No Tour Guides in Hell:
Chapter 16
The Senators Wife

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

Margreth searched through the debris of sleep masks, lotions, and potions in her bedside table for her journal. Every sordid affair, insult suffered, and tearful, lonely evening was recorded in gory detail. But were there warning signs she had missed?

August 10th

I don’t remember the exact day I first longed for freedom. It might have been after the fling with my masseuse, or maybe it was following the Swede. Sven was a tennis pro with a well-strung racquet. Perhaps I grew tired of the daily grind of photo ops, perfect outfits, and lonely nights.

August 12th

A house with a picket fence was never part of the hand I was dealt. Anonymity would be the greatest treasure, a relief from the goldfish bowl we’ve been living in. My life ticks away like a bomb with a long fuse.

August 20th

Will’s early escapades weren’t anything extraordinary. A secretary here, a news anchor there—there was always someone. His latest fling— that redhead was a firecracker.

All of Will’s shady little secrets might end up on the front page of the New York Times. But that wouldn’t fix my problem. John Q Public would blame me. Margreth, you’re not meeting expectations, his mother would say, failing to keep the all-American boy happy. And she’s right. I once read a paperback over Will’s shoulder while he was going at it like a show pony. I can’t stand to look at him. Not to mention the smell of other women on him.

She tucked the diary back in the drawer and locked it. She couldn’t easily conceal the obvious betrayals in her life. Her thoughts wandered to her mission. Her plan was simple and foolproof, she hoped.

A rap on the door startled her.

“Come in,” she called out while brushing her shoulder-length, silvery hair.

“Mrs. Willson,” Digby peered around the corner.

“Come in, Digby,” she said. “Look at this huge beetle.”

A purple bug slowly crawled across the dresser until her hairbrush’s spine crushed it.

“You sure took care of him,” Digby chuckled. “I sure do hope you don’t squish me! I’d make quite a mess.”

“Oh, Digby,” she smiled. “You’re the perfect butler! I’d never consider squashing you. Now that chauffeur, I’d like to shove this hairbrush—oh, never mind.”

“Will you need a car this morning? You have that meeting with Jake Barnes, correct?”

“Yes, I suppose I should have Remington drive me, Digby. The man gives me the creeps, and I don’t trust him.”

She trusted Digby, though. He knew all her secrets. And he was discreet and loyal. He’d proved himself.

“I’m trying to act as if everything is normal. It’s a lot to ask of you, but could you park my sports car on the side street near that bakery? I think I will lose Remington as soon as possible.”

“Don’t blame you none there, Ma’am. I’ve always had a bad feeling about Remington,” Digby said, his voice as smooth as Fine bourbon. “I’m sure he knows how to find the bakery. But it’s a bad neighborhood. You want to be careful.”

“I’m going to leave a little early, Digby, just in case. If Mr. Willson asks, tell him it’s my turn to bring treats to the bridge club this afternoon. In the meantime, I’ll stop at the spa.”

“Yes, Mrs. Willson. You’re going to the bakery,” the butler repeated. “And then to the spa, and then to the club. I’ve got it. I’ll have the car brought around front.”

Margreth pondered the details, the weave and weft of the story she’d craft for Jake Barnes. Just a few months ago, Will had pulled into the driveway after one of his mysterious trips. He left such a scavenger hunt of clues that even she could follow them.

Soon, she stood at the entrance, tapping her foot impatiently. Remington came out of the garage in a sleek black sedan.

“Bitch,” he said aloud as he passed the groundskeeper, with a welcoming smile to greet her. He opened the rear passenger door, not really caring where she wanted to go. Margreth dove into the limo.

“Remington,” she asked sweetly, “do you happen to know why there’s a Michigan map back here?”

The look he gave her in the rear-view mirror showed he’d only tell her when hell froze over, and the devil danced in heaven. She rummaged through the remaining pockets of the leather seats and found a fat, foul-smelling cigar butt.

Odds were good that Will wasn’t shining deer or smelt dipping in a Michigan river. Her husband probably had a bundle of joy hidden at some bimbo’s cabin in the forest, right where the big red X was on the map. Manistee National Forest.

What I care about is Andrew—that he is always safe and well cared for. If William had ever shown promise as a husband or a father… well, if wishes were fishes and cows could fly. A woman does what a woman must do.

Margreth applied a deep ruby lipstick. She masked her washed-out, tired appearance with a swipe of makeup here and there. She felt as though she had aged at least twenty years in the few short weeks since becoming deeply involved in William’s secret life.

Mr. Big is in serious trouble. The secret documents could finalize the deal. He’ll support us, and I’ll manipulate him expertly. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find someone who truly loves me and my son.

Margreth watched Arlington fade away as the car sped by. The sun was already burning off the fog. She checked her watch. She planned to walk into the front door of the bakery and out the back — very sneaky. Her detour to the diner to meet Jake Barnes would be quick and crucial. It was crucial if she wanted to win a marital death match.

Remington screeched to a stop at the curb. He opened her door because that’s what chauffeurs do. His hand brushed hers, and she cringed. He looked as greasy as one of those muscle-bound guys at the gym.

“Thanks,” Margreth’s tone was so cold it could chill a martini. “You can go polish something, Remington. I have some errands to take care of,” and she thus dismissed his service.

He frowned, surprised by the situation.

She rummaged through her purse. The document was still snugly tucked between her makeup bag and wallet. She stepped into the bakery. It was scorchingly hot and smelled delicious. She gave quick instructions for fast delivery to the club and slipped out the back door as if this was just another routine daily shortcut.

In front of the bakery, Remington watched, but she didn’t come out. As time went on and he grew bored, he decided to head back to Arlington. Nobody cared, especially not the Senator.

Margreth took the alley to the next side street and spotted the diner with shabby curtains hanging lazily in the steamy window. It had no name, just a large neon sign with a hefty black cook holding a stack of steaming pancakes. The white teeth flashed on and off like a beacon for hungry, lost people.

The neighborhood was peaceful. A few junkers lined the street, and the sleek gray convertible that Digby had parked for her stood out like a diamond in a bowl of cheap plastic beads. She opened the cafe door with only slight hesitation.

According to Digby Brown, Jake Barnes was the best private investigator in town and played a fierce game of checkers. He described Barnes as deeply tanned, with reddish-brown hair that was a bit too long—a real rapscallion. The restaurant looked sinister and shadowy through her dark glasses, but she couldn’t risk being recognized.

A man sitting in the last booth fit the bill. He was dressed in an army jacket and a fedora, just as he said he would be. Margreth surveyed the other diners before approaching him.

The cook waddled over, holding menus in his mitt. His apron stretched tight over his ample belly and was covered with greasy patches. She took a menu and smiled at Jake. Her silver-gray hair swept over one eye, giving her the look of a well-aged seductress.

She’s beautiful, he thought. Barnes waited for her to speak.

“Black coffee,” she said, to keep the cook from touching her drink more than necessary. The man waddled away.

Jake Barnes was handsome. His dark, mysterious eyes seemed to hold all her secrets, while she knew none of his. He lifted his hat, and his wavy hair spilled onto his collar, barely covering the gold earring piercing one lobe. Jake offered her a lazy half-grin.

“Mr. Barnes?” Margreth purred. “May I call you Jake?”

“Please,” he said, staring. “What can I do for you, Mrs. . . .” She shushed him.

“I need to be careful. I think you can guess what I might be facing,” she was coy.

He became aroused.

“Who gave you my name, Margreth?” he asked, emphasizing her name with such passion she nearly sank into the Naugahyde bench. Even the way he stirred his coffee was alluring.

“My butler, Digby Brown. He told me you were the best. I had no idea how to find a private eye. He said you’re discreet,” Margreth whispered. “Look at him. He’s watching us.”

The cook kept wiping the same spot on the counter near them with his greasy rag. It made her nervous.

“You’ve been watching too many Bogart movies,” he joked. She was not offended.

She slid the documents across the table, covered by the menu.

Jake examined the papers, and his face showed concern. “This is dangerous. Tell me everything else you’ve learned,” he said in a hushed voice that made her even more worried.

And she did. Hesitantly at first, then experiencing a catharsis of sorts, until she revealed every sordid detail. Their coffees cooled, but neither noticed. She felt a flood of relief, finally sharing her devastating secrets. He was lost in the mire of the plot she wove.

Margreth finished her story, leaving him on a fragile ledge. He knew she didn’t realize she was fighting not only her husband but also the entire US government and the Al Amorta Ujung.

She searched through her purse, unaware of the danger nearby. Would he protect her? Could he save her from the fate she had chosen for herself?

“You need to get these papers back where you found them,” Jake said. “Before they’re missed. I’ll be blunt. This could cost you your life.”

“I have to meet Victoria at eight-thirty,” she told him. “I must warn her. I’ll put them back after that.”

“Do you think you can just drop this bomb on the President’s wife and walk away without shrapnel tearing a chunk out of your butt?” Jake asked. “I have to tell you; it isn’t going to happen that way.”

“I’ll just give you this.” Margreth slid a bulky, white envelope across the table. “I’ll be fine. Victoria is a friend. I absolutely must tell her.”

“The President’s wife has no friends, Margreth,” Jake hissed. “You’ve been married to a U.S. Senator for how many years? You know that better than I do. There’s only one difference between a politician and a terrorist, Margreth. The terrorist will plant a bomb in your car; the politician will have someone else do it.”

“Then, before this bomb blows up in her face, I have to tell her,” Margreth said, captivated by his cloak-and-dagger demeanor. “My husband won’t miss these for a few hours—his desk is a mess.”

“Please be careful,” he said. She experienced a strange tug on her heartstrings.

Before he could argue, she had already left. Only a cup with her ruby lipstick tattoo remained to show she’d been there.

If there was an illegitimate Willson child, Jake would track down the bastard. All of this was to make sure Margreth’s secret, Andrew, wouldn’t be exposed if she died before his father. What a cruel joke for a legitimate child—to find out he’s an unknown entity and therefore not named in his father’s will. And how could a private eye change those odds? He paid his bill and left.

Jake had fifty thousand dollars in crisp green bills to help Margreth. He could earn a thousand times more money with the information she’d just given him. Jake started his car and let out a sigh of relief when it didn’t blow up.

The cook watched from the greasy window. As soon as the coast was clear, he used the payphone two doors down.

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