That paper towel goes into another baggie in the cooler to take with me.
I wash the pan I used to sauté the chicken and put that away. The shrimp were pre-cooked and frozen, but I made sure they were thawed before coming. I add them to the sauce and mix them in well.
Authorities will no doubt assume he developed a sudden allergy to shrimp.
Aw, what a shame, but not uncommon.
I dump my wine—which I’d barely tasted and he’d been too preoccupied to notice—and wash the wine glass, returning it to the cabinet. I lay out one place setting—a large bowl, fork, knife, and spoon.
Just one set.
And yay, I guessed right. Other items in his fridge match store brands from a grocery store just down the road—the same brands I’d purchased. I leave a recipe card from that same grocery store chain laying right there on the counter.
In the garbage, I leave the bag the shrimp came in, the cream cheese carton, the empty carton of whipping cream, all of that.
Along with the crumpled store receipt, which, whoops, wouldn’t you know I splashed sauce on it, and you can’t read the time-date stamp, or the store number, or transaction number. Just some of the items, and that it was a cash sale.
I mean, I’d erased those details already with carefully applied water after weeks of practicing how to do it on other receipts, to find the most organic-looking method.
Yes, I know that’s a calculated risk, but I’m hoping Junior’s pissed off enough household staff that they won’t question this development. Through the years, I’ve been quietly warned by people not to have dinner with him at his home, unless he’s having it catered, because it’s likely the cook spits in it since he’s such an asshole to his staff.
The cops now have evidence of him shopping and cooking. There are fifteen of these stores just in thiscounty.
He’s dead of an allergic reaction.
There’s no evidence anyone was with him when he died.
Tragic.
Besides, even though the date, store, and transaction number can’t be read, the receipt I’ve left behind is eight weeks old, a cash purchase from yet a different store, when I bought everything to pre-test the recipe. What I purchased yesterday was part of my larger grocery purchase, so the receipt won’t show the exact same items, even if they can track it like that.
I knew all those mysteries I devoured over the years would pay off, one day.
Well, they already have, I suppose.
And it’s not like he’s got kids or a spouse who will demand a deeper dive into the circumstances, either. He’s probably got a passel of bastards he’s sired, besides other family, who will be eagerly chomping at the bit to get their hands dirty in the probate process.
I’ve made it easy for the authorities to rule this is an allergic reaction. He tried to use his injector. He had other allergic reactions before. The only thing I’m worried about is the gate and security system, but I can’t control those and can’t waste time looking for them.
All I can do is hope I’ve laid the trail solidly enough to keep them on it. If cops show up at my door with security pictures, I’ll lie, say I did show up and he was definitely dead, and that I retreated in a panic, worried about what it’d look like.
That’s a scandal I can defend.
I quickly pack everything going with me, carefully search the kitchen for anything I might have forgotten, and then grab his phone.
Glad he told me it was a burner. It was the other thing I was worried about. I verify there are no messages. Then I pop the battery and dump it and the phone in my purse.
Heading out to the garage, I don my disguise before I hit the button to open the overhead door. It’s still not raining, so, yay, good luck.
Once I’ve backed my car out, I get out, walk inside, hit the door button, and let myself out the side door, locking the knob behind me.
I’m out of there less than forty minutes after I arrived. My heart’s pounding like crazy, but I’m wearing a manic grin I know I’ll need to get under control.
I slow on my way over a bridge on the Harpeth River and chuck my phone and battery out through the passenger window. I deposit his phone and battery off another bridge.
I stop near the same place I’d stopped before to remove the transporter tag. That gets tossed off another bridge.
Then I turn around and make my way back to Nashville.
