Million Dollar Woman ✓

The first rule of murder is to create the least amount of mess possible.

She stood over the body of her latest husband, knife in hand. He was sagged like a marionette on the bathroom floor, richer than a pavlova and now twice as white.

"You really need to stop doing this," I groaned, holding my head in my hands, exhausted.

She ignored me, admiring her location choices. She'd done well; it was almost impossible to stain those checked bathroom tiles. She'd always prided herself on being a domestic goddess.

"Foresight and organization skills," she beamed. "I really am the perfect wife."

"Except for the murder," I sighed.

"Well, yes, but they're usually too dead to find out about that by the time it's happened."

I perched giddily on the edge of the bathtub, careful to stay as far from her husband as I could. I did the same sort of thing he was alive; we never really got along.

 "How are we going to..." I trailed off. I didn't want to say it. "You know." I made a quick shovelling mime.

"Bury the dead guy?" She placed the knife down carefully in the sink and leant back.

"Your husband, yes." My voice was pitchy.

She paused for a short while, rapping her purple nails against the sink. The sound echoed through the bathroom.

"It's not like we have any coffins just lying around, is it?" I pressed.

She shrugged. "Use a sunbed."

I would have protested, but there was no arguing with Lucile. She was slouched back on the bathroom counter, her lips tugging into a crude smirk.

"I don't think they have sunbeds in hotel rooms," I pointed out, watching her pick herself up to walk over to the minibar and fish out some red wine. The heavy sound of the wine filling the glass was the only thing breaking the tense silence.

 "Do you think I should call the cops?" she asked eventually. "Fill up the bath, tell them he drowned himself?"

I thought maybe the twenty-three stab wounds to the chest would have given her away. I just said, "Perhaps."

She gazed down at the body, her glass held loosely in her long fingers. "Huh." She let her eyebrows rise and fall. "Worked for husband number five."

"Yeah, but he was a sucker."

This was true. He was a film producer, if I remember correctly. He had met Lucile on a summers day – the girl who danced through life like a wavering soprano, all candy hearts lips and diamond eyes. I was like a tinny car radio song, lost on the wind.

"Such a sucker," she echoed. "May he rest in peace."

We stared down at her husband. He stared at the ceiling, just as gormless as when he was alive. It would have been sweet save for the red pool blossoming still around him.

"Shouldn't that have stopped?" I remarked.

"Who knows," she sighed. "Maybe he's still alive. Shall I stick another one in?"

"I think twenty-three's good."

Her mouth was swept into a smile. Suddenly her cartoon eyes lit up and she grabbed me by the tie. Her fingers were coiled round it the same way she had been gripping that knife. "We should dance."

I began to protest, but Lucile just shrugged it off.

"We don't need his blessing." She nodded quickly over to her husband, and a piece of her perfect hair fell loose. "He's dead."