How to Murder a Marriage: The Ex-Whisperer Files

by Gabrielle St. George

Genres: Female Sleuths

Synopsis

GIVE A MAN ENOUGH ROPE AND HE’LL HANG HIMSELF—BUT BE CAREFUL, THE GALLOWS LOVE A CROWD
Gina Malone, a bestselling relationships advice author and expert on exes, meddles in other people’s affairs for a living. It makes for enemies. One of them is scaring her to death.

A modern-day Miss Lonelyhearts, Gina’s smart, she’s sassy, she’s got a potty mouth, and she’s determined to live life on her own terms. She’s also divorced, an empty nester, and turning fifty. In the true spirit of mid-life crises, Gina dyes her hair, pierces her nose, and moves to a tiny tourist town on the Canadian shores of Lake Huron.

Just as she’s settling into her new life and deciding whether to fall into bed with her hot contractor, Gina advises a reader to leave her husband, right before the woman goes missing. And Gina’s got a stalker. Is it her vengeful ex-husband, the abusive ex of the missing woman, or her new crush’s crazy ex? All three would love to get her alone in some dark and deserted place, which isn’t tough to do since her new residence is an old family cottage she’s renovating on an empty stretch of beach.

Can Gina outsmart her stalker and find the missing woman before the noose around her own neck gets any tighter?

 

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Release date: November 9, 2021

Publisher: Level Best Books

Print pages: 293

Sample

Chapter One

TOP 6 MOST STRESSFUL LIFE EVENTS

Divorce: Check (After six years, my crazy ex-husband is still dragging me through the courts.)

Death of a Loved One: Check (My best girlfriend/soul sister died in my arms four months ago. Fuck cancer.)

Moving House: Check (I built my dream house and intended to be carried out of it in a box. Instead, I’m carrying boxes out of it, packed with the belongings I didn’t garage sale when I had to hawk my house at a fire-sale price.)

Becoming the Victim of a Crime: Check (My sociopathic, obsessed ex is stalking me.)

Dismissal from Work: Check (My four wonderful children have fired me. Apparently, my services are no longer required. They have all run away from home to attend universities in Europe. I make my living as a writer and artist, but those are just jobs. Being a mom was my vocation.)

Imprisonment: No Check. Yet. (If I act on any of the fantasies I’m currently entertaining regarding my ex or my real estate agent, I’ll be able to cross this one off the list in short order.)

Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself. Somebody has to. This is one sad fricking state of affairs. In the past two months, I’ve dyed my blonde hair black, lost ten pounds, pierced my nose, sold nearly everything I own—including my home of twenty years—and made the decision to leave the largest city in Canada and move one hundred miles north to a small town on a big lake where most of my extended family waits in smug anticipation. Really nothing too extreme by my standards. Moderation is not my middle name.

As the Ex-Whisperer, a best-selling relationship book author of the Gal Guides, and advice columnist on Slate, I’m able to take my work with me wherever I travel. And I travel everywhere, often.

I need a mini escape, and I’ve arranged one.

My amazing daughter Ella and I are flying to London. I’ve successfully convinced her she needs me to get her settled into the new city of her new uni. My three sons are traveling from their respective European nations to join us for a weekend of family fun in The Old Smoke. Can’t wait.

We’ve got three hours to kill in the airport before boarding. Ella is sampling perfumes in the duty-free shop. I’ve set up a portable office at a café table. I’ve been pressed for time the last few days and have fallen behind in answering letters on my advice column. I’m hoping to catch up before we depart. I read an email sent two days earlier.

 

Dear Ex-Whisperer,

I moved to this country to marry my husband ten years ago. I have no family here, no friends to speak of. I had a receptionist job for a few years, but I came home late from work sometimes, and my husband had an argument with my boss over it, and I got fired. I don’t leave the house much except to shop, run errands, walk my little poodle, Snowflake, or go to the library. When I’m out, I constantly get the feeling I’m being watched, and then sometimes I run into my husband unexpectedly. I think he follows me. My husband doesn’t like me going anywhere without him. He insists on having all my passwords and checks through my computer and phone regularly. I don’t do anything wrong, but he doesn’t trust me. He’s always angry and says I should be happy that he cares so much, but I don’t like being spied on. He says a husband has the right to know where his wife is and what she’s doing at all times. Do you think that’s true? If not, does that mean that my husband is stalking me? Can your husband be your stalker?

 

Lillian

 

My reply:

 

Dear Lillian,

Your husband’s behavior is neither normal nor acceptable, and I am seriously concerned for your safety. Stalking is stalking even when it’s your partner. It’s illegal and unbalanced. There is nothing remotely flattering about being told you can’t be trusted. It’s an insult no matter how much sugar it’s coated with.

Following someone around without their knowledge has nothing to do with protecting them unless the person being followed is under four years old. When someone is watching us secretly, it’s because they’re hoping or expecting to catch us doing something we wouldn’t do if we knew they were there. When women are being stalked, they’re often in physical danger and almost always in psychological and emotional danger.

There is nothing healthy or sexy about possessiveness or obsession. I speak from experience. My ex-husband stalked me while we were married and continues to do so six years later. I got myself out of a very bad situation, and I am afraid you may need to do the same. You might have to take your pup Snowflake and get to a shelter. I’m posting some links for you to some great organizations where professional counselors will be happy to help you free of charge. Please reach out to them.

 

Affectionately yours,

The Ex-Whisperer

 

I hit Post.

In my line of work, I hear from all kinds of people on all sorts of topics. If they’re writing to me, they’re usually in the midst of a relationship crisis and don’t know where else to turn. Many times, they already know the answers to the questions they’re asking, they just need reassurance and confirmation. They also need to be reminded to trust that little voice inside. It never lies. Deep down most of us understand the dos and don’ts of intimate relationships. I strive to be the voice of reason and also the boot that will kick ass when required. Lillian’s letter has me genuinely worried for her. I hope she follows through with getting herself help.

My brilliant baby girl, Ella, pulls up a chair at my “desk” and sips a chocolate peanut butter smoothie with dates and chia seeds while she checks her phone. “Oh my God, Mom, the aunts are spamming all our walls. Why did you give them your old laptop? They don’t understand how to use social media. They’re so embarrassing.”

Cringe. “I thought it would be fun for them to dabble on the internet. I didn’t know they were going to sign up for seniors’ center computer classes and wind up with Pinterest addictions.”

Ella is deleting her great aunts’ posts from her Facebook wall. “I guess they skipped the class on how to send PMs. Zia Angela wants to know the exact date you’re moving back to town, and Zia Rosa is asking if you want ravioli or manicotti on your first night there.”

“Cripes, I already told them September fifteenth and risotto.”

Ella rolls her eyes, carries on deleting.

I check my own Facebook wall—with dread. And there they are. Eight, ten, twelve posts from my zany twin Italian aunts all pretty much saying the same thing, “Gina? Gina? Are you there? Where you are? Hello? When you moving here? Che cavolo!” The feisty old gals swear like sailors but always in Italian, thinking no one knows what they’re saying. Potty mouth is in the DNA. It’s not my fault. They always sign their online comments with their names, bacio Zia Angela and bacioZia Rosa, even though Facebook tags their posts. The aunts’ messages are like virtual cheek pinching: painful but done with love.

Ella’s cell dings. A text from Air Canada. “Damn. The flight’s delayed two hours.” My girl is a chip off the old block in the bad language department.

Now I’m the one with the eye rolls. “Time to switch to wine.” I dump my empty paper coffee cup in a bin, line up for a nice dry white.

* * *

Three hours and a couple of chardonnays later, I have posted replies to a few more letters on my column and have also responded to the aunts. Again. I’m pretty confident my writing is exceptionally witty, my advice transformative tonight, although to be honest, it read better with each glass of wine, which is slightly troubling. Note to self—It worked for Hemingway. Onward.

Ella has been texting back and forth to her brothers while listening to My Favorite Murderpodcasts. A regular little Murderino.

A second letter comes in from Lillian.

 

Dear Ex-Whisperer,

My husband checked my phone and found the letter I sent you. He went bananas and took my laptop away. I’m using a computer at the library now. Hopefully, he doesn’t find out I’m writing to you again. He said he’ll give my dog, Snowflake, away if I send anyone another message. I talked to the police, but they can’t help. They told me I have no evidence to prove my husband is stalking me and that his having a bad temper is not a crime even if it scares me. There’s nothing they can do unless a judge orders my husband to stay away from me. He’d go crazy if I took him to court. There’s no point in me going to a shelter because I can’t stay there forever, and my husband swears if I ever try to leave him, he’ll find me and “make me go away for real.” He said there’s nowhere in the world I can hide from him. What should I do? Can you help me, Ex-Whisperer?

 

Lillian

 

My reply:

 

Dear Lillian,

I am so sorry the police refused to help you. That is not uncommon, and it does not mean you are wrong or overreacting to your husband’s behavior. You have to trust your instincts. If you feel you are in danger, you must take your pets and leave. Please reach out to the good counselors in the links I sent you. They will be able to guide you and help protect you. Be strong, Lillian, and please be careful.

 

Affectionately yours,

The Ex-Whisperer

 

I hit Post.

Poor Lillian. Unfortunately, her horrendous situation is frighteningly common.

I close my laptop with a heavy heart, look up, and exhale loudly. Despite the half hour to go until boarding, throngs of passengers hefting carry-on bags way too big to be carry-on bags crowd the gate agents in their desperate mission to board the plane first and hog all the overhead storage space. Ella and I make our way to the gate.

Thirty minutes later, our row is called for boarding, but I always wait until the last possible moment before entering the tin can of stale air in which I will hurtle through space. I check my messages one last time. Big mistake.

Dear Ex-Whisperer,

Stay the hell away from my wife, Lillian. She doesn’t need your crackpot “advice” messing with her head. As her husband, it’s my duty to protect her from phonies like you. You’ll keep your nose out of our business if you know what’s good for you.

 

I’ve got my eyes on you.