Savoir-faire in Keokuk

“Savoir-faire, my darling, savoir-faire…” Florence Elvira McElway flitted past her husband, her garish out-of-place satin evening gown swishing as she passed. Pausing to grab the salad fork from his hand and replace it with the more socially acceptable choice, the dinner fork, she sanctimoniously patted his cheek before taking her place next to him at the table.

Jerry McElway said nothing immediately, choosing to merely stare at his wife’s self-satisfied smirk. Then, glancing at his wristwatch, he replaced the dinner fork back in its original position on the table and once again picked up the salad fork. “I prefer this one,” he crooned, “it’s more sporting. With only two tines, it gives your ridiculously under-cooked beef a fighting chance to recover.” Picking up the slab of meat with the fork, Jerry pointed at it and looked up at his wife. “Oh, look… is that E Coli that I see doing the backstroke down there in that pool of blood?” 

Raising her chin into the air in her haughtiest expression of displeasure, Mrs. McElway glowered at her husband before patting her lips with her napkin, her movements choreographed to accentuate her petite aplomb. “Insult my culinary efforts if you must, dearest, just know that your hostile remarks do little to enhance your station in life… maybe your mother failed to make that clear to you when you were ten.”

“Probably not, my love… she probably spent more time than she should have in the kitchen learning how to properly cook roast beef.”

Florence Elvira McElway stood, her face now as red as the roast beef slices on her plate. “Take that back…” she snarled, pausing to accentuate her rage, “…asshole!” 

“Ah-ah-ah… savoir-faire, my darling, savoir-faire…” Gerald McElway now began to smirk as he scooted his chair away from the table a bit, just in case he had to take evasive action.

Letting out a roar, ‘Flossie’ McElway stood up, picked up her baked potato and threw it at her husband, who, with one deft move, caught it in his hand and tossed it onto his plate. “Well…” he said, his voice even and rational, “I think you’ve lost a little velocity off your fastball… maybe its time for me to option you. I think you’ll like Keokuk… maybe not quite so much pressure to perform, there.” 

Watching his sobbing wife run out of the room while unsuccessfully attempting to keep the tiara from slipping off her head, Gerald McElway dabbed his mouth with his napkin and tossed it onto his plate. A quick tap on his breast pocket confirmed the presence of the Cohiba given to him by George Steinbrenner himself. Quickly, Gerald McElway tugged on his lapel and took the cigar from his pocket, holding it in front of his admiring eyes before savoring its unmistakable aroma. After snipping the end off with his cigar-clippers, he quickly flicked his silver lighter and began to puff, expelling the smoke through his mouth and watching the red glow expand across the tip. Then, satisfied that the tobacco sufficiently felt the fire, he slowly drew in the glorious smoke, allowing it to work its magic upon his senses and re-adjust his tolerance for ignorance.

“Come back in here, Flossie,” Gerald McElway intoned, his voice containing sufficient amplitude to be heard from the adjoining hallway, “I know you’re out there. I’m sorry.”

The earth continued to turn on its axis for the next two minutes, but little else of significance occurred within the Flossie-Jerry ecosystem until one eye peeked around the hideously expensive cherry doorjamb of the McElway dining room. Then, a bedraggled face appeared, complete with black rivulets leading down both cheeks and one Tiffany diamond tiara askew atop a $400 hairdo. As Gerald McElway continued to puff on his Cohiba, he watched his apparently contrite wife walk slowly toward him, hands clutching a note and chin nearly touching the bodice of her gown.

Once in front of him, she sat down on his lap and handed him the note as she reached into the bodice of her dress. It would be speculative to assess which came first, Gerald’s recognition of the words or the sound of the Derringer’s discharge. From Gerald’s perspective it probably mattered little as bits of bone and brain matter accompanied the blood as it flew onto the luxurious cut-pile carpet.

Florence Elvira McElway retrieved the note from the floor and placed the pistol next to Gerald’s now-cooling body, first taking time to put it in his hand. After removing her elbow-length white gloves, she walked out of the room en route to their bedroom. A quick shower, costume change and a walk to the basement and it would be time to call 911. Maybe she’d have to re-consider her disdain for Gerald’s recreation room… she’d still despise his moose head and photos of relatives killing birds and animals, but she now loved the blazing wood stove into which she tossed her gown and shoes (the tiara, of course… well, it goes without saying that it lay safely amongst its peers in the jewel box Gerald had given her for her last birthday, let’s not get silly about this).

Before closing the iron door on the firebox, she re-read her last message to Gerald.  It was a crying shame that she hadn’t detected his despondency; and she intended to let the detectives know that it was all her fault that he took his own life… perhaps if she’d been a better cook and housekeeper—

Now who’s going to Keokuk, Darling?