The Psychologist's Error
Women notice what husbands don't.
Introduction
Story:
Creativity
Author:
John M. Floyd
Genre:
Psychological Suspense
Note from Nikita:
You know the kind of people who act like they’re concerned when they're really after juicy details?
That’s the person we meet in today’s story: a woman who asks too many questions and suffers the consequences.
I hate these kinds of people. They want to know why I drive a Honda, when I’m having kids, and what it is I’m reading on my phone in the dentist’s office. I’ve never handled them the way this story does, but I’ve wanted to.
If you’ve had memorable experiences with nosiness, tell me about it. Hit reply or leave a comment.
But for now, enjoy “Creativity” by John M. Floyd.
Creativity
After the tall, dark-haired woman lifted the carry-on bag into the overhead compartment, the younger blonde in the aisle seat moved her knees so the tall lady could squeeze past to sit by the window. The seat between them was empty. Outside, the tarmac baked in the noonday sun.
“Thanks for helping me with my bag,” the blond woman said. She held a matching leather briefcase on her lap.
“Glad to.” The tall brunette glanced at the case. “I see your husband is a physician.”
The young woman looked down. The laminated tag said Dr. Stuart Freeman III, and the accompanying photograph showed a bald, plump man of about fifty.
“He was,” she said.
She offered no further explanation. Instead, she leaned back, closed her eyes, and rubbed them wearily with the back of her hand. The diamond on her ring finger could have choked a fair-sized horse.
When they were airborne, the older woman turned to her and said, “I’m Olivia Smith Banks, by the way.”
“Suzie Freeman,” the blonde said.
“What do you do, Ms. Freeman?”
“I’m a designer.”
“Of course you are. A creative mind. Dresses? Kitchens? Software?”
“Landscapes,” Freeman said.
“And your office is…”
“Here, in L.A. I’m going to Dallas for a seminar.”
A silence passed.
“I’m sorry,” Olivia Banks said. “About your husband, I mean.”
Suzie Freeman stared at her. “You know my husband?”
“No, but you said was, and…”
Freeman looked uneasy. “I’m afraid I might’ve misled you. My husband is fine. At least he was when I kissed him goodbye this morning.” She leaned back again and shut her eyes.
“So he’s been visiting you?” Banks asked.
Freeman regarded her a moment. “I beg your pardon?”
“Visiting you. Here in Los Angeles.”
“If that were true, why would I have his luggage?”
Instead of answering, Banks gave her a smug look. “May I ask you a personal question?” she said.
Suzie Freeman paused. “I suppose so.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“And your husband. How old is he?”
Freeman studied her seatmate a moment. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”
“But he’s quite a bit older, is he not?”
“Yes, Stuart’s older than I am.”
“I see. Is he a tall man?”
“Not very. Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Just curious. How tall?”
“About my height. Maybe a little shorter.”
“I see.” Banks turned to stare out the window at the passing clouds, then asked, “How do you feel, Ms. Freeman, about what you’re doing, and what you’ve done?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Banks asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
Banks turned to face her. “Your luggage tags say your husband Stuart lives in Ontario.”
“That’s right.”
“And you’ve lost a button off the front of your blouse.”
Freeman glanced down at it, surprised. “So?”
Another smug look. “Ontario is two thousand miles from L.A., Ms. Freeman. And any husband you kissed goodbye this morning would have told you, before you went out in public—unless he was too blind or too tall to notice it—that you have a missing button. Especially if you were young enough to be his daughter.”
Suzie Freeman made no reply.
“What I think,” Banks continued, “is that you and your rich-doctor husband were here on vacation, but that your stay ended rather abruptly. And frankly, I think you might have left him in no condition to critique your outfit, or anything else.”
Freeman blinked. “What are you saying? You think I killed him?”
Banks just stared at her.
“You think I murdered my husband,” Freeman said. “Don’t you.”
“Did you?”
A silence dragged by. As they sat there watching each other, a flight attendant stopped his service cart in the aisle beside Suzie Freeman’s seat. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.
Very calmly, Freeman ordered coffee, with sugar. So did Banks. When the steward had placed the cups and two white packets on Freeman’s lowered tray, she opened her purse and fiddled with her compact. “Who are you?” she said to Banks. “The police?”
“Please. Give me some credit.”
“Who, then? A lawyer? A reporter?”
“A psychologist. I was here to present a paper.”
“Of course.” Freeman’s hands were rock-steady as she dusted sugar into their coffees and passed Banks’s cup to her. “A creative mind.”
“I like to think so.”
“But what you’ve created,” Freeman said, “is a fantasy.”
“In what way?” Olivia Banks took a swallow of coffee.
“Well, for one thing, Ontario isn’t two thousand miles from L.A., it’s twenty miles.”
“Ontario, Canada?”
“Ontario, California.”
“There is no such place.”
“Really? I’ll tell that to our mayor, when I get home.”
Banks raised her chin. “I don’t believe you.”
Suzie Freeman shrugged and sipped her coffee. “Why should you? After all, I’m a murderer.”
Both of them stayed quiet for a while.
Finally, Freeman asked, “How do you think I killed him?”
Banks studied her a moment, looking pleased with herself. “Any of a dozen ways. A pillow over his face, possibly. You look strong, and if he’s short—”
“Short doesn’t mean weak, Ms. Banks.”
“Maybe a blow to the head, then, as he was putting on his shoes, or brushing his teeth.”
“This is disappointing,” Freeman said sadly. “And you’re a psychologist?”
Banks’s face reddened. “All right then, how did you kill him?”
“Poison,” Freeman said. “Arsenic trioxide. A white powder. I sprinkled it into his coffee, instead of sugar.”
It took a moment for that to register. Suddenly, Banks tensed and stared into her cup.
“It’s very effective,” Freeman said, with a smile.
Banks looked wide-eyed at Freeman’s tray, at the two packets of sugar. A third white packet, this one open, lay beside them.
“My God—” Dropping her cup, Banks struggled to her feet. Freeman barely had time to raise her tray table before Banks barged past her and into the aisle. Once there, the tall woman ran gagging and green-faced toward a group of flight attendants at the rear of the plane.
Still smiling, Suzie Freeman took a cell phone from her purse and tapped the screen. After a pause, she said, “Stuart? It’s me. How was your first morning as a retiree?” Her grin widened. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just calling to tell you I found your glasses after I left, in the briefcase. I’ll FedEx them to you from the hotel. And by the way, you know that headache powder you sent with me today?”
She turned and looked back down the aisle at the commotion.
“It works wonders.”
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Personal Updates
Where You’ll Find Nikita
I’m getting settled in Phoenix, so there are no public events to share just yet.
This Month’s Snapshot
My short story “A Yellow Speck” placed in the top ten of MoonLit Getaway’s 2025 Short Fiction contest.
The story is about a boy who finds a girl lying beside a corpse in a rice field.
Read it for free here (about a ten-minute read.)
Pupdate
Arya did her part to pack. She gathered all her toys into her crate.
Next Month on Curated by Costiuc
A dead German cyclist and a village that saw nothing.
New story arrives May 1st.
Curated by Costiuc is a monthly newsletter featuring curated mystery, thriller, and suspense stories. “Creativity” is copyrighted © 2000 by John M. Floyd and is reprinted here with the author’s permission. Learn more about John M. Floyd at www.johnmfloyd.com.
I'm from California, so I knew the psych might have been wrong all along. I now live near Lexington ... Avenue, that is, in Danville, KY. Although it might have been Lexington Avenue in New York. But I once lived in Lexington, Kentucky. (According to Qura: There are over 30 locations named Lexington in the United States, including cities, towns, villages, and townships ... The most prominent are Lexington, Kentucky (the largest), and Lexington, Massachusetts (the oldest), with others located in states including Alabama, Georgia, Michigan, Mississippi, Nebraska, North Carolina, and Virginia. So, wherever you go, there you are.
John Floyd's work is always entertaining. Loved this story as well!