Chapter 17 Mrs. Smith #2
The only designer who came close to her ideal was Dior. He’d made a satin dress in royal blue with beaded velvet floral appliqués.
The beads curled up one side of the gown, from just above the ankle to just below the left breast. The serpentine tendrils
reminded Mrs. Smith of the oriental bittersweet vines growing wild in her woods.
It’ll have to do.
Mrs. Smith found an article detailing the body measurements of the world’s top models and decided these bodies were too thin.
She wanted to resemble a violin, not a flute.
Throughout the centuries, the human male had changed little.
His attention was easily captured by long, lustrous hair, plump lips, the swell of high breasts, and the undulating sway of full hips.
After stacking a pile of photos on one corner of the hot tub, Mrs. Smith willed her vocal cords to adapt to a human voice
and then poked at the illuminated number keys on her phone.
“Lord & Taylor, this is Mindy, how may I help you?”
“Hello,” Mrs. Smith croaked. Recalling the clarity and softness of a female voice the humans seemed to find appealing, she
began to talk in a perfect semblance to Julie Andrews. “I would like to speak with the individual in charge of personal shopping.”
“That would be Muriel O’Connell. Please hold while I get her on the line.”
Mrs. Smith shifted, causing water to sluice over the edge of the hot tub and soak the magazine pages she’d set aside. The
ink began to bleed, seeping into the tub water like fluids leaking from a pestilent corpse.
Irritated, Mrs. Smith flicked them off the ledge with the barbed tip of a tentacle.
“Hello, this is Muriel O’Connell. How may I be of service?”
“My name is Mrs. Smith. I am recently recovered from a long illness, rendering my previous wardrobe obsolete. I require an
immediate replacement. Time is of the essence, and money is of no consequence. Do you possess a writing implement?”
After a brief pause, Muriel said, “I have a pen.”
“Then I’ll begin with my measurements.”
She rattled off the numbers and explained that she preferred pieces designed by Christian Dior. “Of paramount importance is
a cocktail dress. I have a particular item in mind. A size four would be suitable as long as it can be tailored to my measurements.”
“Certainly.”
Mrs. Smith was pleased. This Muriel person was as pliable as seaweed. All servants were the same. The slightest whiff of a
generous gratuity and they’d grovel like the weakest puppy of the litter.
Mrs. Smith had learned to be generous with her servants. Hers had always been an unusual house. Wherever she lived, there
were locked rooms containing oversized bathtubs filled with salt water and at least one indoor pool. Many areas were off-limits
to staff. Anyone caught breaking her rules would live to regret it.
Disobedient servants were dealt with swiftly and severely. Mrs. Smith would spread word of their untrustworthy nature among
the gentry, ensuring they’d never find employment with the upper classes again. If the recalcitrant servant had children,
she’d kill one if not all of them. That was all it took for the rest of her staff to fall into line.
As Muriel struggled to keep up, Mrs. Smith listed her needs. She wanted cocktail dresses, frilly sundresses, leisure wear,
delicate lingerie, string bikinis, wide-brimmed hats, sunglasses, stilettos, Capezios, oversized earrings, colorful necklaces,
chunky bracelets, wide belts, and handbags. She wanted makeup, hair products, and multiple fragrances.
“I need everything delivered to my house. I have a condition that prevents me from driving.”
“Oh.” Muriel’s voice deflated. “In that case, we would have to ship everything to your home. I’m afraid we don’t deliver.”
“I’d compensate the driver two hundred dollars for the inconvenience.”
“Oh?” Muriel repeated with renewed enthusiasm.
Mrs. Smith recited her address and phone number and then informed Muriel that she would write a check for the total amount.
Muriel said, “It’ll take a few days to get everything together.”
Irritated, Mrs. Smith gripped the phone headset so hard that it began to crack. “I need the everyday items tomorrow. If you
can expedite the process, I’d be most grateful.”
Perhaps Muriel heard the hard edge of Mrs. Smith’s tone and, fearing she might lose her biggest sale of the year, haltingly
explained that the tailoring department couldn’t even begin altering the items until they’d been paid for.
Mrs. Smith imagined curling her tentacles around Muriel’s body and squeezing until the woman’s ribs snapped. She hated entering
the human world. She hated their rules and customs. Their ever-changing manner of speech. They rarely spoke plainly or truthfully.
They flattered, lied, obfuscated, and deflected. They were a selfish, grasping species, and the sooner she could create another
of her kind, the sooner she and her offspring could destroy more humans and the structures and vessels dumping poison into
the oceans.
“Very well,” she grumbled. “If you can provide me with a figure, I will write a check and have it delivered into your hands
today.”
Again, Muriel faltered. “I do apologize, Mrs. Smith, but when dealing with such large amounts, we usually wait for the check
to clear before starting on the tailoring. It’ll take two days. Three at most.”
Anger swept through Mrs. Smith’s body, electrifying her newly empowered cells. She could morph into a human form right now,
call a taxicab, and travel to the department store. She could hunt down this Muriel woman and punish her for putting obstacles
in her path.
She could drag her into a storage or fitting room and crush her skull between her hands.
Even in her human form, Mrs. Smith was formidable.
She would take great pleasure in killing this insipid creature.
She would bite her flesh while the woman was still alive.
She would paint the walls with her blood.
For a moment, she was overcome with a desire to feed, but as Muriel’s simpering voice wormed into her ear, she calmed herself.
“In that case, I shall pay in cash. I presume there is no waiting period for cash.”
“There isn’t, but—”
“Tell me, Muriel. Did I make a mistake? Should I have called Saks instead of Lord & Taylor? Because I’m beginning to believe
I might be better served there.”
“No, no!” Muriel cried. “And a check is fine. Absolutely fine. We’ll do whatever it takes to get your order processed and tailored as soon as possible. We appreciate your business
and value you as a customer.”
Seeing no need to reply, Mrs. Smith ended the call and sank deeper into the water. The time to change had come.
She wasn’t slipping into a temporary skin the way she did each night before walking down to the boathouse. That form, featureless
as a store mannequin, lasted a few minutes only. This time, she would do a full change. One that would last for weeks. One
that caused her a world of pain to perform.
She wrapped her tentacles around her body, creating a cocoon. Her limbs drew in, tighter and tighter, until every inch of
her body was underwater.
Then, she released her power.
The water in the hot tub began to bubble. As Mrs. Smith writhed and twisted, water sloshed over the side of the tub. Her cartilage
fractured and reformed. Her spine shortened and her lower tentacles fused together. Her arm tentacles split at the ends into
hands. The hands split into fingers.
Loose scales and claws roiled in the water. Bits of black fluke stuck to the sides of the tub. The water went from pink to
red to vermillion. Chunks of tissue bobbed to the surface.
Finally, the violent movements in the water stopped.
Much later, when Mrs. Smith reached for the phone, she punched in numbers with her human fingers.
When a man answered, Mrs. Smith’s lovely mouth curved into a grin. “Hello, Don,” she purred. “I’ve been thinking about you.”