She stayed at the downtown hotel into the weekend while a crew cleaned her mansion of all traces of the violence. Early on Monday, hours before the inquest, she went back home and pulled out the sole contents of her safe, a computer disc. Inserting the disc into her computer, she initiated the printer.

            As it spit out page after page of manuscript, she dropped the pages into a big cardboard box. After destroying the disc, she lifted the heavy box and carried it out to the trash burner behind her home, started a fire with a few pages, adding more as the fire grew. When the last sheet had been tossed into the flames, she stepped back and looked skyward at the column of dirty gray smoke. Waving to it, she whispered, “Goodbye, Martin, and good riddance. May your rotten soul burn in hell forever.”

            Even as she waved, Jane felt a lightening in her spirit; a buoyancy that had been missing her entire life. The sense of foreboding and heaviness that had pervaded her very existence was gone. After the symbolic pile was reduced to ashes and the sky clear of smoke, she returned to the house and prepared her real manuscript for shipment. Her latest novel was complete and ready for the publisher.

“What was will be no more,” she sang to herself, recalling the little play she’d directed. “What will be, we’ll see…” In her mind, last fall was only a blink away…

Jane sat at the computer, eyes fixed on the screen and fingers blurring over the keys. This was the pivotal scene she needed done before John got home for dinner. A bit more and it would be just the way she wanted it.

            Minutes later she maneuvered the mouse, pulling the cursor to the file menu to save her work. Warm northern Mississippi sunlight sliced through the room’s tall beveled-glass windows, reflecting rainbow prisms off her chestnut hair. She reached up and let the long strands out of their customary bun, shaking the glistening curls free.

            A smile lit up her tanned face as she shut down the computer and got to her feet, pleased with her effort. She’d been pursuing this novel, her seventh, for months. Another few days and it would be ready for the editor, well ahead of schedule. The lady would no doubt be pleased. As for whether John would be pleased, well...

            Jane glanced at the six books on the massive mahogany mantle as she stepped from the den into the great room. She’d written all six over the past seven years and had gotten them published by a major imprint, the last two in both hard cover and trade paperback.  

This new story held the promise of a possible movie option along with major promotion in a national bookstore chain. Ornately framed reviews of her other work sat beside the books atop the mantle. Centered was the prestigious New World Award for Mystery Writing and a photocopy of the generous monetary prize that had come with it.

            Her smile spread into a big grin as she glanced at her pen name. Jane Delta, barely noticeable on the first book, was emblazoned in large gold script on the last hardcover. How they would top that for her new book she neither knew nor cared so long as it was a success.

            She stepped out the back door and strolled some distance through her flower garden, ablaze with the vibrant colors of summer. It was September but myriad flowers would remain in full bloom for at least another month here in Quanary. Twin rows of tall oak trees beckoned her to relax a bit, to take the path between them that led to the rear acreage of Delta Place.

            Beyond that lay a thickly wooded area bordering Big Sunflower River, a scenic wonder in this magical spot. For a moment she was tempted to shed her shoes and tiptoe barefoot through the thick grass and to lie in the warm sunlight, marveling at the powder puff clouds. A glance at her watch and she headed back to the house.

No more time for dalliance, Janie.

            As she padded lightly through the rear door of the magnificent colonial residence on her way to the kitchen, she heard John’s ancient MG sputtering up the drive. He’d no doubt be hungry. Hopefully, some of the apple pie she’d made this morning would suffice until she could get dinner ready. I don’t know what he finds so goshalmighty awful about school lunches.

Her thoughts stalled as he stomped in by way of the back porch. “Hi, Janie. How’s my favorite wife’s new book coming?”

            Isn’t it just like him to couch a compliment into the middle of an inquiry? One that telegraphs his jealousy.

            “Favorite and only wife, Mr. John Rivers. Better be only.” Her face crinkled into a grin. “Oh, the book’s going about as good as I can make it go. You know me. I just let it write itself out as it’s wont to do.”

            “Oh yes, um-hum. Now lookie here, my dear, you know and I know you’ve never been submissive to anything in your life, least of all your writing.”

            She didn’t respond but turned back to the counter and spooned a generous slice of her pie onto a plate. “Get you a glass of milk, sugar, and you can enjoy some of the best apple pie I ever made.”

            “Submissive and modest, too. What a prize!” His words were delivered as good-natured fun but his eyes had a dark cast to them when he squinted her way before saying, “I’m famished, darling. Those sophomores I have last period are about too much for this ol’ boy.”

            “Now who’s being falsely modest? Never seen a sophomore that could take the measure of ol’ John Rivers. You really should eat something substantial at lunch instead of coffee and candy bars. I swear I don’t know what you do with your time, darling. Surely your planning period coming right next to lunch gives you plenty of leisure to eat properly.”

            “Janie, you surely are worse than my own mother, God rest her soul in Heaven. If you’ll leave me be, I promise to start eating that slop they hand out. But when I come down with some dread terminal disease-creating parasite, I hope my insurance is fitting for the lifestyle you want to live.”

            “John Rivers! Goshalmighty, how you do go on. That food is just fine ‘n you know it. Now, while you enjoy your lil’ treat, I’m going to go up and change. Then I’ll fix a real meal for my darling husband.” Without waiting for a reply, Jane spun and exited the room.

            Before she’d gotten half way up the steps he was behind her. “Janie, darling, how long’s it going to be ‘fore you have dinner ready?”

            She looked back and smiled. “I can’t rightly say. I’m fixing pork chops with all the trimmings. Two hours, I suppose. Why?”

            “Well, I have some papers that need grading before tomorrow and I up and left ‘em at school. Think I’ll mosey back over and get ‘em done while you’re cooking. You mind?”

            There was something in his eyes that bothered her but she replied, “No, sugar. You just go right on. That’ll give me time for a good soak in the tub before I slave over that hot ol’ stove.”

            John’s face went pasty. “You suppose we could hire a maid when you get your next advance?” There was sarcasm in the words of the man who was insanely jealous of her financial success. “I’d like something say five foot and a half, bright red hair, cute as a bug’s ear, and a good cook, too.”

            “Go on, you ol’ fool. I thought you preferred ‘em tall and blonde.” She giggled pleasantly but her comment pierced him like a rapier. 

            John fought off panic and grinned back at her. “I ain’t particular, as long as they can cook better’n you. More prompt, too.” With that he turned and was out the door.

            She stood on the steps pondering his last words. He could hardly stand that everything she wrote hit the book stores while he couldn’t con even a vanity publisher into printing his romantic epics. For a time she’d tried to help him learn to edit and condense them into manuscripts an editor would at least consider.

But his attitude that each and every word was sacred, a gift from God, not to be despoiled by man nor editor and, heaven forbid, never ever by the woman he called wife, trumped her advice.

            She went into the third bedroom, the one decorated for the daughter she’d craved but never had. In the corner of the room was a display case that held the two dozen dolls she’d collected over the years. Centered in the collection was Shannon, a life size Irish Victorian porcelain doll. Janie took Shannon out and held the doll in her arms while her thoughts raced about what might have been but was not.