One of the highlights of my tenure as a member of Toastmasters was coordinating a Murder Mystery theme meeting. Keeping members engaged and motivated to continue working toward their goals can be a challenge. So in an effort to liven things up a bit, I worked with a few other members to put together a murder mystery night. Every speaker was assigned a character, all of them potential murder suspects, along with some details from the storyline specific to their character. Our victim was a wealthy art collector, who we named Sir Ralph Smedly, in honor of the founder of Toastmasters. I also participated as a speaker and played the victim’s much-younger wife who stood to benefit from a large life insurance policy. I recently found my speech and made a few changes to make it easier to read as a short story. I was quite proud of the success of this meeting and of this speech so I decided to share it.
You’ll notice throughout the story some italicized notes. These are the speaker’s personal asides. In an effort to play into the stereotype of a gold-digging younger wife, I acted as though I couldn’t remember my newly departed husband’s name. It added some humor to the speech and my audience had a lot of fun with it.
We met in Austria. I was on a solo getaway, sipping coffee at an outdoor café, soaking in the beauty of Vienna. It was a perfect spring afternoon, and the cafe was busy. I was lost in my thoughts until Albert (hmm, no that doesn’t sound right) walked up.
“Guten Tag,“ he said in American-accented German. Then he babbled something about a lost chair and borrowing my butt.
I did my best not to laugh as I took him in. The man in front of me bore a striking resemblance to Peter Gallagher. “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like,” I responded with a polite smile.
“Thank goodness!” he exclaimed, as he lowered himself into the chair next to me. “You speak English. I’ve never managed to get my tongue around German.”
There was no question he was considerably older than me, not even remotely age appropriate. He’s old enough to be my father. Okay, so Brice (no, that doesn’t sound right either) is practically old enough to be my parents’ father. But we continued making small talk. He made me laugh. It was nice.
As the afternoon faded to evening, Charles (nope, also not it) smiled and asked, “Do you by chance have plans for dinner?”
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Dinner with a Pierce Brosnan look alike, clearly well off, and a decent conversationalist. Why not? I can be arm candy for an evening. So, I accepted.
“Wonderful,” he smiled. “If you don’t mind, we’ll need to make a quick stop on our way. It’s just a few streets over if you don’t mind a little walk.”
“That sounds fine,” I said. Ever the gentleman, he offered his arm and we strolled off.
I suddenly found myself standing in a salon of couture as far as the eye could see. And with a wave of his hand, Dimitri (no, that was that guy in the soap opera my grandma watched when I was little) simply said “Pick one”.
And that was it; my first hit of the drug that is Edmond’s (Also not it. That was the soap opera guy’s brother) extravagant lifestyle. He wined and dined me in the finest restaurants, gave me the finest gifts, trips to the most exotic destinations. Anything I wanted, was laid at my feet.
It was a whirlwind courtship. Less than six months later, and before I could come up for air, we were back at that sidewalk cafe in Vienna, and Ferdinand (no, that’s the duke whose assassination started World War I) was pulling out the little bobble that now resides on my left hand. An appropriate choice for a proposal in Austria as it once graced the hand of none other than Archduchess Maria Antonia. Or as she’s more commonly known, Marie Antoinette.
Now I know what you’re all thinking. She’s a stereotypical gold digger. A helpless airhead with daddy issues. Of course, she would marry a handsome billionaire old enough to be her grandfather. But you would be wrong. Before I met George (nope, that’s not it either), I was an independent woman. Master’s degree, a successful career, and great friends. I owed my own home. The whole place would fit inside my master closet now but it was mine. I traveled when I wanted to. I stood on my own two feet.
And in a flash, I walked away from all of it. I quit my job and sold my house. I hardly ever see my friends or family. What Hermann (nope, too exotic) offered me was like cocaine. And the more he’s given, the more I’ve needed. It’s not love that brings people like us together. It’s addiction. Every time I’ve considered walking away, going back to the person I used to be, to the life I used to have, there’s another hit. Weekends in Martha’s Vineyard, private dinners catered by Wolfgang Puck, my own black card, shopping sprees in the best fashion houses in the world. Plus, the five-million-dollar life insurance policy he gifted me in the prenup doesn’t hurt. I remind myself of that every time I’m tempted to run off and find actual love with someone my own age. Ivan’s (no, that’s too Slavic) idiot son becomes the beneficiary if I file for divorce.
But how can I complain? After all, I have everything anyone could possibly want. So why do I spend my nights having drunken meltdowns on the heated marble floors in my master bath, clutching some four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine I can’t pronounce the name of? Because I’ve done everything. I’ve been everywhere. I have everything. I am so bored. And Joffrey (oh no, that’s that little sociopathic, inbred, twerp from Game of Thrones; I met the actor at the premiere) doesn’t care. He’s become absolutely consumed with his precious art collection. I hardly see him. And when he is around, all we do is argue.
Get this. For our third anniversary, a few weeks ago, we were taking a house in the Hamptons, next door to Ina and Jeffrey Garten. We were invited to one of Ina’s fabulous dinner parties. I love Ina Garten. I worship Ina Garten. And two days before we were set to leave, Karl (nope, he isn’t German) says he has to rush off to Moscow to look at some new piece he just can’t live without, and we’ll have to cancel. Can you imagine? I had to call Ina Garten to cancel.
And now, he’s dead.
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