Cheater's Gallery Ep. 02: Denise

Fortunately, I had a lot of friends in the news business who were investigative reporters, something Denise didn't know. So I reached out to a couple to see what they could dig up on this Dr. Branstead and his traveling medicine show.

I was in Seattle reviewing an exhibit when I got a call from Denise telling me she would be in Topeka for the weekend for some kind of meeting. I had just about had it with all of this and it took everything I had to hold my temper.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you were planning for us to get away when you got back from Seattle this weekend. I'll make it up to you." God, if I only had a nickel for every time I heard that phrase, I thought. I counted to ten before responding. "Bill?" she asked when I didn't respond. "Are you there?"

"I'm here," I said. "Who else is going to this meeting?"

"Well, Dr. Branstead," she said. Of course, I thought to myself. "There's several others I know. Some from my hospital and others from hospitals across the state."

"Okay," I said. "You gotta do what you gotta do. I'm not happy, but I understand."

"You're the best," she said. "I love you."

"Love you too," I said before we ended the call. This shit has to stop, I thought as I put my phone away. I finished going through the exhibit and made my way to the hotel. As I was eating, my phone rang again. It was Ralph Williams, a friend of mine who works as a reporter for the Kansas City Star.

"Hello," I said.

"Hey, Bill," he said. "How's it hanging?"

"Yup," I said, causing him to chuckle.

"That good, huh?" he asked sarcastically.

"Pretty much," I said. "You find something?"

"I sure did," he said. "Your Dr. George Branstead is quite the guy."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" I asked.

"Well, let's put it this way," Ralph said. "He's richer than God, married to a trophy wife who can't stand him, knows everyone who's anyone and has a well-deserved reputation as a philanderer. He loves married women, by the way. In more ways than one, if you catch my drift."

"Unfortunately, I do," I said.

"Rumor mill has it that he's currently seeing a cute little blonde-haired surgeon from the middle of the state," he said, causing my heart to sink.

"You have a name for this blonde surgeon?" I asked.

"No, I don't," Ralph said. "But I can tell you she's a real corn-fed Kansas farm girl. Cute as a button from the photos I saw."

"Photos?" I asked. "You have photos?"

"Yeah, sure do," he said. "They were spotted at a gathering of healthcare pros here a few weeks back. Looked pretty chummy with each other if you ask me."

"Can you email me some of those photos?" I asked.

"Sure," he said. "Be happy to."

"Thanks, Ralph, I appreciate it," I said.

"Any time, old friend," he said. "By the way, turns out the good doctor was caught in a scandal out west a few years ago."

"What kind of a scandal?" I asked.

"The kind that sees big-name doctors get a polite shove out the door, if you know what I mean," he said. "I don't have all the details, but I know someone who does. I'll send you her info with the pictures. She writes for a society gossip blog out in California. She's expecting your call."

"Thanks," I said before ending the call. I remembered Denise telling me she had a meeting in Kansas City a month or so ago, but she never mentioned being with George. I heard my phone ding, indicating I had an email. I dreaded looking, but I opened the email and took a look at the photos, expecting the worst.

Sure enough, there was my Denise, sitting in a hotel restaurant with George Branstead. One photo showed them kissing and another showed them walking away, holding hands. This was no professional relationship. I felt like I had just been punched in the stomach. How long had this been going on, I wondered. Was she in love with him? How could she do this to us? So many questions went through my mind I couldn't even think straight. I had one more call to make, so I rang the number for Linda Carson, the blogger Ralph told me about.

"Linda Carson," she said when she answered the phone. I introduced myself to her and told her Ralph had referred her to me.

"Yes," she said. "I've been expecting your call. You're curious about George Branstead?"

"Yeah," I said. "What can you tell me?"

"Well, he was caught screwing a coed in his office about eight or nine years ago," she said. "He got the boot and now I hear he's in Kansas."

"Do you know the name of the coed he was caught with?" I asked.

"Yes, I do," she said. "It never made it into my report, though. The school was adamant that her name be kept out of my report. Let me look here just a minute. Ah, here it is. Denise Blackman." I thought I was going to get sick.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Absolutely," she said. "Why, do you know her?"

"That's my wife's maiden name," I said. "When did this happen?"

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said. "Hold on, let me look at my notes. Here it is," she said giving me the date. I brought up the archive of my day planner and checked -- it was the day I first met her at the exhibit. Damn. I thanked Linda for the information and ended the call.

Somehow, I managed to get through my dinner, then went to my room and finished my article for the week. I got it submitted just in time and decided to check out and go home. I needed answers but none came to me. I prayed that the situation would get resolved and we could move on. I could only hope this wasn't as bad as I thought.

I got home early Friday afternoon, grabbed the mail out of the box by the road and went inside. The place seemed eerily quiet, more so than usual, I thought. I put my clothes away and sorted out the mail. Bills went into one pile for Denise and I to go through as we always did, and obvious junk went into the trash. There was a beige-colored envelope addressed to me in a well-done calligraphy from someplace called Rhamnousia Gallery. I never heard of the place, so I opened the letter.

According to the invitation, I had been invited to an exclusive showing at 5:00 pm that evening. I looked at the address and realized it was local. Strange, I thought. I never knew there was an art gallery in town. Perhaps it was just established and the owner wanted to give me a preview. What the hell, I thought. It would take my mind off Denise for a little while.

I pulled up to the large, two-story Victorian house right at 5:00 and was surprised when the door opened before I could knock. I stood face-to-face with a slim, petite blonde who didn't look to be more than 25 years old.

"Mr. Jacobs," she said. "Right on time. I appreciate punctuality. Please come in." I followed her inside. After she closed the door, she turned to look at me. "My name is Adrestia Rhamnousia. Welcome to my gallery," she told me, extending her hand.

"A pleasure to meet you. I didn't know this little town had an art gallery," I said. She smiled and flipped a strand of hair out of her face.

"Trust me, Mr. Jacobs," she said. "There's nothing like it anywhere else in the world."

"Please call me Bill," I said.

"Okay, I will, Bill," she said. "And you can either call me Adrestia or Dr. A."

"Adrestia," I said. "That's an interesting name."

"I've been called many things over the years," she said. "Please, feel free to look around if you wish." I took her up on her offer and looked at the portraits on the walls. All of them had a strange, near-photographic quality to them and all of them appeared to be of people facing their inevitable demise. It was the most macabre collection of portraits I had ever seen in my life. I looked at them, trying to determine who the artist was, but I was unable to decipher the markings in the lower right corner.

I ended up in front of a portrait of a woman who appeared to be falling backward. Her eyes were wide open and her hair appeared to be flying in front of her face. Her mouth was open in a silent scream as she realized the end was near.

"This is a rather strange collection," I said. "Do you sell many of these?"

"These aren't for sale," she said. "They're for posterity. This portrait is one of our most recent."

"They look so... realistic," I said. "Who painted these?"

"Some of them painted themselves," she said. I looked at her, shocked. How was that even possible?

"So, if these portraits aren't for sale, how do you stay open?" I asked.

"Money isn't an issue," she said. "You could say we have, well, deep pockets. Very deep pockets." After a few awkward moments of silence, she spoke again. "Oh, I understand. You thought I invited you here to write up a review."

"Isn't that why you sent me that invitation?" I asked. She smiled and shook her head.

"No, it's not," she said. "I'm sorry if you got the wrong impression. Actually, I have something here just for you. Please, come with me." I followed her through a set of double doors into a room that contained a covered portrait on an easel and two chairs with a round table between them. "Please, have a seat," she told me, gesturing to the chair on the right hand side of the table. I sat and watched as she went to the portrait and removed the cover.

To say I was shocked was an understatement. There, in the portrait, was Denise, wearing a sexy black dress showing a lot of cleavage. Her hair was well done and her nails were painted a deep red. I noticed her rings were missing from her left hand, which happened to be on top of another hand attached to -- you guessed it, George Branstead.

She smiled as she gazed at George with a look that screamed, "fuck me." It was a look I had seen many times since we first met. I sat back in the chair, shocked. But this was a painting, not a photograph. How could it possibly have been done in such short notice, I asked myself. Is this real?

"Is this some kind of a sick joke?" I asked, upset with the portrait before me.

"No, it's not. You're probably wondering right now if this is really happening," Adrestia said, as if reading my mind. "Trust me, it is real. I can't explain it in any way that would make sense to you, but I can assure you it's real." She covered the portrait and sat in the chair next to me.

"I know this is a terrible shock to you," she said. I nodded my head, feeling numb.

"Yes," I stammered.

"I also know you've suspected your wife has been cheating for a while, but you've gotten no real proof," she said.

"How would you know that?" I asked.

"It's my job to know," she told me. Who in the hell is this woman, I asked myself. She smiled, almost as if reading my thoughts.

"Please, come back at 11:00 pm tonight," she said. "Your questions will be answered once and for all." Numb, I got out of the chair and let her lead me to the front door. "Remember," she said. "11 pm tonight." I nodded my head and left after she closed the door.

I went home, ate and tried to keep my mind off what Denise was doing, but it was impossible. I thought about drinking a beer, but decided I wanted to be clear-headed when I went back to the gallery. So I watched some television and tried to take a short nap. I finally dozed off for a bit, and woke up just in time to brush my teeth and get to the gallery.

The door opened just as I was ready to knock and Adrestia motioned for me to come inside. I followed as she went into the private viewing room. After I sat down, she pulled the cover off the portrait. I was shocked to see Denise, naked, riding George Branstead's cock. What kind of trickery is this? I looked at Adrestia, confused.

"Please, come into my office," she said. I got up and followed her up the stairs. I looked around when we entered her office. There were shelves filled with what looked like ancient books and scrolls. A computer monitor sat on her desk and another large monitor was attached to the wall. She made a cup of tea, handed it to me and sat behind her desk as I took a sip. Strangely enough, I felt somewhat better.

"What's going on?" I asked. "How could that portrait have changed?"

"Perhaps this will help make things clear for you," she said. After moving her mouse around a bit, the monitor on the wall came to life. I could see Denise bouncing on George's cock for all she was worth. I could see his erect cock filling her as she ground down on it. When she lifted, I saw white globs on his shaft and knew that he had finished inside her, without a condom. She lifted one leg and lay down next to him, his semen running out of her cheating cunt.

"Oh, God, that was so good," George said. Denise laughed.

"Yes, it was, sweetie," she said. "The best."

"Think I managed to get you pregnant tonight?" he asked. What?

"Possibly," she said. "I quit taking my birth control and I've been careful about not letting Bill fuck me lately." He laughed.

"Think he'll believe it's his child?" he asked her.

"I hope he does," she said.

"Why do you stay with that loser?" he asked her.

"Why do you stay with your wife?" she asked in response.

"You think he suspects something?" George asked.

"No, he doesn't," she told him. "He believes whatever I tell him." I had seen and heard enough. I saw her phone on the night stand and called her. I could see her phone light up as the call went through. She picked it up, looked at it for a moment, then declined the call and put it back.

"Who was that?" George asked.

"Him," she said. "Probably just got back from Seattle. Now, come over here and fuck me again." He started to get above her, but I called her phone again, interrupting them. Denise grabbed the phone, declined it, and tossed it back on the nightstand, this time extending her middle finger.

"What did you do that for?" George asked.

"Cause, he's pissing me off," she said. Fuck that, I thought. I was about to research the number to their hotel when Adrestia handed me a piece of paper.

"Here's the number to their hotel," she said. "They're registered in room 625 as Dr. and Mrs George Branstead." Pissed, I thanked her and dialed the hotel. When I got the receptionist, I asked for room 625. I heard the room phone ring in the video and saw George pick up the receiver.

"Hello," he said.

"Put my wife on the phone right fucking now," I growled. As I watched, he looked at the receiver and slowly handed it to her.

"It's for you," he said quietly. Denise took the receiver and answered. I could tell she wasn't too happy, but I didn't care.

"Hello," she said quietly.

"Well hello there, Mrs. Branstead," I said. I saw her face go pale in the video. "Having a good fucking time, I see."

"Bill," she said. "There's nothing going on. Why are you so upset?"

"Why are you fucking Branstead?" I asked. "Why did you register as Mrs. Branstead? Did you divorce me without saying anything?"

"Bill, nothing happened," she said.

"Bullshit, bitch," I told her. She recoiled when I said that. I had never used profanity around her before and it caught her off guard. "I just watched the two of you. Did you honestly think you could get pregnant with his child and have me raise it? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"You saw us?" Denise asked, looking around for a camera.

"Yes, I saw you and I heard you," I said. "How long has this been going on? I know you and he were an item in college. And I know you were caught the day we first met. So tell me, why?"

"Look, Bill, I don't know what you think you know, but you're mistaken," she said. "This is the first time we've done anything. Please, let me come home and we can talk through this. It doesn't have to affect us."

"There's nothing for you to come home to, you lying bitch," I said. "You might as well stay with him. I'm going to see an attorney on Monday and I'll have you served with divorce papers."

"I don't want a divorce," she begged. "Please, don't do this. I love you."

"Yeah, I can see how much you love me," I said. "Like I said, don't bother coming back. I don't ever want to see your face as long as I live." I ended the call and watched as she handed the receiver back to George, tears falling down her face.

"I gotta go," she said, scrambling for her clothes. "I gotta fix this with Bill."

"Why?" George said. "I could hear him on the phone. He's divorcing you. That frees you up." She shook her head.

"I gotta make this right with him," she said as she dressed. George got out of bed.

"Well, then, I'll drive you," he said. "You're in no shape to drive and there's no telling what he'll do to you."

"Bill would never hurt me," she said.

"Under normal circumstances, probably not," he said. "But he just caught you cheating on him. There's no telling what he'll do. Does he own a gun?" She shook her head.

"No," she said.

"Still, I'm driving you home, and that's all there is to it," he said. As we watched, they dressed, then packed up and left the room. I noticed her rings were still sitting on the nightstand where she had left them. I looked at Adrestia before speaking.

"How did you get that camera into their room?" I asked.

"Trade secret," she said. "Did you mean what you said about not wanting to see her face again?" I nodded my head.

"Yes," I said. She closed her eyes for a moment before speaking.

"Very well," she said. "Why don't you go home and try to get some rest."

"Maybe I should," I said. She took my head in her hands and I felt a giddy warmth spread throughout my body.

"Things will get better," she said. "Trust me." Strangely enough, I did. I left her office and went home. Denise was right -- I didn't have a gun, but I did have a nice Louisville Slugger. I laid down on the couch and set the bat on the floor next to me.

I woke up when I heard pounding on the front door. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and looked at the clock -- 6:30 am. I wondered if it was Denise and her lover, and was surprised when I saw a Kansas state trooper on my porch.

"Mr. Jacobs?" he asked. "William Jacobs?"

"Yeah, I'm Bill Jacobs," I told him.

"I'm sorry to inform you, sir, but your wife is dead," he told me.

"Dead?" I asked. "How? When?"

"She was in a car belonging to one Dr. George Branstead when they encountered a freak tornado on the highway," he said. "The trooper who witnessed it said the tornado hit, picked the car up and slammed it on the ground about a half-mile away. No one survived. I'm sorry, sir. Her body has been transported to the county morgue."

"Thank you," I said, numb. I wondered if Adrestia had anything to do with that, then dismissed the notion. How could she have conjured up a tornado in the middle of nowhere? I showered, dressed and headed for the county morgue to identify her. While there, I spoke with the trooper who called it in.

"Strangest thing I ever saw," he said. "There wasn't even a cloud in the sky. Tornado just appeared out of nowhere, picked the car up like it was nothing, slammed it down on the ground a half mile away, then dissipated. Whole thing took just a few seconds. Sorry for your loss." I nodded my head.

"Thanks," I said. My next stop was to the gallery. As before, Adrestia opened the door before I could knock.

"Please, come into the viewing room," she said. We went inside and she uncovered the portrait. There was Denise's face, her eyes wide open, her mouth open in a silent scream. I could see the seat she was sitting in and what looked like a swirling cloud outside the window next to her. I followed Adrestia as she picked up the portrait and carried it to the spot she had reserved for it on her wall.

With tears running down my face, I watched as she hung the portrait on the wall. I looked around and suddenly realized what kind of a gallery this was. Adrestia looked at me after she hung the portrait.

"It really does get easier," she said. She took my head in her hands and the desire to mourn was suddenly gone. She smiled and kissed my forehead. "Go now," she said. "Live, love and enjoy life. You'll find someone much better. Trust me." I nodded my head and left the gallery.