I

I’m No Anna Nicole

By Charlotte Jones

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I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. By instinct my first two fingers on my right hand flew to my throat to check my pulse and make sure I was still alive. My poor departed husband hadn’t been dead long enough for the body to get cold, (from the flames, I mean,) and that slimebag of a lawyer reads the words, "And to my lovely wife, I leave all my money in a TRUST from which she will receive $20,000 a month at the discretion of the trustees until her death. My two daughters, Gertrude and Gretchen will serve as trustees, and upon my wife’s death, will inherit outright the balance of the trust."

I just couldn’t listen to the rest, especially after I heard the figure of $20,000 a month and that my two evil step-daughters would be watching my every move. I mean, what about inflation? What about needing a bigger house? What about the annual Christmas catalog from Neiman’s?

I had to yank my eyes away from that sagging piece of skin still quivering beneath the lawyer’s chin to look at my two step-daughters. I could see by the smirk they gave each other that they already were planning my quick and untimely demise so they could get on with the business of spending their inheritance.

If only I had persuaded Donald to move to a community property state before he died! Too bad those tiresome doctors wouldn’t let me take him out of the hospital. That would have made my life so much easier, because then I would have had half the $800 million all to myself. The very thought of those girls -- girls HA, they’re older than me -- deciding how much I can spend just makes me want to throw up. And I would, too, except I’ve got a luncheon at the Jr. League right after this meeting and I don’t want to splatter my new raw silk suit.

When I questioned the terms of the will, you’d have thought I was some kind of selfish pit viper from the response. It was "My daddy made his fortune long before you came along, honey." And "Maybe daddy didn’t love you as much as you think he did, darlin’, heh, heh, heh." And "Afterall, you’re an EX-Playboy Bunny. Maybe you should be happy with what you get." It was really enough to chap my ass and if I weren’t such a lady, (and if I hadn’t just had a manicure,) there would have been a cat fight right then and there. You should know that I married their daddy in spite of knowing those two little black-hearted fiends would become part of my family. I made his final year happy, too.

Well, I was smart enough to know that fighting them legally wasn’t the answer. The trick was to get rid of them before they could get rid of me. Then I could be trustee of my own trust and the problem would be solved.

Well, I won’t bore you with the details but coincidentally, over the next six months, my lovely step-daughters were involved in some terrible accidents that led to their untimely deaths. Gertrude was driving her little 1945 Jaguar SS-100 roadster, you know, the convertible with the wire rims? Somehow her lovely Hermes scarf got caught in the spokes and strangled her. It was a shame, because I had it specially made for her, extra long, too. It was totally unsalvageable.

And Gretchen. Well, she choked to death on a raw oyster at a private reception for the chairman of De Beers. She was chatting him up when he casually mentioned that her diamond necklace was actually cubic zirconia and that’s what did it. Fortunately, no one in that crowd knew the Heimlich maneuver, preferring to leave that sort of thing to the help.

Of course, given the circumstances of the estate, I was questioned in depth, but in the end, they couldn’t prove I had anything to do with it and no charges were filed.

I will say, I was most pleased with the services provided by Accidents-R-Us. I found them on the Internet. Thank God I’d soon have my hands on that trust because they cost me a small fortune!

Six months later, so nobody would think I was anxious or anything, I made an appointment with the lawyer to settle once and for all that I would now be trustee of my own trust.

After I made my case, he just smiled at me over the top of his cheap reading glasses. His elbows rested on the mahogany desk. He lightly tapped his fingers together and shook his head side to side. It was really a rather condescending look, which, with his bad hairpiece and all, makes you wonder how some people can think they are so important.

He said, "Oh, no, no dear. The terms of the will stated that if anything suspicious surrounded the deaths of your late husband’s daughters, or even if they predecease you, that your monthly stipend was to be suspended and the principle of the trust was to go directly to his brother. I’m so sorry, but I guess you didn’t hear that part. I AM sorry."

You know, desperation will make one stoop to doing some low things. I thought about killing that lawyer right then and there. And, if he were still alive, I WOULD have killed my husband. But instead, I just put on my hat and walked out that door. How my darling husband, whom I adored, could have left me destitute, I will never understand.

Of what I did next, I am truly ashamed. It is the lowest, most vile act I have ever committed. My mother brought me up better than this. But I was at rock bottom, so what else could I do?

I placed another personal ad:

SYWWFPB (single, young, wealthy (so I lied a little, everyone does) widow, former Playboy Bunny) seeks SGBBWCKMMIA (single glamorous billionaire businessman who can keep me (in the) manner I’m accustomed) for romantic entanglement. Enjoys dining at Tavern on the Green, yachting in the Mediterranean and shopping at Tiffany’s. Prefers gentlemen with no children.

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Charlotte decided to write her biography in the form of a haiku:

Charlotte Jones appears

for the fourth time in this mag.

What are they thinking?