54
Curtis vividly remembers the first time they saw the Spanish house.
The Realtor, José Sainz, had picked them up from the small apartment they’d rented in Girona, had driven them toward the sea.
Curtis had sat in the cramped back seat, allowing Sydney to sit up front and take in the views.
José had regaled them with tales of the area, its medieval history, its culture of passion and bravery.
It was imperative that his wife fall in love with Cap de Creus.
This was where they’d rebuild their life together.
The villa that would become their home had been vacant for several months.
José apologized for the state of disrepair as they meandered down the hillside toward it, but his words barely registered.
The view had them mesmerized, glimpses of the whitewashed town and the sparkling Mediterranean seducing their attention.
Eventually, José turned into the gravel drive, and they jostled toward the house.
José’s business motto was clearly underpromise and overdeliver.
While there were repairs to be made, upgrades desperately needed, the bones of the house were good.
And the magnificent windows! The sweeping views!
The charming beamed ceilings! Curtis had never felt a visceral longing to live somewhere before, but he felt it now.
Sydney felt it, too. They’d fallen instantly in love with the place.
They hadn’t even tried to play coy with the salesman; they couldn’t.
Wandering through the rooms, they’d estimated the work required, tallied up the costs on a notes app.
It was significant, but Curtis and Syd were up for the challenge.
They needed a project that would bring them together, a shared goal. That was why they’d moved here.
When they’d surveyed every inch of the house, José took them outside, walked them around the fence line. “It’s one of the larger plots on this hillside,” the Realtor told them. “With full sun most of the year at the west fence line. You could grow vegetables or fruit.”
“Grapes?” Curtis queried, and caught Sydney’s eye. Her smile was small but optimistic, and she’d never looked more beautiful to him.
“Of course,” José insisted, moving toward the massive oak near the back fence. “This hillside would be perfect for Airén grapes. You could make a beautiful small winery here.”
Curtis could envision it. An aspirational new business. He and Sydney working side by side to create their own wine. It would be hard work, long hours, and it was unlikely to be financially rewarding. But it would be theirs.
José had reached the tree now and rested a hand on the trunk. “This beautiful Holm oak tree is hundreds of years old,” he said. “It will give you shade for picnics. And it will be perfect for your future children to climb on.”
It was a patriarchal assumption, and Curtis’s eyes had darted to Sydney’s. But she seemed unfazed, comfortable with the decision they’d made together to remain a family of two. She kept her gaze on the massive tree. “It’s beautiful,” she responded.
José squatted next to the base of the thick trunk and plucked a small mushroom from a cluster growing there. “These mushrooms are very poisonous. Extremely dangerous.”
Curtis bent over to look at the offending fungi. “They look a bit like straw mushrooms.”
“That is the problem,” the real estate agent said, righting himself. “Many people make that mistake and pick them. They taste quite good, apparently. But even cooked, they can kill you.”
“Thanks for the warning, but I’m allergic to mushrooms,” Syd said, even though she wasn’t. She wandered up the hill to take in more of the view.
“We’ll steer clear,” Curtis assured their guide, but José wasn’t finished.
“People get very sick, and then, a few hours later, they feel better. They think it was simple food poisoning, so they don’t go to the doctor. But the poison is still inside them, destroying their organs. And then, they die.”
“Brutal.”
“You call these death caps in English,” José stated.
“I think we have those back home,” Curtis said, but it wasn’t like he’d been foraging for food in the sidewalk cracks of Manhattan.
“Curtis!” Sydney called from the upper fence line. “Look at the view from up here!”
He’d hurried to join her, the death caps forgotten.
Until today.
The memory had revisited him shortly after he’d discovered the machete, wrapped it in an old sweater, and hidden it at the back of the shelf in their bedroom closet.
He’d known he’d never be able to use it.
As desperate as he was, he couldn’t hack Damian and Bianca to death.
It was so gory, so bloody. And Damian was much bigger and stronger.
He’d wrestle the weapon away from Curtis and likely cleave him in half.
But poison was relatively clean, hands-off, and should be effective.
Traditionally, it’s been considered a woman’s method of murder.
Damian would have had a field day with that one…
except he wouldn’t because he’d be dead.
And unlike a bloody machete attack, this would look like an accident.
Bianca and Damian had gone out for lunch, had accidentally ingested the mushrooms. Curtis would dispose of his tormentors and get away scot-free.
The plan was perfect. He felt elated, practically high.
While Sydney was sanding the basement bathroom and Bianca and Damian were at the beach, Curtis had crept out to the big oak.
Dropping to his knees at its roots, he’d plucked several of the innocuous-looking fungi.
José had informed him that they were safe to handle with his bare hands, that their power wouldn’t be diminished by cooking, that ingesting even a few would be fatal without medical intervention.
Storm clouds were gathering by then, foreshadowing a heavy rain that would send their guests scurrying back home. He had no time to waste.
In the kitchen, he prepared the death caps carefully, treating them with a deserved reverence.
He washed them, sliced them uniformly, and then sautéed them with butter and sprigs of fresh thyme.
Sydney didn’t eat mushrooms, so she was in no danger.
But Damian and Bianca would be suspicious if Curtis didn’t partake.
He found a few conventional mushrooms in the fridge, slightly withered with age.
He sliced them to match the death caps, sauteed them in a different pan, and hid them in the stove.
While his guests were at the beach, he prepared the stroganoff, adding all the ingredients except the death caps.
He set two servings aside: one without mushrooms for Sydney, one with the regular mushrooms for himself.
It was simple enough to dish up their meals and serve himself last.
And now, lying next to his wife in bed, he stares sightlessly at his book, and waits.
It will take a few hours for the amatoxins to take effect, to begin attacking the blackmailers’ gastrointestinal systems. José had been so detailed that Curtis hadn’t even needed to research the effects.
If the police check his devices, they’ll find no searches for poisonous mushrooms, nothing suspicious.
It’s a foolproof plan, and he bites on a smile.
Sydney drops her hardcover on the floor with a loud thump. Curtis flinches. He’s tightly wound, on edge. “Sorry,” she says, reaching over to turn off her lamp. “I hope I didn’t wake the guests.”
“Damian had a lot of wine,” Curtis says. “And the rain on the roof is pretty loud.”
“Good night.” It’s slightly cool but not unusually so.
And there’s no kiss, which has become the norm since his “affair.” The tender voicemail she’d left him earlier seems to have been forgotten.
Syd snuggles down under the covers, presents her back to him.
Curtis flicks off his lamp and curls around her.
He feels her stiffen slightly, but soon she relaxes into him.
“I’m glad they’re finally leaving,” he whispers, his mouth close to her ear. “I just want it to be us again.”
At first, his wife doesn’t answer. She’s so still, so quiet, that he wonders if she’s already asleep.
Eventually, she mumbles something that sounds vaguely affirmative.
It sounds like she’s agreeing with him, like she’s eager for their guests to go, too.
Syd’s been hard to read lately, has seemed trapped in her own head.
But once Bianca and Damian are gone, they can work on restoring their closeness.
And that will be very soon.