Kindred Spirits
by Linda A. Lavid

Veronica never worked a day in her life. Why bother? Her job was to look good and be a man's lucky charm. She had been blessed with thoroughbred legs, and eyes the color and depth of Carribean waters at dusk. And as time went on, her looks only got better, like a fine bronze statue whose velvet patina went beyond art to something timeless, unforgettable.
It was a heavy load to bear, being such a constant source of attention, but Veronica handled it well, for the most part. She smiled demurely, spoke breathlessly, and swept into a room as if she were carried on the broad wings of a phoenix. So, what problems could a woman like this possibly have? Like any fine photograph, what one saw was only part of the reality.
Veronica, beneath the beauty, was a murderer, cool and calculating. And while this did not cause her any problems either morally or materially, it sometimes got in the way of her love life. Trips to the Bahamas or Paris had to be put on hold if she were in the middle of "an act of reprisal". Yes, Veronica was a vigilante, a cause she embraced after her three-year-old niece was snatched from her bed by a gas meter man. Her niece's body was never found, but his was--nicely tucked inside a steamer trunk and char broiled.
Her recent engagement had taken her to a hick town outside of Chicago where people looked unwell, possibly from too many chili dogs. There she rooted for a joker named Viper who belonged to a moronic motorcycle gang unimaginatively named, Blacksnake. Viper had been accused of skinning his girlfriend alive. Apparently, he had wanted his potatoes fried, not mashed. The incident made national headlines and after a quick call to the dead woman's mother, Veronica was activated.
Unfortunately for Viper, he was out on bail, and as he fiddled around with carburetor problems in his backyard, he got tangled up in the cross hairs of Veronica's scope. After she pulled the trigger, dismantled her AR-180, and casually descended a rooftop one hundred yards away, she visited Nieman Marcus in the city. There she found the most darling black suit, snug and short. The only problem that remained was what to tell Jonathan, the man she presently loved.
She had been seeing Jonathan for six months. Together they made a formidable couple, both tall, slender, with faces on the verge of aloofness and vulnerability, a most curious combination. Jonathan had approached her in the stairwell of their apartment building. Did she know where the closest laundromat was? And on a Thursday morning, her usual time to wash, he appeared. First, they shared some bleach, then a coffee, and soon thereafter a candle lit dinner.
On her drive back home from Chicago, she punched in his cell number. "Hey, baby."
"Wuz up doll?"
"Sorry I had to cancel the movie on Thursday."
"No problem."
"What you been up to?" she asked.
"Missin' you. How's your aunt doin'?"
Veronica didn't like lying, but she couldn't very well tell him the truth. "Much better."
"How sick was she?"
His question unnerved her. Was there an underlying trace of suspicion? "Another false alarm. It was gas, not her heart."
"You must feel relieved."
"Yes, very."
A silence hung in the air. She waited for him to say more but nothing came. She picked up the slack. "Dinner tonight?"
"Are you sure you can make it?"
There was sarcasm in his tone. Was he getting jealous? She glanced at the car clock. "I should be home in two hours. I'll make that shrimp dish you like."
"Okay, but let's make it around eight. I got some errands to run."
"Great. Love you."
"Love you more."
*
After a luxurious bath, Veronica slipped into lace underwear and a satin robe. By the time Jonathan knocked on the door, a fire was burning and mellow saxophone riffs filled the room.
His kiss was deep and long.
"Maybe I should visit my aunt more often," she said breathlessly.
His boyish grin melted her weak and before she had a chance to pour some wine, he scooped her in his arms and carried her into the bedroom.
The following morning, as Jonathan showered, Veronica cleaned up the bedroom. She stacked the dirty dishes, made the bed, and picked up clothes. While hanging his sport's coat, a folded page fell to the floor. It was a map of metropolitan Chicago. She smiled. Certainly, it had to be a coincidence.
Still, she rifled through the jacket. Tucked neatly inside the patch pocket was a receipt for a motel in the town where Viper lived. Her eyes zeroed in on the date--yesterday. She reeled in disbelief. Had he followed her? Was he an undercover cop? Or most alarming, did he have a bullet with her name on it?
Veronica bolted into survival mode and dove across the room. Digging deep into her underwear drawer, she grabbed a snubbie.
Ten minutes later, Veronica sat across from Jonathan at the kitchen table. The Sunday Times was splayed between them.
After a sip of coffee, Veronica casually asked, "So what did you while I was away?"
His eyes never left the newspaper. "Nothing much."
"Go anywhere?"
"Nope."
Veronica reached into her robe pocket and felt the comforting hardness of metal. "Why are you lying to me?"
With no response, he folded the paper, scribbled some words, then tossed it to her.
Her eyes scanned an article: Akron man accused of vehicular manslaughter of six teenagers is acquitted. Beneath he had written: Ohio is pretty this time of year. Shall we drum up some business?
Veronica hoped her shock was barely noticeable. She then looked deep into his eyes and saw a kindred spirit. "Yes, let's." 

Linda A. Lavid hails from Buffalo, New York where lake effect snow and writing fuse amid tedium and glints of inspiration. She has had the following short stories published in books, anthologies and on-line: "A Father's Love" in Life Stories: Casework in the First Person; "The License Plate," "An Accident" in The Southern Cross Review ; "A Star is Born" in Over Coffee; "Highwire" in Wilmington Blues. She is presently working on a cozy mystery, Hattie Moon.