Escape by Death

By Mary-Jo Balman

Harriet Jarreau cannot bear the thought of the end of her marriage to Peter, who married for her substantial fortune. No longer able to tolerate an oppressive marriage, he decides to leave her. His relief at this decision is palpable even though he is aware of the luxurious life he is about to give up...unless somehow she were gone.
Stephen, Harriet's nephew, is a beneficiary of her Will. He also constantly cajoles her into implementing the meager allowance she gives him as Trustee of an inheritance from his late mother. Beneath his affable facade, however, he feels a burning resentment toward her and her control over him in denying what is rightfully his.
Andr, Stephen's significant other, is forbidden to enter Harriet's home because of his "disgraceful" relationship with her nephew. He despises her and reminds Stephen of the luxurious life they could enjoy if only Harriet weren't around.
Katy, the housemaid, is in love with Peter. She is naive in her belief that he returns her feelings because of his occasional flattering remarks. Her disdain toward Harriet is unrestrained, and she unequivocally believes she would be the next Mrs. Jarreau if only Harriet didn't exist.
Faced with these unacceptable circumstances in their lives, who will be desperate enough to escape...by a death?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463425708

Mary-Jo Balman

Mary-Jo Balman is a world traveler whose books are set in various parts of the world. Her colorful characters, entertaining dialogue and insight into human foibles evoke the reader's own awareness of the human condition.

Book preview

Chapter 1

New York. Thursday, September 16, 1990

Anastasia Marie poked her head through the door of Lt. Yancewicz’ office.

Hi, Yancy, she said enticingly.

"Well, Pani Fortuczyk. Miss Fortuczyk. Enter please.

You know, I never noticed, but you have a gorgeous tan. Makes you look so attractive. You must have spent a lot of time at the beach this summer.

Can it, Anastasia Marie. Whatta you anglin’ for now?

No, nothing. Honestly, Yance… except… well, today is the day, isn’t it? I want to go down to the airport with the boys and ask a few questions of the suspect.

Miss Fortuczyk, as you must already know, you went and lost your privileges.

I have? But why, Yancy?

"Don’t flutter them eyes at me, pani, and quit foolin’ around with my tie. You know, you really hurt me. I thought I could trust you."

But Yancy, I haven’t hurt anyone.

The hell you ain’t. I thought I told you not to print nothin’ till I gave you the go ahead.

Well, but Yance…

"Lieutenant Yancewicz."

Lieutenant Yancewicz. I understood you to say you didn’t want the press all over the case.

So? And what was I talkin’, Greek? Wasn’t that plain enough for you?

"Yes, and that’s why I didn’t mention any names or locations in my article. I said the names were being withheld pending an investigation."

Oh, so that makes everythin’ hunky dory, right? I suppose you’re gonna take care of all the news hounds on the phone wantin’ to know the details and buggin’ the hell outta me.

"Gee, I’m sorry, Yance… Lieutenant Yancewicz… I didn’t mean to make extra work for you. Is your little księzno forgiven?"

Makes no difference now. The info’s been released.

Yes, but no one knows when he’s due back. May I go along, Yancy, please? Just for a few pictures.

I’ll think about it.

"Come on, tell me the flight number, the airline and the time. You’ll do that for your koležanka—your friend, won’t you?"

I told you, quit flutterin’ them eyes. United. 114. 5:30. And you ain’t my little princess, and you ain’t even my friend, no more, he mumbled.

Stacy, as she was known around headquarters, stepped back, blew Yancewicz a kiss and headed for the door. As she grabbed the doorknob, Yancewicz called to her.

Hey, hold it a second.

As she turned to him, he leered, Just don’t forget who’s been good to you, Polak.

Stacy wondered briefly whether her career was actually worth the sacrifice to her integrity demanded by this example of the ultimate in atavistic macho.

A short time later, at 12:30 P.M., Sergeant Billy Lockwood burst into Yancewicz’ office.

He’s in L.A. Just got on the plane, Yance. The airline called to confirm.

Speaking with his mouth full, Yancewicz sputtered, "Great! Okay, Billy, be sure he don’t slip through our fingers. You know what to do. Get Bates and Callender to meet ’im. Be sure they have the description the nephew gave us. And no special treatment, unnerstand? Goddam! It torques my jaws not to be able to cuff ’im right now… GEEZ, WHAT’D THEY DO? FORGET THE KETCHUP?!!

Yancewicz lifted the soggy top of a sesame bun to reveal the remains of a greasy cheeseburger, layered with a slice each of raw onion and tomato, pickle slices, mayonnaise and french fries which he had inserted himself from the little bag in which they had come.

And don’t forget the uniforms. I want them plastered all over. And no lettin’ him go home to drop off his bags, or even to take a piss, for that matter. I want him here right away. No stops, unnerstand?

Yancewicz pressed the button on his inter-com.

Shirley, run down to Abe’s and get me some ketchup—this damn thing ain’t got no flavor!

About six hours later, a wide-bodied 747 began to slowly circle over Flushing, New York. The passenger in Seat 3A looked out the window. It was dark, and unlike the scintillant beckoning of the nearby metropolis, the dull, yellow tungsten lamps of the city below were spaced out in a motionless, geometric pattern. To the passenger, the scene was a foreboding of things to come.

Or, perhaps it was just his imagination. Until now, he had deliberately avoided the prospect of his homecoming. For most of the five-hour trip from Los Angeles, he had spent the time reliving his recent two-week stay in Australia—partly business and partly recreational. The business end of it had been rewarding and nostalgic, spent mostly in the company of old friends. The recreational part of it had been serendipitous and totally fulfilling. Both had had their exciting moments, the former, one with which he was familiar, and the latter, the sort of excitement he had not known for at least twelve years.

Recreation… re-creation, he mused. Reborn. Yes, I’d say I was.

The man leaned his head back contentedly and smiled. Oh yes, he slowly informed himself, I can live with that.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New York. We shall be landing in just a few minutes, came a voice from the loudspeaker. We are awaiting landing instructions. Please bring your seats to a full forward position, and be sure your seat belts are fastened.

The plane began to circle John F. Kennedy Airport. As it did, the passenger in seat 3A began to experience a familiar knot, slowly growing in the pit of his stomach.

Reborn? Oh come on, he thought. Get real, my friend, you know nothing’s changed.

With each foot of the descent, every fiber of his nerves became progressively tighter. He felt them taut as a violin and knew that the very next note that was to be played upon them would cause his entire nervous system to snap apart.

He stiffened his back.

All right, he inaudibly admonished himself, "Cool it.

"You knew you couldn’t put it off forever. Dammit, you’d think someone had a pistol to your head and was ordering you to pull the trigger! It’s no big thing, you know, getting rid of a wife. Hundreds of guys… no, tens of thousands I’ll bet… do it every day. All you have to do is play your cards right, stick to the script and voila! You’re a free man.

"Ha! In your dreams, Jarreau. And how, exactly, do you think you’re going to change after twelve years of wimpdom? Hell, you weren’t even allowed to go out for a walk without first being exposed to a full-blown litany on a possible change of weather!

"Wimpdom?

"That’s right, old man. Wimpdom. Harriet knows it. Katy knows it. And even Stephen knows it.

"Oh no. No way. I made my bargain with the devil, and I chose to play by the rules.

"So, why then are you finding it so damn difficult? How can you be so assertive in the real world and then become nothing but a mass of guilt-ridden protoplasm when it comes to standing up to that woman?

"God! You’re right. I don’t think I can face it.

"Damn right you can’t face it! When have you ever faced up to her smoldering rages… her eruptions of hysteria… and worst of all, her debasing pleas when nothing else worked?

"That’s right. That’s right. I can handle anything from her until she starts up with the tears and hysterics. Jesus, who can deal with that kind of stuff?

"Wrong. Even without the tears, she always manages to fold you shut like a paper accordion. And now… even now… you’ll go back and continue to groan an elegy for the man you once were. Know what the trouble with you is? You have a conscience. That’s your problem.

"Oh great. That’s just great. And here I was always under the impression I was on an extended guilt trip.

"Is there a difference?

Right as usual, friend. A psychosis by any other name… .

The man shut his eyes and grimaced as he pressed his fist into his stomach in an effort to ease the pressure. For a brief moment, he seriously considered purchasing a return ticket to Australia upon landing.

The plane taxied onto the runway and finally came to a stop. Only when the last passenger had passed his seat did he get up, remove his attaché case from the overhead storage compartment and, at the pace of a pallbearer, proceed to the exit.

His misgivings at what he had to face were considerable. Little did he know, however, that what he was now dreading was insignificant compared to what was about to confront him at the end of the exit ramp.

Peter Jarreau?

Two men had placed themselves in front of him, and the one speaking was blocking his way.

"And you are?" he queried indignantly.

The man pulled out a badge.

NYPD, Detective Bates. Is your name Peter Jarreau?

Yes, it is. What’s this all about? Why are you stopping me?

You’re wanted at Headquarters for questioning, sir. Would you mind coming along?

You’re goddam right I mind coming along. I’m not going anywhere if you don’t tell me what this is about.

Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. You’re wanted for questioning regarding the murder of your wife.

Chapter 2

Friday, September 3

Approximately two weeks before the arrival from Australia of the passenger in seat 3A, at about 2:00 P.M. on a Friday afternoon, Harriet Jarreau waddled into her living room and settled herself into a straight-backed chair at her writing desk. She was a matronly, forty-five year old woman, plump and rather short. Her white, powdered skin contrasted sharply with her thinning orange hair—trimmed, teased and styled weekly by a hairdresser who had not seen fit to change either the style or position of even one stiff strand for the past twenty-five years.

Katy Duggan was standing at the liquor cabinet adjacent to a 45-year old Grundig hi-fi set of polished blond wood which had been bequeathed to Harriet from her Aunt Ida who previously had acquired it in Germany years back while doing service in the army as a WAC some time after the end of World War II.

Katy came in three times a week to spend the entire day housecleaning whether the housecleaning required the entire day or not. On days when the apartment squeaked of cleanliness, Harriet was still able to sleuth out a fingerprint on the coffee table or a square of dust on top of the refrigerator.The building in which Harriet and her husband lived was old—but dignified. It was located in a choice area, overlooking Central Park .

For the twelve years that she had been married to Peter Jarreau, they had occupied an apartment directly facing the park. Her husband enjoyed the view, having the New York Historical Society, the Frick Collection and Carnegie Hall close at hand. She, on the other hand, was comforted in knowing that Mt. Sinai Medical Center was only a short distance away, for, in addition to her preference for martyrdom over the frightening aspect of independence, her life was fraught with organic complaints. Fortunately, the pain, rash, growth or discomfort usually disappeared as quickly as it had come on. Sometimes, this would happen even before she could reach the Emergency Room of the hospital—a fact she would deftly conceal from the attending physician.

Harriet was very wealthy. She had achieved this enviable status as a result of the instant popularity and sustaining sales of an electric Potato Peeler, Slicer and Dicer, a three-dollar gadget invented by her father. A rather sizeable inheritance had fallen to both Harriet and her late sister prior to the former’s marriage when they became sole heirs of the considerable return on their demised father’s contribution to the culinary world.

Peter’s contribution to the marriage was a checking account with a balance of $38.00. In recent years, he had been dealing in black opals which he routinely procured on trips to the Outback Region of Australia. This little enterprise, however, especially on a limited basis, did not prove to be sufficiently remunerative to support the life style made possible for him by Harriet’s wealth. Her generosity toward Peter had not only enabled him to abandon an unrewarding teaching career, but had also allowed him to pursue various and sundry avocations without the burden of having to justify their economic feasibility. Moreover, through her good offices, he was also allowed to make his periodic buying trips to Lightning Ridge in the Outback Region of Australia. These trips numbered two or three a year, depending upon two things: the demand for black opals from his clients and, more particularly, the level of his frustration threshold at home. Consequently, these short respites served to break up the monotonous and sometimes infuriating scenarios with his wife which, lately, were becoming more prevalent than ever.

Peter was 38 years old, seven years younger than Harriet. This, however, had nothing to do with his life of increasing frustration. Rather, the problem lay in the fact that just as Harriet believed herself to be long-suffering and misunderstood, so too, did Peter—at least to the extent that he no longer had any doubt that half a score and two years ago, he had committed a monumental blunder.

He was slender, with smooth even features and light brown hair that almost camouflaged a trace of recently acquired gray hairs at his temples. He moved about with confidence and, in sharp contrast to his wife, exuded an air of affluence.

Although not quite six feet tall, Peter towered over Harriet’s generously rounded five-foot frame at those rare times when he was close enough to her for this disparity to become noticeable. His hazel-green eyes, dominated by heavy, Yves St. Laurent horn-rimmed glasses, could become intensely expressive when he chose, on rare occasions, to actually look at someone. For the most part, however, he conveyed through them the personality he had chosen to assume in the last few years. It was one of cold indifference, born from a self-imposed stoicism, a condition on which the palatability of his marriage depended.

What Peter lacked in emotional involvement, however, was abundantly supplied by Harriet. Seated at her desk on this morning, a profound sigh escaped from her ample bosom. The day was darkly clouded which, to her annoyance, had forced her to switch on a lamp, thereby causing her to incur at least a ten-cent increase in her monthly electric bill. She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips as she involved herself in what appeared to be a game of solitaire with little snippets of paper.

Kathleen, I want to talk to you about something. Remember when I sent you to the store on Tuesday?

Yeah, what about it?

What about it? I’ll tell you what about it. What’s this item for Maybelline eye liner?

Oh, I needed it. I was gonna pay you for it.

When? After I discovered it?

Well, I forgot about it. Take it out of my pay.

You can be sure I will, young lady, and from now on, I’ll thank you not to do your personal shopping on my time and with my money. It isn’t very honest, you know.

"I said I was gonna pay you," mumbled Katy.

She flipped on the television set sitting beside the cabinet and casually asked, "You wanna watch As the World Turns?"

Kathleen, I’m still talking to you. You know, that’s not very polite. Besides, it’s too late. It’s over already.

What.

"‘AS THE WORLD TURNS!’ Can’t you hear?"

No, I mean what didja wanna talk about?

The grocery list!

Oh yeah. Awright, awright, I’m supposed to jus’ get what you write down. I know.

Well, and now that you know, do you think you can remember from now on?

Katy turned to Harriet, and in another effort to change the subject, pointed to the old Grundig and asked, When are you gonna replace this relic? Look at all the cracks in the wood already.

That happens to be a family heirloom . Besides, it still works. There’s nothing wrong with it. And furthermore, unlike a certain young woman I know who can’t seem to hold on to one penny, I don’t believe in spending money if it isn’t necessary.

"Tell me about it," muttered Katy.

What?

Huh? Oh, I didn’t say nothin’.

Anyway, why am I discussing this with you? It’s none of your business. Your business is to keep this house clean, and from what I see, you can’t even do a good job of that. Didn’t your mother ever teach you anything?

Momentarily rendered silent since she could think of nothing her mother had ever taught her, Katy headed for the kitchen to revive herself with a cup of Earl Gray Tea.

Harriet spun around in her chair and stopped her.

I’m not through yet, Kathleen.

Katy clamped shut her loosely hung mouth, pushed back a strand of limp, straw-colored hair that had fallen across her eyes and stared at the ceiling as she waited for Harriet to continue. Harriet had turned to face the desk again and began to add up figures on a vintage 1955 Royal adding machine. She was extremely adept, being able to accurately total up her weekly expenses while still admonishing her hapless housekeeper.

"Trouble with you young lady is you don’t take an interest in your work. That’s the trouble with all you young people nowadays. No interest in working, she said authoritatively. You just don’t know the value of a dollar… lazy, lazy, lazy."

Actually, there was a hint of truth in Harriet’s last observation. Katy’s mother had been widowed when Katy was four as the result of her husband having fatally been struck on the head by a parked car on St. Patrick’s Day while attempting to execute an Irish jig at the curb outside of Harrigan’s Bar.

When Katy reached the age of twelve, Mrs. Duggan had herself removed from the welfare roles by taking a job at NEW CHIC, a dressmaking factory in Manhattan’s garment center on 34th Street. This left Katy the responsibility of taking care of her two younger brothers, aged ten and eleven respectively. When she became sixteen, however, she could not wait to leave school. She was, at the time, in her freshman year at Chelsea Vocational High, and her decision to leave was made final at the realization that she just couldn’t seem to get the hang of long division.

Her choices of vocation were reduced to two. She could either seek work at her mother’s factory or she could do housework. She was spared the trouble of agonizing over the two choices when it was discovered, after three days’ trial at her mother’s place of employment, that she could not learn how to thread a sewing machine.

She then became settled into a workable routine, dividing five days of housekeeping between two employers. Both of her employers paid her minimum wage, and the one with whom she was now bickering honestly believed she was overpaid. However, she particularly liked her job at the Jarreau residence and felt that the abuses she bore from Harriet were far outweighed by the worshipful presence of Peter Jarreau.

As a consequence of her blind devotion to Peter for the past twelve years, her chances, at the age of 28, of becoming romantically involved with another man were remote. Thus, in labored subservience, Katy capitulated, trudged to the bookcase and began to remove and perfunctorily dust the books.

While so occupied, her grim expression suddenly relaxed, and a beatific smile transformed an otherwise plain-looking face into one of passable prettiness. Peter had entered the room.

Chapter 3

Before he was able to settle into his chair, Harriet turned and sweetly addressed her husband.

Peter dear, have you talked to the bank about that service charge?

No.

He turned toward the housekeeper.

Katy, I’m in desperate need of a libation. Fix me something, will you?

Gee, I’m sorry, Mr. J, how about milk of magnesia? That usually works.

Scotch, Katy. Scotch. With very little water. Can you do that for me? That’s pretty clear, isn’t it?

Delighted to forestall the tedious task of dusting, Katy shoved Peter’s thick, gray-covered edition of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass back into its niche next to an equally thick edition of Harriet’s Readers Digest Condensed Books and approached the liquor cabinet.

Clear, yeah, it’s clear. Gee, Mr. J, how am I supposed to understand all them big words you use?

Harriet tolerated their exchange, eyes narrowed, hands vigorously tapping the pencil on her Royal adding machine until she was able to seize an opening with which to make her presence known again.

Why not? Peter, why not?

"Why not what, Harriet?"

I asked you three times to do that one little thing for me.

"What little thing, Harriet?"

"Three times! I asked you three times to take care of calling the bank about that $5.00 service charge. They shouldn’t have charged us. I… I don’t even know what it’s for. And you know how I hate to call about those things. Yet, you keep forgetting."

"I don’t keep forgetting, Harriet. I simply do not want to do it. The prospect of sitting with the telephone plastered to my ear for twenty minutes listening to Rhapsody in Blue is very distasteful to me."

Is that too much to ask of you? I never ask you to do anything if I can help it. Really, you’re no help to me at all. I just don’t understand.

Now, listen carefully. I’ll try to speak more slowly. I-don’t-want-to-do-it. You know, I seem to develop a mental block whenever you drop one of these matter-of-life-and-death assignments on me.

Well, at least you could have told me you weren’t going to do it. How would you like it if the bank gave us a bad credit rating? They would, you know.

Oh? And would that be before or after they throw us into debtor’s prison? Oh, what the hell am I getting into here!? Listen, Harriet, do whatever you want. As for me, I prefer to burn all my credit cards rather than provoke another domestic squabble on some perfectly inconsequential matter.

Katy approached Peter with his drink. Her normally vapid blue eyes were sparkling with satisfaction. One of her greater pleasures in life was to observe the swords of dissension being whacked and thrust between the two antagonists in the room. In the twelve years that she had been in their employ, each altercation that she had witnessed, to her way of thinking, deepened the breach between them. Patiently, she was waiting for Harriet to deal the blow that would ultimately send Peter into her waiting and willing arms. And, although it distressed her to see him thus so abused, nevertheless, she felt such episodes were necessary when measured against her intense dislike of Harriet and her deep devotion to her Peter.

Here you are, Mr. J.

Thanks, Katy. Wait! Don’t move! There’s ice in here! You know I don’t take ice in my drink.

Katy’s expression changed to that of a faithful dog who has just been kicked by its adored master.

Sorry, Mr. J. It’s just so hard sometimes to remember so many things.

"Yes, well I suppose it is rushing your education to expect you to remember this so soon after you’ve mastered the dishwasher."

Katy rectified her error, handed the ice-less glass to Peter and faced Harriet.

Mrs. J, could I leave an hour earlier today if I finish up? I need some time to hem my dress for this Labor Day dance I wanna go to.

Harriet gave a disapproving glance at Katy’s exposed knees.

Don’t you think you show a little too much for a woman your age?

It’s the style. Besides, I got good legs. What’s wrong with showin’ ’em?

"Well, I don’t know. No wonder girls nowadays