cast her spells in the attic, where she was alone with all the paraphernalia she needed. Rituals were time-consuming, spells even more so, but she had become a pro at them. She could probably teach a course on witchcraft if she wanted to.
The only problem was making a payment to Initial B Enterprises. She didn’t want to use a credit card or check, so, because she was such a good customer, the kind folks at Initial B Enterprises had agreed to money orders and the use of a post office box number. She used the household money Gus gave her for food and whatever she needed, to buy the money orders. And, from time to time, she helped herself to the bills in Gus’s wallet, always careful not to take too much. For a CPA, Gus was pretty stupid when it came to money. But then, she had him wrapped. She corrected her thought: All men were stupid about all things. If they weren’t, she wouldn’t be where she was now. In the catbird seat, sitting in a half-million-dollar house that was paid for and would be all hers shortly. Not to mention a high-six-figure bank account in the Caymans. As would half of Gus’s business, and half if not all of everything in the Hollister coffers. Even his inheritance down the line, when the old battle-axes finally kicked the bucket.
An evil smile on her face, Elaine made her way to the second floor and pulled down the ladder that would take her to the attic, where she would perform one of the daily rituals guaranteed to make her rich beyond her wildest dreams, all thanks to Initial B Enterprises.
Gus Hollister woke with a raging headache. He knew instantly why his head was pounding like a bongo drum. Phil Ross’s report on his wife. And his meeting with Jill Jackson and her less-than-encouraging assessment of his current predicament. Then there were the two bottles of wine he’d consumed.
Gus swung his legs over the side of the bed, appalled that he was still wearing the same clothes and shoes he’d worn yesterday. Damn, he must have really been out of it. He hadn’t fallen asleep in his clothes since his college days. He wondered if he was on his way to becoming an alcoholic.
That’s when he squinted to look out the bedroom window. Shit! It was raining, thundering, and lightning like it was the Fourth of July. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tottered toward the bathroom. Maybe a shower would help, followed by aspirin and coffee. Lots and lots of black coffee. Maybe.
His head pounding like the thunder outside, Gus turned on the water and waited for all the showerheads to bombard his body. He felt like he was participating in a paintball exercise. He hopped and danced around the massive shower as his head continued to pound. He had to get out of here before he exploded. Now!
He obeyed his own instructions and barreled out of the shower. He yanked at a thick, thirsty robe hanging on the shower door and put it on. He toweled his wet head, the hair standing straight up. He tried to smooth it down as he made his way gingerly down the hall to the staircase that would take him to the kitchen, where, hopefully, coffee waited for him.
The first thing he noticed was a place setting at the kitchen table. Obviously, Maggie planned to cook breakfast for him.
Gus looked at the neatly stacked papers that made up the background check on his wife and felt sick to his stomach. If Phil Ross had been standing next to him yesterday when he’d read the report for the first time, he knew without a doubt that he would have pummeled the man into the ground. By the time he’d read it six or seven times and had it committed to memory, he knew he would have pummeled himself into the ground for having been so damned stupid. His head continued to pound.
Maggie entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He shook his head and said, “No breakfast, thank you. Just coffee.” Gus looked around the kitchen, but it was neat and tidy, the two wine bottles gone. If ever there was a time for a cigarette, this was it. He’d given up the disgusting habit when he married Elaine, because she said she wasn’t sleeping with a chimney stack. But Barney smoked on occasion, usually when he was under the gun on something