The Next Mrs. Roberts
I am the second Mrs. Roberts. Well, not officially, at least not yet. But I will be. Of that, you can be sure. Of course, for there to be a second of anything there must be a first. Always. So what of the first Mrs. Roberts? I killed her.
The late Mrs. Roberts, née the first Mrs. Roberts, was married to my boss Nathanial Roberts, president and owner of a midsize yet quite profitable cardboard manufacturing company. I have been his personal assistant—he refers to me as his secretary—for over two years. About a year ago, he and I began meeting in his office after work and chatting first about work and then eventually about more personal matters. More to the point, he used that time to complain about his wife.
He poured each of us a glass of expensive bourbon, and he vented. Not in an angry way, but not in an easy way either. I didn’t care for the whiskey, but he went on and on about how hard it was to get, so I sipped it slowly and tolerated the burn so I wouldn’t hurt his feelings. If I’m being honest, I thought if I acted like I didn’t enjoy it, if I didn’t admire it, he would get angry.
Over time, we developed something more than boss and personal assistant—or secretary, as it were. I felt it, so I’m sure he did as well, though we never spoke about it. He was a gentleman and never once made his feelings overtly clear, but I knew they were there.
His wife stopped by on occasion—the first Mrs. Roberts. She was an unkind woman who never bothered to learn my name, and when she did refer to me, which was almost never, she referred to me as “Nathanial’s girl.” If only she knew.
I would be lying if I said I hated the first Mrs. Roberts. I simply do not hate; it’s how I was raised. But I do dislike, and I disliked her. Very much. As much as I have disliked anyone. Ever. Nathanial deserved better, and I came to realize that he deserved…me. Despite his never saying so—again, he had a wife, and he was a gentleman, so he would not be expected to utter such things—I presumed he believed the same. Otherwise, why would he share his expensive whiskey and confide in me?
The atmosphere the day following the murder of the first Mrs. Roberts was quiet without being somber. Nathaniel was absent, but work was expected to continue. I took messages of condolence and cleared his calendar until he returned three days later. He was only in for a couple of hours, and he didn’t speak to me, which was to be expected. He lost his wife, after all, even if he no longer loved the woman. I want to be clear that he never told me that, being the fine man that he is, but…we talked.
Routines are routine for a reason, and Nathanial soon fell back into his with the exception of our after-work meetings. It didn’t bother me at first; the man needed time. Plus, with his wife gone, did he really need an ear to bend? One month became two, two became three, and then a young woman showed up at the office. She headed straight for Mr. Roberts’ closed door, and I asked if I could help her. She told me Nathanial was expecting her as she opened the door and walked straight in before I could stand fully out of my chair.
Mr. Roberts’s chair squeaked as it did when he stood, and he greeted her cheerfully, almost laughing. I hadn’t heard that from him since his wife’s death.
The woman was striking. Taller than me (I’m not short) and…nice in all the places men like their women to be nice, with light brown eyes, raven black hair that was almost blue in the right light, and porcelain skin. Her eyebrows were full but manicured, she had sharp cheekbones, a narrow nose, and a perfect cupid’s bow mouth colored with dark red lipstick; her black and tan houndstooth print tweed dress belied her age. I’m very observant, particularly about the women in Mr. Roberts’ orbit. I assumed she must be his niece—he and the first Mrs. Roberts never had children—but she had said, “Nathanial’s expecting me.” Mr. Roberts is far too formal to permit his niece to call him by his proper name.
This woman’s visits became more frequent. She often showed up as I was packing up to leave for the day and never once gave me as much as a glance. I began to stay late myself as I felt I had a duty to stay until Mr. Roberts left for the day should he need anything. One thing I learned by staying after hours was that this woman liked Mr. Roberts’ expensive bourbon. More than once, she came out of his office stinking of it, and on one occasion, owed to her unsteady gait, she bumped into my desk as she turned the corner to leave, knocking over a picture frame. She didn’t apologize, didn’t offer to stand it back up, didn’t so much as acknowledge what she had done.
The last night I stayed late, the woman had come in and flashed an unfriendly look in my direction, the first such allowance that I even existed, before letting herself into Mr. Roberts’s office. I heard the familiar squeak, the now-familiar ebullient greeting, and then a quiet muffled back and forth. A moment later, Mr. Roberts opened the door, cleared his throat, and told me I was free to leave. I made to protest, telling him that I was duty-bound to stay as long as he did. He held up a hand and told me that I could go. His tone invited no response, so I nodded, picked up my purse, and left.
Less than a year after the first Mrs. Roberts’s death, Mr. Roberts and…that woman…got married. I was hurt. He had chosen her. And after what I had done for him, I was supposed to be the second Mrs. Roberts. Me. Not this…this…person. He did seem happy, though, so maybe I should be happy for him. I take some satisfaction knowing I was right about him no longer being happily married to the first Mrs. Roberts. How else could he have moved on so quickly? As much as I tried, I could not remember a single time when the first Mrs. Roberts visited and Mr. Roberts seemed happy. I never heard his chair squeak when she entered his office. Never heard him laugh. Never heard so much as the hint of a smile in his voice.
Eventually, I contented myself knowing I had gifted him his freedom from a marriage he longer wished to be in. I so badly wanted him to know I was the one who had made it happen, but he could never know the truth. Not for my sake, but for his. I didn’t have the heart. For he would know then that he had chosen the wrong woman. He appeared finally happy, and I dared not infringe upon that. My joy would have to rest in his joy.
Some months passed when, as I was packing my stuff to leave, he called me into his office. I dutifully stopped what I was doing, grabbed a notepad and pen, entered his office. I made to sit in a visitor’s chair facing his large, paper-strewn desk when he invited me to sit on the couch instead. He poured two glasses of his expensive bourbon and handed me one as he told me that notes would not be necessary. He smiled at me for what seemed like minutes but was probably only a few seconds. He held up his glass, and I held up mine. We silently air-toasted, and he drank a large swallow from his glass as I sipped a small sip from mine, concentrating on not making a face. He told me he missed our time together, and we fell into easy conversation as if the months since the death of the first Mrs. Roberts had never even happened.
We had reentered our routine easily and only a few weeks later he began speaking about Olivia—the second Mrs. Roberts. The conversations didn’t begin negatively—simple musings and small laments about the age difference mostly. How he had nothing in common with her friends, how she sometimes spoke in a language he didn’t understand (he laughed at the last part). Our evening talks soon grew more personal, more…uncharitable. Mr. Roberts was doing his level best to keep her happy, but he felt there was something missing. He often mentioned not feeling connected with her.
I listened as I had when he was married to the first Mrs. Roberts. I listened, I sipped, I nodded. As happened with the first Mrs. Roberts, after a time, I consoled. I certainly didn’t care for this second Mrs. Roberts, but I so wanted Mr. Roberts to be happy. Seeing Mr. Roberts unhappy made me unhappy; a familiar feeling from before when we discussed the first Mrs. Roberts stirred within me. I was in tune with this man. I knew him.
I could make him happy. I knew I could, and I would. Without question. I thought back to when the first Mrs. Roberts died. I’d known then I was going to be the second Mrs. Roberts as sure as I knew the sun would rise in the east. I could tell how much he cared about me, and I knew that he was aware of just how much I cared about him.
I soon identified my mistake, though. In his darkest days, during his days of mourning the first Mrs. Roberts, I was not there for him. I’d believed space was best, giving him room to grieve until he was ready to move on.
But I’d waited too long.
While I was being considerate, some discourteous person, this Olivia threw herself at a man weak with grief and saw to it that she was the second Mrs. Roberts. She didn’t know the man—not like I did. It wasn’t right. None of it. And now Mr. Roberts was once again miserable. He needed me. Again.
It was mid-morning on a Saturday, and I sat in my vehicle, which was backed into a parking space on the second level of the mall’s parking garage. The space I occupied was situated such that I could observe any person entering the second level by stairs or by elevator. It took less than half an hour until the second Mrs. Roberts stepped off the elevator, carrying two large brown paper shopping bags—one in each hand. As soon as I noticed her, I exited my vehicle. It was raining—storming—the cacophony bounced around the concrete parking garage and muffled the closing of my car door enough that it did not draw her attention. In fact, just as in the office, she failed to take notice of my presence until I stood in front of her, blocking the way to her SUV mere steps ahead.
She pulled up short rather than colliding and made to step around me when I pulled the small silver Smith & Wesson revolver from the pouch of my charcoal gray hoodie and held it waist high, pointed at her midsection.
I said, “Hello, Mrs. Roberts.”
She looked at the gun, then at me. Fear. Good. With the pistol in my left hand, I removed my black running cap with my right, spilling my loose blonde curls past my shoulders. Her eyes squinted just a hair: familiarity without recognition.
Fear gave way to indignation as she said, “Who are you?”
“I’m the next Mrs. Roberts.”
Brandon Hughes brings two decades of experience in the criminal justice system to craft an authentic mystery novel and utilizes his real-world knowledge to take the reader inside the inner workings of a criminal investigation. Criminal cases he has handled have been featured on 48 Hours, Generation Hustle, and The Dr. Phil Show.
He is the author of The Hero Rule
When he isn’t writing, Brandon enjoys cooking, reading, and cheering on his Auburn Tigers. He and his wife Karen are empty nesters save for their chocolate lab Murphy. They live in Auburn, Alabama.
