes fixed in unknowing shock. His brain is now too damaged to wonder why.

“ 'In the event that said beneficiary is widowed due to her husband’s occupational responsibilities, claimant may petition for five million dollar settlement, to be paid at once following official certification of the cause of death.' ”

The voice is sweet to my ears, getting louder as it floats down the hallway. When Holly appears, she is smiling at me, holding the insurance policy in front of her. I bite my lip and shiver with desire. She looks so good in her police uniform -- white shirt pressed impeccably, badge twinkling atop her left breast, tight black pants belted with the tools of her profession. Her short blonde hair is combed straight, bobbing around her ears, framing her elfish face.

I move close and press my body against her. She continues to read from the document.

“ ’Claimant is also entitled to annuity of no more than five thousand dollars per month, with another two thousand per tax dependent.’ Typical insurance policy for a prosecuting attorney who cares about his wife.” She smiles, perfect white teeth gleaming.

She moves the document from between us and kisses me, her hand sliding up and down the satin on my lower back.

“Are you sure you can make this look like a professional hit?” I ask her as she kisses my neck.

“Mmm. Don’t you worry your pretty head. I'm a master at forensic investigation. It will all work out.”

I pull away from her and look into her eyes. “Is there time?”

“Mhm. More than enough.”

“Do you have your handcuffs?”

“Always, Penelope. I’m a cop!”

I dash past her toward my bedroom, and she gives chase, giggling.