THE LATE MRS. CARTER

by Vandemonium1

Back in the dim dark past of 2017, BigGuy33 wrote a fine story called ‘Mrs Carter’. In 2019, BlackHeart93 continued it and added a twist of malice. I read both recently and an obvious extension occurred to me. Below is the result. I have to say I took a little artistic licence with the ending of the original.  

As with the originals, there is no sex. Depending on your interpretation of the ending, it could be between 3 and 4 pickaxe handles on CTC’s and my rating system. Feel free to email me to find the system. My feedback portal is working again.

The BigGuy33 once again unhesitatingly gave me his blessing to do this sequel, as did BlackHeart93. Please thank those generous gents by reading some of their work, especially their prequels to this sequel. It will make even less sense than normal if you don’t.  

BigGuy original https://www.literotica.com/s/mrs-carter-1

BlackHeart sequel https://www.literotica.com/s/mrs-carter-alternate-ending

Once again, the beautiful CTC has wielded her magic on my unsophisticated scribblings, for which I am and you should be, grateful.

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POLICE LIEUTENANT COSGROVE INTERVIEWS MRS. WESTON

“Thank you for coming in again, Mrs. Weston. I just wanted to go over your statement of yesterday. Just to clear up a few inconsistencies if that’s alright?”

“Sure, anything to put this horrible experience to rest.”

Peter Cosgrove shuffled some files on the table between them, selecting one and opening it. He took a moment to skim its contents.

“Now, on the morning Mr. Carter said he woke up and found Mrs. Carter dead in the bed next to him, which would be two days ago now, you claim you’d slept in your room all night, alone.”

“Yes, that’s correct. I work for Jim and he and his wife were kind enough to allow me to live at their place when my husband threw me out.”

“Noted, and when questioned by officers that day you stated you’d never been inside their matrimonial bedroom.”

“That’s correct. I have my own room on the second floor.” 

Peter Cosgrove nodded, slowly placing the file he’d been referring to on the table before him. “Then can you please explain how your fingerprints were found all over their room?”

Patricia looked about as embarrassed as anyone caught out in a blatant lie. Her gaze dropped to the floor and she remained silent.

“I put it to you, Mrs. Weston, that you were having an affair with Mr. Carter.”

Cosgrove’s firm tone robbed Patricia of her voice. Her only response was to nod while her stare stayed glued to the floor.

“Why did you lie, Mrs. Weston?”

Without lifting her gaze Patricia mumbled, “Because it was embarrassing and didn’t seem relevant to what happened. I mean, the woman died peacefully in her sleep.”

“But did she, Mrs. Weston?” Cosgrove asked. He paused before continuing. “I’ll remind you once again, you are entitled to legal representation while you’re here. Do you want to take advantage of that?”

Patricia shook her head.

“All right. Well, since we last spoke, we’ve received the results of the autopsy on Mrs. Carter and the coroner concluded that she had consumed a substantial quantity of brandy as well as a large dose of a medication called Estazolam. That’s a sleeping medication. He thinks the dose was high enough to tranquilise Mrs. Carter until her lungs just stopped working. Does the name of the medication ring any bells with you, Mrs. Weston?”

“It sounds vaguely familiar.”

“It should, Mrs. Weston. Although none was found in the house, a search of the pharmacists’ database showed you were prescribed it less than a month ago. For the record, there is no evidence Mrs. Carter ever was.”

Patricia’s head shot up. She didn’t like where the interview was heading.

“I went to the doctor about a month ago and he prescribed me some sleeping pills. I was having trouble sleeping after my husband threw me out.”

Ignoring the interruption, the detective pushed on.

“Also found in the bedroom with Mrs. Carter was an empty glass, with traces of brandy and Estazolam. Can you comment on that?”

Patricia started shaking her head then her eyes widened.

“Yes. Jim told me once that Helen would sometimes have a brandy while reading in bed to relax herself.”

“Yes, he told us the same thing. He said she always kept a bottle in the bedside cabinet. Can you explain why there was no sign of a brandy bottle in the cabinet, or indeed, the entire room?”

Once again, Patricia shook her head.

“Or comment on why there was the residue of Estazolam in the mortar and pestle kept in the kitchen; the same pestle which had Mr. Carter’s fingerprints on it?”

“What are you trying to say? That Helen stole my sleeping pills from my bathroom and deliberately overdosed?”

Pete Cosgrove looked at the woman across the table, searching for signs she was acting. Patricia couldn’t maintain eye contact.

The detective steepled his fingers, pausing before replying. “If that was the case, why bother grinding the tablets up in the mortar and pestle? Why not just swallow them whole?”

Patricia had no answer to that so just shrugged.

“All right then, an easy question. Can you explain how an empty bottle of brandy was found on the floor in the back seat of your car, with your fingerprints on it and traces of Estazolam in it?”

Patricia’s eyes bugged out from her head and she half rose out of her seat, her hands splayed on the table.

“What the hell? I don’t drink the stuff and I certainly didn’t put that bottle there.”

“Please remain seated, Mrs. Weston. We’re almost done,” The detective said quietly but firmly. “Tell me, Mrs. Weston, can I be forgiven for not believing you? Allow me to summarise what I think happened. You were conducting a sordid relationship with Mr. Carter. In order to keep his wife from finding out, you and Mr. Carter took to sedating her, presumably so he could sneak off to your room for your disgusting liaison.”

“No, no, no! It wasn’t like that. Helen knew all about Jim’s and my relationship and encouraged me. It was her way of avoiding having sex with him. Sex was painful for her.”

“Can you prove that unlikely story?”

“Yes, yes, I can. Ask my husband, he’ll tell you. He threw me out when he found out about Jim and I. Helen went around to his… our house last week and begged him to consider forgiving me. Ask Henry, he’ll tell you.”

“Okay. You may as well stay here while I ring your husband.”

With that he left the room. Patricia slumped in her chair, increasingly worried. Much rode on her estranged husband telling the police the truth. The trouble was, she knew Henry wasn’t feeling particularly generous at the moment. The seconds crawled by until Peter Cosgrove re-entered the interview room, looking thoughtful.

Patricia spoke, worriedly. “So, Henry confirmed my story?”

“Um, no, Mrs. Weston. He never answered his phone. I’ve been talking to the DA. Apparently the evidence boys just finished listening to some recorded conversations between you and Mr. Carter, found on an SD card in Mrs. Carter’s bedroom. There wasn’t time for me to listen to all the files, but in the excerpt played for me you were heard to say you hoped Mrs. Carter would die, and Mr. Carter was heard saying he couldn’t divorce his wife or he’d lose the company and thus derail the gravy train. So, Mrs. Weston, was it a drugging that went badly, or did Mrs. Carter find out about your little conspiracy and have to be eliminated?

“It’s time to get that lawyer, Mrs. Weston, the DA wants to talk deals. Everything hinges on your husband confirming or denying that Mrs. Carter knew about, and endorsed, your little deal with her husband. If he doesn’t, this could go all the way. You can both avoid a murder one rap by pleading guilty to manslaughter by drugging, Mrs. Carter and get eight years, max, or take your chances on beating the murder charge. The DA wanted you to know he would look very favourably on the first of you that rolls over on the other one. I should warn you that right now my colleagues are offering Mr. Carter the exact same deal.”

Patricia was shocked but forced herself to ponder whether Jim Carter was the kind of person who would protect her interest or rat her out for his own self-interest. She didn’t like the conclusion that leapt to her mind. 

Besides, it was starting to dawn on her that the evidence was looking very much like Jim Slimeball Carter had killed his wife and was trying to frame her for the murder. How else had the brandy bottle found its way into her car? How her fingerprints got on it was no mystery. She clearly remembered seeing the empty bottle on the counter in the kitchen and putting it in the trash. The back-stabbing little prick! She would show him…

At that precise moment, Henry Weston was seated at the dining table reading the letter that was awaiting him when he got home from work.

My Dear Mr. Weston,

The conversation we had the other day shook me to my very core. You playing me those recordings gave me a glimpse of what betrayal feels like. Over the next day, I began to truly realise what you were going through, completely. I can’t believe I once supported those lying, cheating assholes, only to have them plot and scheme to shaft me behind my back.

I wish to apologise unreservedly for condoning your slut wife’s suggestion to become my husband’s mistress and my part in concealing it from you. It was massively selfish and self-centred of me. Please believe me, I feel deeply ashamed and wish to make it up to you with a gift.

Two weeks ago, I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The prognosis is very poor. I’ve told no one, not even my husband. I watched my mother die slowly and painfully of something similar and have no wish to go the same way. I have therefore decided to make my exit, for want of a better term, now. My coming to see you was an attempt to gain your forgiveness before I went. Originally, I was going to go quietly, but after the recordings you played me, I’ve decided to go very noisily indeed. I’m going to end my life in such a way as it will appear that Patricia and Jim have killed me, either accidentally or deliberately. I’ll be planting clues to that effect, including copies of the files you gave me with all references to me being part of the conspiracy against you erased.

At some point, their defence will come down to the authorities asking you if I had prior knowledge they were lovers.

If you confirm I did, that will rule out the pair of them accidentally killing me by sedating me to carry on their liaison and lead the police toward thinking they killed me deliberately. There is probably not enough evidence to take them to trial for premeditated murder unless their lawyers are particularly incompetent, but their lives and reputations will suffer anyway.

If you deny I had any knowledge of their affair there should be enough evidence for them to go to trial for manslaughter.

My gift to you is to give you that power over their futures. A power they, and I, robbed from you. Goodbye and may you forgive me in this life or the next.

Helen Carter

Incredulous, Henry Weston put the letter down on the tabletop. What an intelligent and determined woman Helen Carter was, or had been. The police hadn’t contacted him yet so he had no idea how her plans had gone. He had to admire her even if he wasn’t quite ready to forgive her yet.

He picked up the letter and read it again, feeling as incredulous as he had the first time. Just as he finished, the phone rang. Deciding not to ignore it this time, he looked at the screen and saw, ‘Unknown Number’.

“Fuck ‘em!” he muttered before picking up the receiver.

*****

Now, folks, this is a continuation of two other authors works and could be called incomplete. It is for a reason. An open invitation for someone else to continue the tale of the Carters and the Westons, adding your own twist. You have my blessing in advance. It would be polite to seek the blessing of BigGuy33 and BlackHeart93.

Loving Wives has become very disrespectful lately. How about we all make the effort to turn that around.  Surely civilised people can disagree politely? Debate instead of insulting each other? After all, the world would be a pretty boring place if we all thought the same and liked the same things.  

Now lighten the fuck up!

My wife’s credit card was stolen the other day. I been holding off reporting it. The thieves are spending less than my wife did.

And from the great Patrick Murray.

The two secrets to keeping your marriage brimming.

When you’re wrong, admit it.

When you’re right, shut up.