Sparring Partners(68)
“I suppose.”
He gazed wistfully at the ceiling and let some time pass. After a spell, he asked, “What do people say about me around town, Diantha?”
“That’s a funny question, coming from a man who never cared what others said or thought.”
“Don’t we all think about our legacy?”
“Well, to be honest, Bolton, when I’m asked about you it’s always in reference to Tillie’s death and your incarceration. I’m afraid that’s how you’ll be remembered.”
“Fair enough, I guess. Truthfully, I really don’t care.”
“Attaboy.”
“The odd thing, Diantha, is that I have no remorse. I have not missed that woman for a moment. In fact, when I think of her, and I try mightily not to, her death always brings a smile. Yeah, sure, I wish I hadn’t got caught and all that, and I made some dumb mistakes, but knowing that Tillie is in the ground brings me great joy.”
“I can’t argue with that. No one misses her, not even her two sons.”
“She was just awful. Let’s leave it at that.”
“You and I have never talked about her death, have we?”
He smiled and shook his head. “No, and we can’t talk about it now. These little rooms are not always secure. There could be leaks.”
She glanced around and said, “Sure. Maybe one day when you get out.”
“Are we going to be friends when I get out, Diantha?”
“Why not, Bolton? Just keep your hands to yourself. That was always your problem.”
He laughed and said, “It was, but now I’m too old for the chase, don’t you think?”
“No, I think you’re incorrigible.”
“No doubt. I’ve already planned my first trip. I’m going to Vegas to rent the penthouse at a tall shiny hotel, play cards all day, bet the games, eat steaks and drink good wines, and enjoy the young ladies. I don’t care how much they cost.”
“So much for rehabilitation.”
(21)
The death of Tilda Malloy had been imagined many times, and not just by her husband, though Bolton for decades had been by far the most active schemer. After ten years of tumultuous marriage, with no peaceful way out, he began to plot her demise.
It began with a sudden interest in trout fishing the rivers of the Ozarks, something he enjoyed but not nearly as much as he let on. Several times a year he and some friends, and later Rusty and Kirk, would drive three hours south from St. Louis into the mountains, rent cabins, and fish and drink like frat boys.
This led to the purchase of a log house retreat on Jack’s Fork River in southern Missouri. Bolton went through an elaborate and prolonged ruse of feigning a newfound love of the outdoors, and, with time, did in fact acquire a certain fondness for quiet weekends, especially when Tillie refused to join him. She had no interest in any activity that could not be undertaken within ten miles of her beloved country club. She thought the hills were full of hicks, fishing was a weird sport for boys only, there were bugs and crickets everywhere, and besides there wasn’t a decent restaurant to be found anywhere.
When she was diagnosed with coronary heart disease at the age of fifty-seven, Bolton was secretly delighted but maintained a passable front of the nurturing caregiver. Much to his dismay, she whipped herself into better shape, pursued a plant-based diet, exercised two hours a day, and claimed to feel better than ever. When one test after another showed better results, it became apparent that she was not dying anytime soon. Bolton went into a funk and resumed his decades-long fascination with her premature death.
Her first heart attack, at the age of sixty-two, had given her family a renewed hope. Though the topic was never discussed, life without Tillie was a constant dream for Bolton and his sons, and especially their wives. Tillie the mother-in-law was a meddling, conniving troublemaker.
Months passed, then years, and the old gal not only hung on but continued her evil ways with gusto. A second heart attack, at sixty-four, failed to slow her, and the entire family became depressed.
Yielding to pressure from Bolton, her doctor ordered her out of the city and into the hills for a two-week retreat—no phones, no internet, no television. Nothing but rest and bland food and lots of sleep. She had in mind a luxurious spa in the Rockies where her friends went to dry out, but Bolton insisted on his fishing cabin. She loathed the place and squawked for three hours as Bolton drove and fumed and fought the urge to whip the car over onto a gravel road and strangle her in a ditch.
For dinner, they ate civilly at the small, rustic table. Frozen fish entrees, plus a glass of wine for him. She said she wasn’t feeling well, the drive fatigued her, and she wanted to go to bed. As she prepared herself, Bolton, wearing thick gloves and sweating and scared out of his mind, removed an eight-foot king snake from a crate hidden in a closet and put it in their bed, on her side, under the blanket. He had mentally rehearsed this a thousand times, but who in hell knows what will happen when a king snake, one well fed and supposedly tame, whatever that meant, gets thrown onto cotton sheets he’s never felt before, then covered with a blanket. Would he freak out and slither out of bed and onto the floor and force Bolton to crawl crablike under the bed trying to catch him? Or would he freeze in place for a few seconds in anticipation of being discovered and the high drama to follow?