The Creaking Plot

            He rolled onto his back, lit a cigarette, and stared absently at the ceiling. 

            She was silent.      

            A dreamy dawn light filtered through thin satin curtains. They billowed in a morning breeze that sent a chill over his damp skin.  He shuddered.

            "What's the matter, Charles?" she said, stretching her lithe figure.

            "Another storm coming," he said, sighing.

            She smiled. "We've made it through storms before, Darling. We can make it through this one.”

            "I'm not so sure."

            She snuggled up to him. "Oh Charles," she said, nipping playfully on his ear, "why are chauffeurs always the best lovers?"

            He stared down his nose. "I guess we just love the conniving wives of wealthy invalids." He paused a moment to study the chill in her eye. "Especially when the invalid is old enough to be her father."

            "My father is dead, Charles," she said, with a dagger's edge. Then, softening abruptly into a playful child: "Oh, Charles, you have such a grasp of the situation."

            "It's been done before."

            "Yes...they say everything has." She scratched his chest with her long, polished nails. "But, that doesn’t  mean we can't try again."

            "Lavinia...." He tried to restrain his exasperation. "I thought we settled this last night."

            "We didn't. We just listed the obstacles." She lowered her voice to a delicious purr. "And that was before I received my inspiration."

            "Oh?"

            "Yes, Darling, it came to me last night while we were making love."

            "Really," he said. without enthusiasm.  Sometimes talking with her was like  humoring a little girl.

            "Yes...it was the bedsprings." Her finger darted to his lips before he could protest. "Just answer one little question before you get all huffy."

            He had heard it all before. "Very well," he said.

            "Good. What is my dear, ancient husband's one big obsession?"

            Charles snorted. "A bedridden old man isn't likely to have any obsessions."

            " Oh come on, Darling, you're not trying."

            " All right, all right," he said, settling back into the pillow and staring at the ceiling. "I suppose it's that damn oil can of his."

            "Exactly!  You're so clever."

            "But Lavinia, I don't like it. There's a storm coming. Nothing like this ever works out when there's a storm."

            "Oh Charles, don't be so clichéd. This is different. We have a unique opportunity to cash in on that ghastly old husband of mine...and walk away with millions!"

            "Now who's being clichéd?"

            "Oh stop it!  I've worked out a plan.”  She was whispering now. "We can irritate him to death!"

            Charles rolled his eyes and prepared to endure another absurd, lover scheme.

            "This will work.  Just listen. You know perfectly well that Wilfred can’t endure anything that squeaks or creaks.  It reminds him of his third wife." Lavinia shuddered. "Her voice..." She grimaced. "She had this whining...nagging, rather irritating and grating --"

            "Yes, yes, I've heard."

            "Well, the point is, Wilfred goes raving mad when he hears anything creaking. Don't you see?  It's perfect.  The idea came to me last night." She kissed his cheek. "I heard the bedsprings groaning with us, Darling."

            An erotic chill shivered through his body. He tried to ignore it.

            "Lavinia, I think the anticipation of all that money is clouding your thinking. What about Morton, for example?"

            "Well.. ."

            "He's the one walking around with that blasted oil can. Don't forget, he's making sure that nothing creaks."

            "I know, but...."

            "Besides," Charles said, the perfect voice of reason, "he's also Wilfred's arms and legs…and never leaves his side. How do you propose to get rid of him?" He paused for effect, knowing she would not interrupt. "Morton has no friends, no relatives, no reason to leave this mansion...ever!"

            "Yes, but, maybe..."

            She was silenced by a heavy pounding on the bedroom door. Wide-eyed, she stared at Charles. "Who could that be at this hour?"

            Charles glanced nervously around the room.

            "Just a minute!" she cried.  Then to Charles in a soft, pleading voice, "Darling, could you please hide in the closet for a few minutes?"

            Charles was insulted. "But it's been done --"

            "Yes, Darling, I know. Just this once."

            Grudgingly, he collected his clothes and hid in the closet.

            "Come in," cried Lavinia, as she pulled the sheet over her naked body, careful to leave one breast partially exposed -- in case she needed ammunition.

            The door opened and in lumbered a huge man. He halted just beyond the threshold and stood in a stooped, awkward pose. His eyes were lowered and his face was dark and drawn with deep lines etched across his forehead. He shuffled from foot to foot, waiting for permission to speak.

            "Yes Morton, what is it?" said Lavinia with forced dignity.

            Morton shifted his weight again. "Sorry to bother you, Madam...especially so early. But I just got this telegram." He reached into his pocket and removed a small piece of yellow paper. “It's from my mother," he said.  Lavinia thought she detected awe in his voice.

          "But, Morton, I didn't know you had --"

           "Yes, Madam.  I didn't know either.  But this woman says she's been searching for me…for over thirty years."  His face sank into a  pout.  "I gotta go, Madam.  But I don't have the heart to tell Master Wilfred."

          Poor, dear Morton, don't worry about a thing," Lavinia said, concern mimicked to perfection.  "We understand, really we do. I'll tell Wilfred and everything will be fine.  When are you leaving?"

          "Now, Madam.  The cab is waiting outside."

          "Well, good luck," she said, more for herself, than for him.

          He closed the door behind him.

          "There, you see?"  Lavinia cried, as Charles walked out of the closet carrying his pile of crumpled clothes.  "I told you!"

         "Amazing!"  said Charles, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

          "Now we've got him!  He's trapped like a fly in a web.  We execute the prisoner at dawn tomorrow."

          "Dawn?  Why so symbolic?" 

          "It’s my little gift to you, Darling.  I'm certain the storm will be over by then."

          Charles didn't like the way she relished her role as murderess.  "I'm not so sure," he said.  "You’ve overlooked one fundamental problem."

          "Oh?"

          "Yes.  Nothing in this house creaks."

          "I'll find something."

          "And what about the cook, and the butler....and the gardener for Christ’s sake?  We’ll never pull this off with them around.”

          "Charles, you worry too much."

          A brisk wind blew mist into the room.  A sudden thunder rattled the windowpanes.

          "I don't like it," he said..

          She ignored him.  "You'd better get back to your quarters.  You mustn’t be seen leaving my bedroom.”

          He dressed quickly, all the while admiring her gift for pretense.

         "Leave everything to me,” she said.  “Oh, and do try to remain incognito today.  It might be best if we’re not seen together.  Just make sure you come back here before dawn tomorrow.  I may need help if Wilfred gets violent."

          A bolt of lightning cracked as the door closed behind him.

          Just before dawn, Charles entered the mansion through the side entrance.  The storm had subsided only minutes earlier.  When he opened the door, a disquieting stillness swept over him.  “I don’t like it,” he muttered.

          He guided the beam of a small flashlight up the creakless stairs, and down the hall to Lavinia's room.  Without knocking, he opened the door.

          "Come in, Darling," Lavinia said, from across the candlelit room.  She was facing away from him, enthroned in a high-backed queen's chair, studying her reflection in the dark window.  Her right arm, partially covered by gleaming wisps of black hair, was the only part of her body he could see in three dimensions.

          He flicked off the flashlight and closed the door.  Without moving closer, he spoke to her reflection.  "I don't suppose you've changed your mind."

          "Of course not.  Why should I when we have no problems?"

          No problems?  Have you solved them, or are you simply ignoring them?"

          "Neither," she said, haughtily.  "They have solved themselves."

          He scoffed.  "I doubt that."

          "It's true, nonetheless.  Frieda was arrested today while preparing lunch."

          "Arrested?"

          "Yes.  They said they've been hunting her for years.  Apparently, she cooked for some Nazi general during the war.  She’s being detained for questioning.  Something about war crimes."

          "Amazing!  What about the butler?"

          She laughed with sardonic glee.  "Our dear Mr. Wibergh was the one who turned her in!  Supposedly, he trailed her over four continents before finding her here.  She's a master of disguise, but after months, he was able to confirm his suspicions when she made her big mistake and cooked that marvelous strudel we ate the other night."

          "Strudel?"

          "Yes.  It was the general's favorite.  It seems the sweet smell of baking strudel always drifted over the death camp before he ordered a round of executions."

          "Ghastly!"  shuddered Charles.

          "Yes, but delicious.  Wibergh says he'll never forget that smell as long as he lives.  He resigned this afternoon to pursue some other Nazi cook."

         "Well, I suppose we all have our little obsessions.  That leaves the gardener.  Where was Mario during the war?"

          "Oh Charles, I love it when you're cute."  The reflection twisted her smile into a bitter smirk.  "Wilfred fired him this afternoon.  He heard Mario trimming the hedges below his bedroom."

         "Is that some sort of war crime?'  Charles asked.

          She bent down and reached for something at her feet.  Then, turning in her chair to face him for the first time, she held the object under the candlelight.  "He was using these," she said.

          Charles walked over and grabbed the hedge clipper with both hands.  After opening and closing it several times, he cringed and stared down at her.  "I suppose you're going to tell me he was working in the rain."

          "It was barely sprinkling, Darling.  But it was enough to rust the clipper."

          "Amazing!" said Charles, gripping the clipper confidently.  "You know, I believe this could actually work."

          "Of course…no thanks to you.  By the way, where were you today?"

          "You told me to be incognito.  So I created a little malfunction and spent the day at the mechanic's."

          "Well, it was a bit awkward with taxis coming and going all day."

          "Sorry."

          "Never mind.   Let's stop wasting time."  She pointed out the window to the first hint of dawn, then stood, grabbed the candle, and led them down the hall to the staircase.  At the landing she paused.  "Now don't lose your nerve, Charles.  We're the only ones here.  We'll take our time and kill him right."

          She had a mechanically ruthless look in her eye.  He flinched, and wondered why he always fell for her schemes.

          They proceeded up the stairs with silence behind them.  When they reached the old man's bedroom, Lavinia stopped and lifted the candle.  A wide ring of moisture had formed on the ceiling, on the hinge side of the door, and was now dripping noisily onto the carpet.  The walls and the back half of the door were slick and damp.

          "We'll have to fix that leak someday," she whispered evilly.  She blew out the candle, and with a quick yank, opened the door.

          A horrible squealing pierced the darkness.  The old man started awake.  "Wa..what's that?"  he cried into the blackness.

          That was Charles' cue.  Darting into the room, he raised the squeaky hedge clipper and pumped the handles in time with Lavinia and the creaking door.  Minute after terrible minute, he paced back and forth across the bedroom floor playing the hedge clipper as if it were some satanic musical instrument, while Lavinia opened and closed the squealing door with horrible, symphonic precision.

The old man writhed and screamed on the bed, like a man smothering in terror. 

Several minutes later, he stopped.

          The two tormenters froze at the same instant, and again, silence pervaded the room.  Neither spoke.  They both listened for any hint of life from the old man.  Then heard nothing.

          The dawn light gave definition to the room.  The old man became a still, crumpled blur on the bed.  They stared silently at each other and read murder in each other's minds.

          Minutes of shock and disbelief gripped them, until finally, Lavinia shattered their trance and walked to her husband's side.  With a look of post-mortem, she placed her hand on the old man's chest.  Her confident smirk drooped into a look of terror.

          "No!" she screamed, turning to Charles. "He's still alive!  If we don’t finish him off, he'll know we tried to kill him!"

          Charles stiffened, and in a sudden, wild panic, clipped at the air like a lunatic gardener.  The screeching drove Lavinia to the brink of insanity.

          "Stop it!" she screamed.

           Charles froze.

           A chasm of silence divided them.

           After a moment, Lavinia spoke in a controlled tone.  "We're all right.  Nothing is wrong.  We just have to torture him a little longer."

          For a split second, Charles envied the unconscious old man.  At least he had found a temporary escape from his torment.

          "We've got to awaken him," she snapped.  "Get a hold of yourself and bring me that pitcher of water."  She pointed to a small nightstand. 

         Charles lurched obediently to the table and nervously poured himself a glass of water.

          "Splash his face," she ordered.

          The old man began stirring.  In a moment, his eyes opened.  "Lavinia," he said with a feeble voice.

            "Let's get on with it," she said, turning to the door.

            She was halfway there when she jerked to halt and cocked her head toward the window.  "What's that sound?" she asked, straining to hear.

          A rumble grew in the distance.

          "Now you're losing your nerve," Charles sneered.  "That's thunder.  Remember the storm?"

          "Shut up, you fool!"

          She darted to the window and looked out into the daylight.  "Oh...my...God!" she cried.

          "What…what is it?"

          Lavinia turned from the window and faced him.  "The cavalry," she replied.

          "Oh Lavinia...it's been done before."