Lovers and Other Killers

© 2022 Penelope Karageorge Penelope Karageorge – [email protected] rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.Print ISBN: 978-1-66786-032-9eBook ISBN: 978-1-66786-033-6 CONTENTS12345678910111213141516 1718 192021222324252627282930313233343536373839404142434445464748495051525354 1CASS PULLED ON THE BLACK lace bikini panty, felt it move silkily against her skin, then the matching bra that made her breasts look even more voluptuous. Vance had reveled in them, adored her breasts. Tonight she would see her ex-husband for the first time in five years, and she still wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss him or kill him. She had refused his phone calls from Balaban Prison, and had not opened his letters, saved them so that someday she could toss them at him like a brick, tangible evidence of her disdain.But last night she had dreamed of him, a dream so vivid that she woke up with tears in her eyes. When she was a child, her Greek grandmother Katerina told her that if you dream of someone, you must get in touch with them the next day. She had called Vance. Hearing his voice, years dropped away. He could have been asking her out on their first date. And once again – almost against her will -- she had responded eagerly to the reckless, charismatic ex-husband who had managed to turn Wall Street success into a five year prison sentence. Despite financial triumphs, he had fomented a Ponzi scheme that lost millions for friends, family and investors.According to a psychiatrist who testified at his trial, Vance was not a criminal but the helpless victim of his own addiction to gambling, tougher to lick than heroin addiction. His mistake had been to play with Wall Street money. The judge granted him a lenient five-year sentence. And Cass finally faced the truth, that the husband she adored was a desperate gambling addict. His all-night card games and Las Vegas junkets were just tips of the degenerate’s iceberg. Cass had accepted everything – his recklessness, his irrational spending, his moods -- as essential parts of the man who loved her and only her. But when the scandal broke, his affair with colleague Miranda Nightingale also surfaced.Despite Vance’s protests and remorse, Cass had gone through with a bitter and painful divorce. But she had never stopped missing him. Her hand shook as she used her lipstick to outline a red mouth. She struggled to get her straight black hair exactly right. From her days as a toddler, she had yearned for blond curls, but finally settled in adulthood to a look that was her own. Her hair set off high cheekbones, black eyes, a curvaceous mouth. She looked good, but how would she look to him?She could use a drink. No. Not tonight. Tonight was too important. And God forbid that she have an anxiety attack. She dropped his favorite blue dress on over her head, a soft cashmere that hugged her body discreetly. She slipped into the red Jimmy Choo’s with five inch heels that she wore on special occasions. A mist of Chanel No. 5 perfume, and she was ready.Cass pulled her faux fur jacket out of the closet, grabbed her bag and keys, stepped out into a foyer, and rang for the elevator. Only one other apartment shared the elevator with her in her West 12th Street building. She loved her Greenwich Village apartment, an eight room treasure that she had been fortunate to keep despite the Ponzi debacle.She whizzed down to the lobby from the 10th floor. It was a brisk November night. She stepped out on the sidewalk and took a deep breath of the crisp urban air, excited as always by New York’s special undercurrent of grit and action, life happening. Two teenagers shared a joke as they walked down the block. Lights glowed in the apartment building across the street.Doorman Jose wore his blue and grey uniform with the pride of an army officer. “A cab, Mrs. Cooper?” Two minutes later, a yellow taxi drew up in front of the building. Cass gave the cabby the East 63rd Street address and was on her way.The cab moved past restaurants, shops, neon flashing, shouts, beeps. Hundreds of small lights decorated the bare branches of the trees in front of Bed, Bath and Beyond, a Christmas promotion but no less enchanting for it. In New York art and commerce melded and astonished.The taxi drove across 42nd Street and up Park Avenue to the Sixties and its elegant, multi-million-dollar townhouses, architectural delights. Despite the new prominence of Soho and Noho, the East 60’s had never lost their elan.Vance’s best friend, lawyer Donaldson Frye, had offered Vance his four-story town house for two weeks, while Donaldson skied at his winter retreat in Stowe, Vermont.The cab pulled up. Cass paid the driver and got out. She was breathless, as if she had run to this destination. She took two steps to the door. Before she could ring the bell, the door opened. Vance. Five years older, even better-looking. His face was thinner but still rugged, sharp, intelligent. The dark blond curly hair was now almost white at the temples. The slender nose, dark brown eyes, had not changed. And yet there was a difference. He smiled but it was a dark smile, a chastened smile. He drew her inside and closed the door quickly behind them. She could not stop smiling. A cry escaped from her lips. He put his arms around her and held her close, pressing her against him. They could never get close enough.“You wanted to talk,” he murmured. “But let’s not talk.” He took her hand and they went up the stairs to the green-walled bedroom.“No,” Cass said. “No.” And then she was laughing. “Yes.”She had almost forgotten that amazing