HOW TO MURDER A MARRIAGE Read online

  Gabrielle St. George

  HOW TO MURDER A MARRIAGE

  The Ex-Whisperer Files

  First published by Level Best Books 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Gabrielle St. George

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Gabrielle St. George asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  AUTHOR PHOTO CREDIT: Hooman Mesri Photography

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-953789-51-8

  Cover art by Level Best Designs

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  This book is dedicated to my soul sister, my partner in crime, a great, generous, and hilarious woman, an amazing mother and cook, a brilliantly talented writer, a world traveler, an underdog ally, a fierce fighter, and a loyal lover, my Best Friend Forever, Delia Gaskill. She departed this world tragically early, leaving massive swathes of grief in the hearts of many but also gifting immeasurable riches, and unending joy to those same hearts. I miss you every minute of every day, Dee. Call me in five.

  Praise for How to Murder a Marriage

  “Fun, clever, and suspenseful, How to Murder a Marriage is a feel-good mystery featuring a protagonist I instantly wanted to be friends with. Gina Malone has experienced her share of drama and is looking to unwind at her lakefront cottage. When she finds herself the target of not one but two potential stalkers, plus a possible missing woman, Gina and her loving, hilarious crew of family and friends set out to protect her and catch the criminals. With a touch of romance, delicious food, adorable dogs, and a superbly fluid voice fizzing with perfectly timed wit, this novel will make you laugh out loud and give you the ideal escape.”—Samantha M. Bailey, USA Today and #1 national bestselling author of Woman on the Edge

  “How to Murder a Marriage is written from the heart. Gabrielle St. George draws from her own considerable experience to create a fun and intricate story with terrific characters and a surprising twist at the end.”—Authorlink.com

  “Gabrielle St. George mixes razor-sharp wit with a healthy dose of edge-of-your-seat suspense to give us a page-turner thrill ride. Who knew being an advice columnist could be so deadly…or so wickedly funny?”—Annette Dashofy, USA Today bestselling author of the Zoe Chambers Mysteries

  “Gabrielle St. George brings a fresh voice to Canadian crime writing which is simultaneously chipper yet chilling, and she introduces us to characters who are simultaneously engaging yet alarming – a perfect combination for a writer of psychologically suspenseful stories which are also fun to read.”—Best Selling and Award Winning Author, Cathy Ace

  Chapter One

  TOP 6 MOST STRESSFUL LIFE EVENTS

  Divorce: Check (After six years, my crazy ex-husband is still dragging me through the courts.)

  Death of a Loved One: Check (My best girlfriend/soul sister died in my arms four months ago. Fuck cancer.)

  Moving House: Check (I built my dream house and intended to be carried out of it in a box. Instead, I’m carrying boxes out of it, packed with the belongings I didn’t garage sale when I had to hawk my house at a fire-sale price.)

  Becoming the Victim of a Crime: Check (My sociopathic, obsessed ex is stalking me.)

  Dismissal from Work: Check (My four wonderful children have fired me. Apparently, my services are no longer required. They have all run away from home to attend universities in Europe. I make my living as a writer and artist, but those are just jobs. Being a mom was my vocation.)

  Imprisonment: No Check. Yet. (If I act on any of the fantasies I’m currently entertaining regarding my ex or my real estate agent, I’ll be able to cross this one off the list in short order.)

  Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself. Somebody has to. This is one sad fricking state of affairs. In the past two months, I’ve dyed my blonde hair black, lost ten pounds, pierced my nose, sold nearly everything I own—including my home of twenty years—and made the decision to leave the largest city in Canada and move one hundred miles north to a small town on a big lake where most of my extended family waits in smug anticipation. Really nothing too extreme by my standards. Moderation is not my middle name.

  As the Ex-Whisperer, a best-selling relationship book author of the Gal Guides, and advice columnist on Slate, I’m able to take my work with me wherever I travel. And I travel everywhere, often.

  I need a mini escape, and I’ve arranged one.

  My amazing daughter Ella and I are flying to London. I’ve successfully convinced her she needs me to get her settled into the new city of her new uni. My three sons are traveling from their respective European nations to join us for a weekend of family fun in The Old Smoke. Can’t wait.

  We’ve got three hours to kill in the airport before boarding. Ella is sampling perfumes in the duty-free shop. I’ve set up a portable office at a café table. I’ve been pressed for time the last few days and have fallen behind in answering letters on my advice column. I’m hoping to catch up before we depart. I read an email sent two days earlier.

  Dear Ex-Whisperer,

  I moved to this country to marry my husband ten years ago. I have no family here, no friends to speak of. I had a receptionist job for a few years, but I came home late from work sometimes, and my husband had an argument with my boss over it, and I got fired. I don’t leave the house much except to shop, run errands, walk my little poodle, Snowflake, or go to the library. When I’m out, I constantly get the feeling I’m being watched, and then sometimes I run into my husband unexpectedly. I think he follows me. My husband doesn’t like me going anywhere without him. He insists on having all my passwords and checks through my computer and phone regularly. I don’t do anything wrong, but he doesn’t trust me. He’s always angry and says I should be happy that he cares so much, but I don’t like being spied on. He says a husband has the right to know where his wife is and what she’s doing at all times. Do you think that’s true? If not, does that mean that my husband is stalking me? Can your husband be your stalker?

  Lillian

  My reply:

  Dear Lillian,

  Your husband’s behavior is neither normal nor acceptable, and I am seriously concerned for your safety. Stalking is stalking even when it’s your partner. It’s illegal and unbalanced. There is nothing remotely flattering about being told you can’t be trusted. It’s an insult no matter how much sugar it’s coated with.

  Following someone around without their knowledge has nothing to do with protecting them unless the person being followed is under four years old. When someone is watching us secretly, it’s because they’re hoping or expecting to catch us doing something we wouldn’t do if we knew they were there. When women are being stalked, they’re often in physical danger and almost always in psychological and emotional danger.

  There is nothing healthy or sexy about possessiveness or obsession. I speak from experience. My ex-husband stalked me while we were married and continues to do so six years later. I got myself out of a very bad situation, and I am afraid you may need to do the same. You might have to take your pup Snowflake and get to a shelter. I’m posting some links for you to some great organizations where professional counselors will be happy to
help you free of charge. Please reach out to them.

  Affectionately yours,

  The Ex-Whisperer

  I hit Post.

  In my line of work, I hear from all kinds of people on all sorts of topics. If they’re writing to me, they’re usually in the midst of a relationship crisis and don’t know where else to turn. Many times, they already know the answers to the questions they’re asking, they just need reassurance and confirmation. They also need to be reminded to trust that little voice inside. It never lies. Deep down most of us understand the dos and don’ts of intimate relationships. I strive to be the voice of reason and also the boot that will kick ass when required. Lillian’s letter has me genuinely worried for her. I hope she follows through with getting herself help.

  My brilliant baby girl, Ella, pulls up a chair at my “desk” and sips a chocolate peanut butter smoothie with dates and chia seeds while she checks her phone. “Oh my God, Mom, the aunts are spamming all our walls. Why did you give them your old laptop? They don’t understand how to use social media. They’re so embarrassing.”

  Cringe. “I thought it would be fun for them to dabble on the internet. I didn’t know they were going to sign up for seniors’ center computer classes and wind up with Pinterest addictions.”

  Ella is deleting her great aunts’ posts from her Facebook wall. “I guess they skipped the class on how to send PMs. Zia Angela wants to know the exact date you’re moving back to town, and Zia Rosa is asking if you want ravioli or manicotti on your first night there.”

  “Cripes, I already told them September fifteenth and risotto.”

  Ella rolls her eyes, carries on deleting.

  I check my own Facebook wall—with dread. And there they are. Eight, ten, twelve posts from my zany twin Italian aunts all pretty much saying the same thing, “Gina? Gina? Are you there? Where you are? Hello? When you moving here? Che cavolo!” The feisty old gals swear like sailors but always in Italian, thinking no one knows what they’re saying. Potty mouth is in the DNA. It’s not my fault. They always sign their online comments with their names, bacio Zia Angela and bacio Zia Rosa, even though Facebook tags their posts. The aunts’ messages are like virtual cheek pinching: painful but done with love.

  Ella’s cell dings. A text from Air Canada. “Damn. The flight’s delayed two hours.” My girl is a chip off the old block in the bad language department.

  Now I’m the one with the eye rolls. “Time to switch to wine.” I dump my empty paper coffee cup in a bin, line up for a nice dry white.

  * * *

  Three hours and a couple of chardonnays later, I have posted replies to a few more letters on my column and have also responded to the aunts. Again. I’m pretty confident my writing is exceptionally witty, my advice transformative tonight, although to be honest, it read better with each glass of wine, which is slightly troubling. Note to self—It worked for Hemingway. Onward.

  Ella has been texting back and forth to her brothers while listening to My Favorite Murder podcasts. A regular little Murderino.

  A second letter comes in from Lillian.

  Dear Ex-Whisperer,

  My husband checked my phone and found the letter I sent you. He went bananas and took my laptop away. I’m using a computer at the library now. Hopefully, he doesn’t find out I’m writing to you again. He said he’ll give my dog, Snowflake, away if I send anyone another message. I talked to the police, but they can’t help. They told me I have no evidence to prove my husband is stalking me and that his having a bad temper is not a crime even if it scares me. There’s nothing they can do unless a judge orders my husband to stay away from me. He’d go crazy if I took him to court. There’s no point in me going to a shelter because I can’t stay there forever, and my husband swears if I ever try to leave him, he’ll find me and “make me go away for real.” He said there’s nowhere in the world I can hide from him. What should I do? Can you help me, Ex-Whisperer?

  Lillian

  My reply:

  Dear Lillian,

  I am so sorry the police refused to help you. That is not uncommon, and it does not mean you are wrong or overreacting to your husband’s behavior. You have to trust your instincts. If you feel you are in danger, you must take your pets and leave. Please reach out to the good counselors in the links I sent you. They will be able to guide you and help protect you. Be strong, Lillian, and please be careful.

  Affectionately yours,

  The Ex-Whisperer

  I hit Post.

  Poor Lillian. Unfortunately, her horrendous situation is frighteningly common.

  I close my laptop with a heavy heart, look up, and exhale loudly. Despite the half hour to go until boarding, throngs of passengers hefting carry-on bags way too big to be carry-on bags crowd the gate agents in their desperate mission to board the plane first and hog all the overhead storage space. Ella and I make our way to the gate.

  Thirty minutes later, our row is called for boarding, but I always wait until the last possible moment before entering the tin can of stale air in which I will hurtle through space. I check my messages one last time. Big mistake.

  Dear Ex-Whisperer,

  Stay the hell away from my wife, Lillian. She doesn’t need your crackpot “advice” messing with her head. As her husband, it’s my duty to protect her from phonies like you. You’ll keep your nose out of our business if you know what’s good for you.

  I’ve got my eyes on you.

  Chapter Two

  I often say I don’t care for confrontation, and yet I find myself putting up my dukes and jumping into the ring at the drop of a hat. Unfortunately, I usually swing way above my weight class.

  My reply:

  Dear Eyes On Me,

  How dare you spy on your wife, and how dare you troll me. In my experience, men like you who threaten and berate women are desperately trying to compensate for serious deficiencies in the dick department. Obviously, you also have serious deficiencies in the brain department. I’d say you’ve got a terminal case of dickhead syndrome. I hope your wife and her little dog get the hell outta Dodge before you can say “controlling jerk.” Also, the next time you threaten me, I’ll cut your tiny balls off.

  Affectionately yours,

  The Ex-Whisperer

  I hit Delete.

  Arrggghhh, I so want to post this. Of course, I would never do anything as reckless as to endanger anyone. An aggressive response from me could trigger this creep to take his anger out on his poor wife.

  My daughter is on her feet and tapping her toe impatiently. “Mom, it’s time to board. We’ve gotta go.”

  My fingers are flying across the keyboard. “Okay, I know. One more minute.”

  Last call for boarding is announced. Ella is exasperated with me. “I’m getting in line.” And she does.

  Dear Eyes On Me,

  Your wife sounds like a good woman who has never given you any reason to distrust her. She deserves to have a loving husband who appreciates her. Marriage is hard work, and all couples go through rough patches from time to time. There are many good counselors who can help provide you with tools to make your relationship the best it can be. I am providing links for you here that I hope you will follow up on. I wish both of you well.

  Affectionately yours,

  The Ex-Whisperer

  I hit Post. Maybe a little harder than necessary.

  Painful to write, but caution is required.

  I throw my laptop in my bag, gallop toward the gate agents. My daughter disappears down the jet bridge. The airline employee scans my boarding pass without a smile. They hate the eager beavers but also detest the stragglers. I book it onto the aircraft.

  No room left in the overhead bins, as expected. I squeeze my bag under my seat and settle in next to Ella. “Let’s have some fun.”

  I smile. Ella smirks, clearly still a little ticked with me.

  The flight captain introduces himself. We will arrive in London in under eight hours and take off in less than ten minutes. The desperation
among my fellow passengers is palpable. This aircraft hasn’t been updated with satellite Wi-Fi. In a short while, we’ll all be disconnected from the World Wide Web for the length of an entire workday. Will we survive the withdrawal? I quickly download the most recent emails, letters, and comments from my column so I can work on the replies while in the air.

  Four hours late, we finally have takeoff.

  Ella is staring at me loudly, a skill she honed as a toddler. I’m helpless when I look into those velvety eyes that render me incapable of ignoring her. My little girl requests that I not work on the flight but goof off with her, instead. I happily oblige. We share a few cups of tea and simultaneously marathon an entire season of Veep together on our seatback video screens, laughing out loud at all the same parts. Five hours and two mushy vegetarian meals later, we are in and out of the uncomfortable, quasi-sleep one gets on a red-eye.

  I’m strangely fascinated by the semi-circle neck pillows that many passengers unabashedly wear like Coachella chokers. I can’t envision any outfit I might wear tromping through an airport that I’d willingly accessorize with a whiplash-like collar. Some of the pillows cover the entire head with only a tiny slit to breathe through. The sight of these suffocating restraints triggers my claustrophobia. I take a moment for a few slow, deep breaths.