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Scent Of Betrayal

He fixed his eyes on the desert city's skyline, a miniature thing, in his rearview mirror. He pulled over, took a leak, kicked a tire. When the burner phone buzzed, he yanked it out, the wife's car keys plopping at his feet.

At the one word, "Done," his insides cramped.

Lifting the keys from her purse had been risky in the cafe booth. He'd pressed close, inhaled her heady scent. Said he'd play nine holes, see her tonight.

Keyless in the parking garage, did she sense someone behind her? Did the guy, gloved hands on her throat, whisper as instructed, "Your husband says goodbye"?

Toeing the keys deep into the sand, knowing the purse would never be found, he felt the cramp in his guts ease. Golf course, next stop. He would be a devastated widower. He'd married for money but had grown fond of his wife. She'd still be alive but for wearing perfume on the days of her late-afternoon "business meetings." If only she'd splashed it on in the hotel, showered it off afterward, he would've been none the wiser. But that was his Celia: rich but not smart.

Story by:

Rita A. Popp

4 May 2016