Death by Chocolate

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Flashbulb memory.

When I'm ninety-seven years old and in a nursing home with no memory of my own name, I will remember the moment Paula told me she killed her husband.

I don't know how long I sat there just staring at her in total shock. A hurricane roared through my head, making so much noise I couldn't hear Zach's television or even that manic clock ticking.

Paula returned my stare unflinchingly, not taking back what she'd just said or admitting it had been a bad joke.

The room started to blur, and I suddenly realized I'd forgotten to breathe. I figured it would be a good idea to start again.

"Do you have any chocolate?" I asked. I needed a fix to help me deal with this.

She nodded and left the room then returned immediately with a piece of Brownie Nut Fudge Pie and a Coke.

I took a couple of big bites of the pie and tossed down half the soda really fast. Thus fortified, turned to Paula who once again sat beside me with her hands in her lap. But this time her hands weren't twisting or clenching. She was strangely calm as if the worst was over. As far as I was concerned, it had just begun.

"Okay," I said, "so I guess we're not talking killing as in Killing me Softly with His Song, or that joke just kills me or any of that kind of killing?"

"No. We're talking killing as in shooting someone in the heart with a gun, killing as in that person lying on the floor bleeding and not moving."

I had another bite of pie. "That's one heck of an ending. I'd sure like to hear the beginning and middle of that story."

She began to talk, quietly but without faltering. The words spilled out, as if she'd held them inside too long.

"I was born Paula Roberts," she said. "My dad was a Baptist minister in Ft. Worth. He was kind and gentle, and he always had a smile. My mother took care of him so he could take care of everybody else. They were the only family I had, and it was enough. I was happy. I grew up thinking the world was a beautiful place."

She wrapped her arms tightly around her knees, and her eyes took on a faraway look. "After high school, I started college at the University of North Texas in Denton. It was close enough I could come home every weekend. But then during my junior year, my parents went on a missionary trip to South America. I was lost without them and counted the days until they'd come back."

She paused as if gathering the courage to continue, and I found myself leaning forward, anticipating what I knew must be coming. "They never came home. Their small plane crashed somewhere in the jungle. I was alone." Those last three words, I was alone, held a hollow echo.

I tried to imagine losing both my parents. They drove me crazy sometimes. Most times. But I didn't want to think about not having them around. I was devastated when my grandmother died.

Paula drew in a deep breath and went on with her story. "I wandered around in a fog for the next two years, but I managed to graduate with a degree in art history. I had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. I got a job at a museum in Dallas, and that's where I met David Bennett. He was a Dallas police officer, working a second job as security for the museum." She gave a wry smile. "I thought I'd found somebody to belong to. I thought he was like my father. He was strong. I could lean on him. He took charge of my life, and I let him. We got married two months later, and I was part of a family again. I wasn't alone."

Was this knight in shining armor the husband she killed? "So you were happily married?"

She shook her head slowly. "He asked me to quit my job as soon as we got married. He worked irregular hours, alternating shifts from month to month. If I worked, we'd never see each other. That sounded logical. Mother never worked outside the home, and I saw this as a sign that I was going to have the same kind of happy marriage my parents had."