Until Death Do Us Part
Part 1
All stories come from somewhere, but the moment an idea begins can be hard to spot unless you’re paying close attention. Until Death Do Us Part began when I was cleaning out old boxes in the garage and found a small bag of jewelry I didn’t recognize. Inside was a man’s gold ring. I slipped it onto my finger, sat down, and wrote this story. And just in time for A.C. Cargill, All-Human Author ‘s Scary Summer.
Thanks to Gabi Coatsworth She’s on Substack with great help for writers. Sonia Antaki on FB and G. Foster—my stalwart critique group that helps me whip these doses of fiction into shape each week.
Image by minhtuyen tran from Pixabay
Until Death Do Us, Part 1
Death would come for Jacob Devine before midnight. After this determination, Dr. Moncrief scurried from the room under the pretense of having another patient in need.
The dying man’s niece, Lisa Devine, stood like a shadow in the corner of the room, silently watching the man slip through the door. The good doctor only wanted to escape. He, like anyone who knew her uncle, hated him, but out of fear, served him. Jacob had ruined careers and reputations. He’d striped the life savings of those he’d deemed disloyal.
She glanced at the antique clock on the shelf. Almost eleven. It wouldn’t take long for his heart to stop forever. Soon, she’d be released from all that welded her to his side.
Lisa Devine took a seat at his desk and, to keep from thinking about what she had to endure for this hour, began making a list.
Call the undertaker
Call the solicitor.
Arrange for the estate sale.
Put his Mayfair mansion on the market.
Notify the relatives.
Pick the cheapest coffin.
That last item seemed terribly callous, even under her circumstances. But her uncle had treated her family so miserably. He’d denied Lisa’s mom his love after she married a man he’d judged unfit. He’d turned down Lisa’s plea for help when she lost her job and needed a loan until she could find another. He’d used his money to coerce so many of his relatives into obedience. She could still hear his words at that dreadful Thanksgiving gathering. “Do it my way or forget ever seeing a penny of my estate.”
Lisa had done everything his way, and now she was here to be sure to have first choice of her miserable uncle’s treasures. There were many, and she deserved whatever she could take.
Again she was being callous. Just the way Jacob Devine would be.
She felt a chill, but dismissed the idea that she might be more like her uncle than she would like. Simple proximity could not turn her into a cruel monster like this man. She was merely taking what was her due. After years of suffering at his hands. Years of isolation from friends. No chance at companionship or love, she deserved to have whatever she wanted from what she had always considered a gilded prison.
She’d already put the Matisse and Van Gogh paintings and the 18th-century sterling silver tea set in the foyer. She wouldn’t be greedy, but she wanted the most valuable items secured before the rest of the family descended like vultures.
Vultures was the exact word Jacob Devine used to describe his relatives. Lisa remembered the day he’d thrown all of them out of this house. “Vultures! All of you,” he’d shouted at their backs. She had stood to the side and let his wrath subside before closing the door and helping him to his chair. A dutiful servant. A worthy heir.
His gasp startled her back into the dark bedroom. When she looked up, his hand was reaching for her in a last, instinctive attempt to cling to life. The ring that he never removed slipped from his finger and landed silently on the carpet. Cloudy eyes were fixed in her direction, but Jacob Devine was blind to this world.
For a fleeting second, Lisa felt a twinge of something, but it passed before she had time to name it.
She went to the bed and stared down at her uncle in death. There was only a remnant of the perpetual scowl, making his face somewhat kind. And there was something else. Relief. The burdens of life had vanished, leaving an almost youthful corpse—a profound contradiction between what she knew to be true and the remains she was staring at.
She stooped and picked up the ornate gold band, its ring of diamonds glinting in the dim light. He’d bragged about it since she could remember, claiming it had belonged to King Henry the something. He’d never been clear which one, but she’d research it later and turn it—along with the rest of the loot—into a comfortable retirement.
The ring was heavier than it looked, and when she slipped it onto her middle finger, it seemed to tighten as if seeking permanency. That was when the temperature in the room plunged sharply, and Lisa shivered. She pulled on her sweater and crossed to the door.
When she twisted it, the knob wouldn’t turn. Her hands were cold and clumsy.
Clenching her jaw, she tried again, twisting harder this time. Locked? Impossible. She hadn’t turned the key.
Uh oh! Lisa Devine might be in a bit of trouble. Part 2 arrives next Wednesday!
Launching a book has some nail-biting moments for me: What if I get terrible reviews? That’s always a question that pops into my head. Then I calm down and remember what Kurt Vonnegut said: “Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.”
Anyway, I’m not getting bad reviews, so no one has attacked my hot fudge sundae yet.
One reviewer says: “It was a brilliant read. I got immersed in the story right from the start. I highly recommend this.”
