There’s advantage and disadvantage to having a rich uncle, thought LouisaMae; advantage being that sooner or later he’d drop dead and leave a large, lovely inheritance, disadvantage being that it looked more like later than sooner.
For the most part, LouisaMae didn’t mind living with Uncle. He was generous enough with her allowance, and he never complained about her comings and goings. Especially her goings. In fact, he seemed to prefer when she went.
She also didn’t mind that he seemed to love his horrid miniature dog-like creature, Little Pip, significantly more than he loved her. At least not since she’d met Herman. After all, it was she who would get the estate, not Pip. But she thoroughly despised the snippy little critter. Small dogs were awful at best, and Pip was the worst of his breed, which was the worst breed of all–a hairless, long-legged, ratty-looking Chihuahua.
Until the previous February, LouisaMae had had only one passion in life. Now she had two. She’d always loved art. As a child, she’d taken every art class she could and spent vast amounts of her uncle’s money on the very best art supplies. And every art teacher had told her basically the same thing: “You have absolutely no talent. Forget painting.” But LouisaMae was tenacious if she was anything, and she’d ignored them all.
Then on a chill February afternoon, she’d shown up at a neglected loft studio in a dangerous downtown neighborhood for the most current attempt at finding instruction to inspire her work to an unattainable greatness and found her second passion instead.
Herman.
Herman was a poor, obscure, starving artist when they’d first met. And with Herman, she was willing to admit for the first time that she didn’t have any talent because she recognized his, and the chance to discover and promote a great talent was almost as exciting as having talent of her own.
She loved Herman for being so talented, and for being hers. Suddenly, Herman, though still poor, was no longer starving, thanks to the incredible whirlwind he’d taken her on through every good restaurant in town. Funded by her credit cards, of course. With bills paid by Uncle. Of course. Now, with his belly full, Herman was also ready to exit obscurity and poverty. And in return for the pleasure of his company, he expected LouisaMae’s help.
Herman wanted an art show. He wanted a really big art show, with lots of press coverage, acres of hors d’oeuvres, rivers of champagne, and all, of course, within the hallowed walls of the most prestigious gallery in town. He’d lined up the gallery, but there was one catch. The owner was willing to lend his hallowed walls, but not willing to foot the bill. And the bill for such a show was at least that of a modest wedding.
On a lumpy twin mattress covered with a worn Indian bedspread, Herman wrapped his arms around LouisaMae. “My darling, my love, the light of my life,” he told her as she demurely ignored a roach running up the wall behind him, “only you can redeem me. Only you can help me take the mad leap from relative obscurity to fame and fortune. ‘Only you can make this change in me,’” he began to croon as the roach reached the ceiling, paused, and seemed to look back down at LouisaMae, “‘For it’s true, you are my destiny.’”
“We have to get you out of this squalid domicile,” she responded, unwrapping him from around her and standing up to pace thoughtfully. She loved Herman, but she didn’t love his roaches.
So LouisaMae went to Uncle. Over dinner, the butler removed their consommé bowls without commenting that LouisaMae’s was untouched. Before he served the veal sauté, he placed a delicate crystal bowl of paté on the table in front of Little Pip’s high chair to Uncle’s right. On Uncle’s left, LouisaMae tried to avoid looking at the dinner partner across from her–though Pip’s table manners were far superior to her own–but she found it difficult to hold her attention from the jewel-encrusted, gold-edged collar that surrounded the Chihuahua’s skinny little neck. She wondered how the scrawny little creature managed to keep his head up with the weight.
“Uncle, might I have a little advance on my allowance?” she asked politely.
“Talk to my accountant,” he said between bites.
“I already did,” she said, “and he suggested I talk to you directly. How have you been lately, dear Uncle?”
“Cut the crap and tell me how much you need,” he said.
“Ten thousand.”
Uncle’s laughter was so raucous that he upset his plate, scared off Little Pip, and almost choked to death on his veal sauté. “Get out of my sight before I disinherit you,” he said without even asking what she wanted it for.
The next day, she caught the butler at the massive front door just as he was preparing to take Little Pip for his morning constitutional. “Oh, Jeeves, allow me to spare you this,” she said, summoning up her most charming and convivial expression. He looked at her suspiciously, but silently turned over the leash.
LouisaMae knew that each step was taking her irrevocably toward a life of crime. Out the front door and down seven steps. But she was driven by love. Turn right, then half a block to the intersection. And it wasn’t like she was going to kill anybody… Look both ways before crossing, then down another block to the park. She was just going to borrow the dog’s collar till Herman was rich. Into the park a few paces, then—
She glanced around quickly; no one was looking at her. She figured the collar weighing down the damned dog had to be worth at least seven or eight thousand at a pawn shop. If she cut corners a little on the canapés, she could make it.
Squatting down, she called to the dog. “Here, Little Pip, come here boy.” The dog looked the other way.
“Come here, Pip. Come here. COME HERE!” she shouted, jerking hard on the leash.
Pip approached her with petite and delicate steps, and just as delicately sank his needle-sharp teeth into the wrist of the hand that reached for his collar. As she screamed in agony, she dropped the leash, and he took off back toward the house, leash bouncing along the sidewalk behind him.
Back in Herman’s arms, LouisaMae was inconsolable. She’d tried to find the backing for his show. She’d tried twice. It was hopeless. But if he could just wait until Uncle passed away… .
“Why wait?” he asked her. She looked at him strangely.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” she asked him.
“What do you think I’m saying?” he asked.
“What do you think I think you’re saying,” she countered, unwilling to commit to the unthinkable without a little more confirmation first on Herman’s thoughts.
This could have gone on indefinitely, but they were rescued from their circumlocution by the tintinnabulation of the telephone. “Hello,” Herman said, collecting the receiver from its cradle. LouisaMae could tell instantly from the not-so-subtle shift in his voice and the curl of his shoulders inward and away from her that the person on the other end of the phone was Nicole Childers, a rich, ugly little bitch who was also hot on Herman’s trail. But Herman was her love, her paramour. And she’d do whatever was necessary to keep things that way.
Whatever was necessary.
She did her homework in Uncle’s library. Starting with Dame Agatha, she moved steadily through the mystery section. Air injected into a vein? Oh, if only Uncle were diabetic, or with a nasty drug habit that would explain needle marks in his arms! Mysterious car accident, brakes failing as the car zoomed down a curving mountain road, careening out of control, over a cliff and into the ocean? But Uncle didn’t drive. In fact, he rarely left the house. And there wasn’t a mountain or a sea, or even a cliff within two hours drive of their home. Sigh.
Lying in bed, staring up at her expensively rag-rolled ceiling, it came to her suddenly. It was so clear, so obvious, so absolutely perfect that she was amazed she hadn’t thought of it sooner.
Poison.
Cyanide? With an aroma suggestive of bitter almonds; used to extract gold from low-grade ore. Where could one purchase cyanide? At the local mining shop? Not likely.
Arsenic? Tasteless, odorless, used in rat poison. A possibility. Arsenic sounded much more attainable. And easier to use.
The local garden shop had a plethora of poisons. LouisaMae scanned the shelves, checking ingredients. Finally she found one with arsenic listed near the top of the active contents. Rat poison. More suitable for that little rat of a dog than Uncle who had raised her almost from birth. She knew she should feel guilty, but she’d stepped on the path of passion and there was no turning back.
That afternoon, she went to work furiously in the kitchen, preparing a pair of chocolate mousses–Uncle’s favorite–but with her own “special” ingredient in one. For Uncle’s, she placed a small cherry on top, and for herself, she left it unadorned.
Once again in the oversized dining room with Uncle and his faithful canine companion for the first time since the park fiasco, she was reminded of her failure by the sparkle of lights from the opulent chandelier above that reflected on the rat-dog’s nasty neck. Chin held bravely up and to the front, she told Uncle, “I’ve prepared a treat tonight as a thank-you for everything you’ve done for me over the years.” Now that sounded sincere, she thought.
But when the butler brought out the mousses, she had a moment of panic. Cook had added a cherry to the second dish. Which was which?
Uncle immediately hit the roof. “Only two? ONLY TWO?!!! What about Little Pip? What about my sweet little pupkin? You know he loves chocolate mousse as much as me!”
“Oh Uncle,” LouisaMae said, thinking faster than she ever had in her life, “I’m on a diet. The mousses are for you and dear Little Pip.”
For the first time in a long time, maybe the first time ever, Uncle smiled at her, an honest, warm smile that made her suspect fleetingly that if she’d shown a little more appreciation for him they might have had a better relationship over the years. She was almost sorry he was going to depart soon. But then she remembered Herman’s brilliant talent, strong arms and hot, exciting lips. Passion was what she wanted. Not maudlin regret.
Butler served the chocolate mousse, and as Uncle raised his spoon, Little Pip began his delicate lapping. LouisaMae watched Uncle expectantly. “Not the best mousse I’ve ever tasted,” he said. In fact, it’s downright lousy.” He pushed the bowl away. LouisaMae was distraught, and didn’t notice at first when Little Pip, whose palate was obviously less discriminating than Uncle’s, licked his last lick, then promptly keeled over.
Well, at least she knew now which bowl had the poison.
But Uncle’s reaction was totally unexpected. “Little Pip!” he screamed. “Little Pip! What’s happened? Someone call a doctor!”
He sprang to his feet, then perched for a moment at the edge of the table as though unsure whether to fall back or move toward the blatantly dead dog. Undecided, he grabbed instead at his chest, then fell over, next to the dog. Equally dead.
The doctor showed up, pronounced the magically redeeming words “heart attack,” and suggested that the butler toss the dog in the trash.
Well.
LouisaMae survived both her grief and her guilt. Her grief was assuaged by the recall of Uncle’s last cruel words to her. And her guilt was blanketed by the comforting thought that she didn’t actually kill Uncle. Only Little Pip.
When the will was read, she was shocked to find out that the estate had been split evenly between herself and Little Pip. Of course, with the dog gone, it all came to her.
She was equally shocked to find out the full extent of Uncle’s estate. Even after inheritance taxes, she was still a very, very rich young lady, far richer than she ever could have imagined.
Herman had his show, and even with the eighty thousand dollars she ultimately dumped into his career, he was still an abysmal failure. So she passed him on to Nicole Childers.
And LouisaMae, with all her money, began to move in better circles. She painted horrendous paintings, then hired the most expensive PR firm in the country to promote her work. The most exclusive galleries on the planet (who often moved into more plush and tony quarters shortly after one of her shows, regardless of sales), began to show her work, and once she appeared on the cover of People magazine, no one ever again said she didn’t have any talent.
At least not to her face.
END
