2056
Views
Views
30 Votes
Chapter 1:- Death of a plumber
Myrtle Murphy had everything she wanted out of life―a dead husband, a grown son who’d moved to the opposite coast and neighbors who minded their own business. But what she didn’t have was money. She needed a job. At sixty-one and living off a pittance of an early retirement pension, she had no skills to fall back on.
Unless you could call slipping your husband small doses of rat poison in his evening tea for over a month a skill. Yet, on the other hand, it had taken a certain amount of talent to flavor the tea―just so―to avoid being caught. And it had definitely taken a particular cleverness to dispose of Norman’s body.
Norm.
Now there was a waste of space. Ever since he decided to have a midlife crisis at forty-eight, the man had been virtually useless. And yes, he decided. That’s exactly what he told her after he came home with a brand new sports car that they couldn’t afford.
“I’m having a midlife crisis, Myrt, and you better get used to it,” he told her.
After that he started going out with the ‘boys’.
Boys! Yeah, right!
The ‘boys’ were three semi-retired old coots, like Norm, who had nothing better to do than sit around Farley’s Pub and get drunk, while spending their paychecks at the slot machines. Sometimes she’d find one of boys passed out on her couch the next morning. Often there was a mess of vomit on the floor.
And who do you suppose cleaned that up?
Myrtle, of course.
For a while she considered having her own midlife crisis, maybe buy herself a sports car, or go to a club for ladies’ night. But she knew she was well past all that nonsense.
Myrtle was having a Norman crisis instead.
Her husband of thirty odd years was always complaining about how his life could have been better if he had done this. Or become that. Or lived there. He had practically driven her around the bend with his constant complaining.
“I should’ve gone into computers,” he muttered one day while they were dining at Denny’s. “That’s where the money is.”
“That’s what you said last week about banking,” she said dryly. “Why can’t you just be happy with being a plumber? Some of your friends make more than enough.” She paused, stroking her chin in mock thoughtfulness. “Course, they work twice as much as you do, and they don’t turn down jobs because their thumb hurts.”
“Well, it did,” he argued.
“And what about the time you said no to the townhouse complex, just because you wanted to go to the races with your boys?”
“I needed a couple of days off,” he said belligerently. “I worked hard that week.”
She snorted.
“What?” he demanded. “What do you do all day? Watch soap operas is my guess.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You mean, what do I do after I’ve cleaned the house, washed all the laundry, paid our bills, checked the mail, gone shopping and made dinner? Hmm, well since you’ve been getting home around three each day, that doesn’t leave me much time to watch soap operas, now does it?”
The waitress interrupted them with their meals, a chicken salad for Myrtle and a bacon cheeseburger with fries for Norm. The girl plopped a bottle of ketchup on the table, then asked if they needed anything else.
How about a cattle prod? Myrtle was tempted to say.
“Oh, by the way,” Norm said when the girl had left. “I’m gonna take back that vest you bought me.”
Her brow arched. “Really.”
He was talking about the green plaid vest she’d gotten him for his birthday last week. The one he had practically begged her for, that she’d traipsed three malls to find.
“Yeah,” he continued. “The boys said it washed me out, made me look old. Said I’d look better in red.”
She was about to make a sarcastic remark when Norm got to his feet.
“Be right back,” he said before disappearing into the washroom.
She picked up her fork, but her gaze came to rest on the ketchup bottle. It was the glass kind, the one with the little twist-off cap. The kind that was always temperamental, that wouldn’t release the ketchup, forcing you to―
A monsoon of an idea washed over her.
She covertly glanced around the restaurant, then eyed the bathroom door. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she loosened the cap on the ketchup bottle. Then she slid the bottle toward her husband’s plate, knowing that he wouldn’t resist having ketchup with his fries.
Sure enough, as soon as he sat down, he gripped the bottle in one hand.
She held her breath, waiting to see him upend it all over his meal.
But that’s not exactly what happened.
What did happen was far more rewarding.
Norm shook the bottle. Vigorously.
The cap flew off and ketchup exploded everywhere. It coated his gray hair, his grizzled face, then slid down his throat and under the collar of his white shirt. The shocked look in his eyes swiftly turned to embarrassment.
Myrtle passed him a napkin. “You should always check the lid first.”
A dribble of red goo oozed down Norm’s shirt and plopped into his lap.
“I’ll go clean up in the bathroom,” he mumbled.
When he was almost at the bathroom door, she couldn’t resist a last dig.
“The boys were right,” she hollered.
Heads turned. People gasped, pointed and laughed.
“About what?” Norm snapped.
She grinned. “You do look better in red.”
That night, her husband went on a rampage. He didn’t outright accuse her of loosening the ketchup cap, but she could see it in his eyes. He suspected her.
“You better wash my shirt right away,” he insisted. “I don’t want it to stain.”
“Wash it yourself,” she said with a scowl.
“I can’t. My back hurts.”
Her mouth thinned in anger.
If it wasn’t his back bothering him, it was his leg. Or he had indigestion, or his eye was twitching, or his ear was itchy.
“If it gets worse I won’t be able to go to work tomorrow,” he said slyly.
She washed the shirt. And left out the fabric softener.
The next night, Norm continued his little game. This time he had a migraine.
That was the moment she snapped.
“You’re giving me a migraine!” she yelled.
“Shh,” Norm moaned, cringing and squinting up at her. “Make me some tea, will ya.” It wasn’t a request.
She glared at him, hands on hips, fuming. Sometimes you’re such a pest, Norm.
A slow smile emerged. “Sure thing…dear.”
The rat poison was tucked under the kitchen sink, way in the back. She’d found it the other day when she was looking for a scrub brush. She had no idea where the box had come from. She hadn’t even known they had a rat problem.
“One half teaspoon,” she murmured, carefully measuring out the fine white powder.
A sprinkle of cinnamon and a spoonful of honey made Norm’s tea just right. At least she hoped so. She certainly wasn’t going to taste it to make sure.
“Here,” she said, plopping the cup down on the coffee table. “And here’s a wedge of lemon.”
She studied him, a bit like a scientist studies a lab rat just before he administers something deadly. When Norm squeezed the lemon into his tea, she walked away, pleased by his inadvertent assistance.
That night in bed, her poor husband couldn’t sleep.
“I have a tummy ache, Myrt,” he whimpered.
Tummy? What grown man said ‘tummy’?
“Must be something you ate,” she said, rolling away from him so he wouldn’t see her grin.
The following night, she made his evening tea with its special ingredient.
By the next week, Norm began complaining that his vision was blurry.
Myrtle told him to get new glasses.
Then she upped the rat poison to one teaspoon.
This went on for just over a month―until the night Norman Murphy did something phenomenal. He dropped dead.
Actually, it wasn’t so much a drop, more like a crash. And a splatter.
It happened while she was sitting on the couch, watching House on TV. Norm went into the kitchen and brought back a pitcher of orange juice. He was standing right in front of her, about to set it on the coffee table, when he let out a tortured groan. The pitcher flew out of his hands and juice erupted into the air.
Unfortunately, Myrtle wore it. From the top of her head, down to her toes.
“For heaven’s sake!” she sputtered. “Watch what you’re―”
Norm hit the floor. He slid, face-first, until he rested at her feet.
“Norm?”
He didn’t move.
She prodded him with her foot. “Hey, get up.”
Still no movement.
That’s when it hit her.
Norm was dead.
She cocked her juice-drenched head to the side, watching him for a long moment. She’d always wondered if she’d regret her actions, feel sorry for him, miss him, maybe even feel guilty.
“Nope,” she said to his lifeless body. “Nothing.”
With a shrug, she set to work on cleaning up the mess he’d made.
“Can’t have a stain on the floor,” she muttered. “Now can we?”
After all, it was Norm who always told her that if there was a mess in the house he expected her to take care of it. Right away.
It took almost an hour to get her husband wrapped up in an old tarp and drag him into the garage. It took another hour to clean up the orange juice and bleach the floor. After that, Myrtle had a leisurely shower, whistling all the while, and then changed into a more practical outfit―black pants, a black turtleneck sweater and black leather gloves. She was tempted to wear Norm’s black ski mask, but figured that might be overkill.
Since she’d made Norm take back the sports car the day after he brought it home, she had to settle for either his old Honda or her Mazda. Panting and straining, she inched his tarp-covered body into the trunk of the Honda. Better his car than hers.
“Shoulda gone on a diet, Norm.”
With a final grunt, she heaved him into the trunk, crammed his legs inside and tossed a shovel in beside him. Brushing her hands off, she let out a satisfied sigh and slammed the trunk lid shut. She drove half a mile out of the city, veered off down a country lane, then pulled over.
Under a pitch black, starless sky, she began to dig. Thankfully, the ground was soft, newly plowed. When the hole was deep enough, she opened the tarp and rolled Norm’s body toward the edge.
“Dust to dust,” she said. “Et cetera, et cetera.”
She shoved him into the pit.
Norm hit the bottom with a soft thump. He landed face up, his eyes staring blindly at the sky. His left arm was bent, half-covering his chest, and one leg was twisted under him. His jumbled pose made him look like a puppet that had lost its strings.
She tossed the tarp into the grave.
An hour later, the puppet was buried.
That was almost two months ago. And now here she was, sitting at the kitchen table, scouring the classified section of the Edmonton Sun, while she considered employment ads because the old coot had forgotten to renew his life insurance policy. She should have checked into that before she decided to get rid of him.
“That was a grave error on your part, Myrtle.” She doubled over in a fit of laughter. “Oh my, you’re punny.”
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
With a huge grin on her face, she opened the door.
A white-haired woman in antiquated cats-eye glasses stood on the porch, looking as though she’d just stepped out of Vogue.
Myrtle recognized her immediately and her smile faded.
“Mother Murphy. What brings you to town?”
“I’m looking for Norman,” her mother-in-law said, peering down the aquiline tip of her nose. “He hasn’t called me in weeks. That’s not like him.”
She pushed past Myrtle and strode into the living room, her regal head swiveling back and forth as her piercing blue eyes took in every speck of dust. “Where is he?”
“He went camping with the boys.” It was the first thing that came to mind.
“Camping?” Mother Murphy’s lips pursed in disapproval. “When will he be back?”
Myrtle gritted her teeth. “I’m not sure. Would you like to sit for a few minutes before you head back?”
Her mother-in-law gave her the look. The one that said her son had married a moron.
“Of course I’d like to sit. Do you think I’d drive all this way just to stand here? It was a four-hour drive, in rush hour traffic, and only to find out that my son has gone…camping, of all things.”
They settled in the living room, Mother Murphy in the armchair and Myrtle on the couch. For a long moment they simply watched each other. Myrtle knew the old woman was sizing her up. It’s what she’d always done, ever since Norm had brought his fiancé to meet his mother.
“I wanted to let Norman know I’ve updated my will,” her mother-in-law said finally.
Well, that was a shock. And it must have been written all over Myrtle’s face because the woman continued. “Wadsworth died, and since I can no longer leave my money to my dearly departed cat, I’ve made Norman my beneficiary.”
“Good for him.”
“Of course, he probably won’t see anything for a few more years. My doctor says I’m in tiptop shape.” Mother Murphy gave her a chilly smile. “You probably won’t see much of it anyway. I’m sure Norman will want to buy a new car, since you made him give his last one back.” She leaned forward. “I never could understand why he married you. You’re so…common.”
Myrtle bristled. “Common? Your son’s a plumber, for crying out loud. Not the royal heir to the throne.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless it’s a toilet.”
Her mother-in-law gasped, one hand raised to her throat. “Myrtle! I’m appalled.” She raised her chin in defiance. “I will be speaking to Norman about this.”
Myrtle hid a grin. “You do that. I don’t care.”
“Well, you should care,” the old woman threatened. “I am his mother after all. He listens to me.”
“He didn’t when you told him not to marry me.”
The old woman stood slowly. “I best be getting back before my neighbors wonder where I’ve gone.”
“Didn’t you tell them?” Myrtle asked, surprised.
Her mother-in-law was usually very meticulous at letting her neighbors know when she’d be gone for more than an hour. The woman was always so petrified that she’d get stuck somewhere and poor Wadsworth―a miserable, unpredictable siamese―wouldn’t get fed on time.
Correction, Myrtle. A miserable, unpredictable and now dead Siamese.
“I completely forgot to tell them,” Mother Murphy admitted. “I was worried that something had happened to Norman. I know you don’t look after him. He told me how you refused to wash his clothes or make his favorite meals.” Her eyes iced over. “And how you watch soap operas all day.”
At first, Myrtle said nothing. She was too busy trying to remember if there was another tarp in the garage.
She took her mother-in-law’s arm and steered her back toward the living room.
“What are you doing?” the old woman demanded. “Let go of me!”
“You should rest a bit longer,” Myrtle said. “You look exhausted.”
“Do I?” Mother Murphy touched her face. “Perhaps I should rest. It has been a long drive. And talking to you is enough to exhaust anyone.”
Myrtle smiled with saccharine sweetness. “How about I make you a nice cup of tea?”
~*~
Note from Cheryl:
I've left this story up in full as a special thank you to my textnovel readers. I hope you enjoyed it.
A GRAVE ERROR will be available in early August as one of 13 short stories in my new collection titled SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET & OTHER CREEPY STORIES. It will be available as an ebook on Kindle, Smashwords, KoboBooks, iPad and more.
Check out the creepy cover at http://www.cherylktardif.com/skeletons-in-the-closet
Thank you to all my readers here on Textnovel. I appreciate every one of you.
Cheryl Kaye Tardif, bestselling author
http://www.cherylktardif.com
http://www.cherylktardif.blogspot.com
Myrtle Murphy had everything she wanted out of life―a dead husband, a grown son who’d moved to the opposite coast and neighbors who minded their own business. But what she didn’t have was money. She needed a job. At sixty-one and living off a pittance of an early retirement pension, she had no skills to fall back on.
Unless you could call slipping your husband small doses of rat poison in his evening tea for over a month a skill. Yet, on the other hand, it had taken a certain amount of talent to flavor the tea―just so―to avoid being caught. And it had definitely taken a particular cleverness to dispose of Norman’s body.
Norm.
Now there was a waste of space. Ever since he decided to have a midlife crisis at forty-eight, the man had been virtually useless. And yes, he decided. That’s exactly what he told her after he came home with a brand new sports car that they couldn’t afford.
“I’m having a midlife crisis, Myrt, and you better get used to it,” he told her.
After that he started going out with the ‘boys’.
Boys! Yeah, right!
The ‘boys’ were three semi-retired old coots, like Norm, who had nothing better to do than sit around Farley’s Pub and get drunk, while spending their paychecks at the slot machines. Sometimes she’d find one of boys passed out on her couch the next morning. Often there was a mess of vomit on the floor.
And who do you suppose cleaned that up?
Myrtle, of course.
For a while she considered having her own midlife crisis, maybe buy herself a sports car, or go to a club for ladies’ night. But she knew she was well past all that nonsense.
Myrtle was having a Norman crisis instead.
Her husband of thirty odd years was always complaining about how his life could have been better if he had done this. Or become that. Or lived there. He had practically driven her around the bend with his constant complaining.
“I should’ve gone into computers,” he muttered one day while they were dining at Denny’s. “That’s where the money is.”
“That’s what you said last week about banking,” she said dryly. “Why can’t you just be happy with being a plumber? Some of your friends make more than enough.” She paused, stroking her chin in mock thoughtfulness. “Course, they work twice as much as you do, and they don’t turn down jobs because their thumb hurts.”
“Well, it did,” he argued.
“And what about the time you said no to the townhouse complex, just because you wanted to go to the races with your boys?”
“I needed a couple of days off,” he said belligerently. “I worked hard that week.”
She snorted.
“What?” he demanded. “What do you do all day? Watch soap operas is my guess.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You mean, what do I do after I’ve cleaned the house, washed all the laundry, paid our bills, checked the mail, gone shopping and made dinner? Hmm, well since you’ve been getting home around three each day, that doesn’t leave me much time to watch soap operas, now does it?”
The waitress interrupted them with their meals, a chicken salad for Myrtle and a bacon cheeseburger with fries for Norm. The girl plopped a bottle of ketchup on the table, then asked if they needed anything else.
How about a cattle prod? Myrtle was tempted to say.
“Oh, by the way,” Norm said when the girl had left. “I’m gonna take back that vest you bought me.”
Her brow arched. “Really.”
He was talking about the green plaid vest she’d gotten him for his birthday last week. The one he had practically begged her for, that she’d traipsed three malls to find.
“Yeah,” he continued. “The boys said it washed me out, made me look old. Said I’d look better in red.”
She was about to make a sarcastic remark when Norm got to his feet.
“Be right back,” he said before disappearing into the washroom.
She picked up her fork, but her gaze came to rest on the ketchup bottle. It was the glass kind, the one with the little twist-off cap. The kind that was always temperamental, that wouldn’t release the ketchup, forcing you to―
A monsoon of an idea washed over her.
She covertly glanced around the restaurant, then eyed the bathroom door. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she loosened the cap on the ketchup bottle. Then she slid the bottle toward her husband’s plate, knowing that he wouldn’t resist having ketchup with his fries.
Sure enough, as soon as he sat down, he gripped the bottle in one hand.
She held her breath, waiting to see him upend it all over his meal.
But that’s not exactly what happened.
What did happen was far more rewarding.
Norm shook the bottle. Vigorously.
The cap flew off and ketchup exploded everywhere. It coated his gray hair, his grizzled face, then slid down his throat and under the collar of his white shirt. The shocked look in his eyes swiftly turned to embarrassment.
Myrtle passed him a napkin. “You should always check the lid first.”
A dribble of red goo oozed down Norm’s shirt and plopped into his lap.
“I’ll go clean up in the bathroom,” he mumbled.
When he was almost at the bathroom door, she couldn’t resist a last dig.
“The boys were right,” she hollered.
Heads turned. People gasped, pointed and laughed.
“About what?” Norm snapped.
She grinned. “You do look better in red.”
That night, her husband went on a rampage. He didn’t outright accuse her of loosening the ketchup cap, but she could see it in his eyes. He suspected her.
“You better wash my shirt right away,” he insisted. “I don’t want it to stain.”
“Wash it yourself,” she said with a scowl.
“I can’t. My back hurts.”
Her mouth thinned in anger.
If it wasn’t his back bothering him, it was his leg. Or he had indigestion, or his eye was twitching, or his ear was itchy.
“If it gets worse I won’t be able to go to work tomorrow,” he said slyly.
She washed the shirt. And left out the fabric softener.
The next night, Norm continued his little game. This time he had a migraine.
That was the moment she snapped.
“You’re giving me a migraine!” she yelled.
“Shh,” Norm moaned, cringing and squinting up at her. “Make me some tea, will ya.” It wasn’t a request.
She glared at him, hands on hips, fuming. Sometimes you’re such a pest, Norm.
A slow smile emerged. “Sure thing…dear.”
The rat poison was tucked under the kitchen sink, way in the back. She’d found it the other day when she was looking for a scrub brush. She had no idea where the box had come from. She hadn’t even known they had a rat problem.
“One half teaspoon,” she murmured, carefully measuring out the fine white powder.
A sprinkle of cinnamon and a spoonful of honey made Norm’s tea just right. At least she hoped so. She certainly wasn’t going to taste it to make sure.
“Here,” she said, plopping the cup down on the coffee table. “And here’s a wedge of lemon.”
She studied him, a bit like a scientist studies a lab rat just before he administers something deadly. When Norm squeezed the lemon into his tea, she walked away, pleased by his inadvertent assistance.
That night in bed, her poor husband couldn’t sleep.
“I have a tummy ache, Myrt,” he whimpered.
Tummy? What grown man said ‘tummy’?
“Must be something you ate,” she said, rolling away from him so he wouldn’t see her grin.
The following night, she made his evening tea with its special ingredient.
By the next week, Norm began complaining that his vision was blurry.
Myrtle told him to get new glasses.
Then she upped the rat poison to one teaspoon.
This went on for just over a month―until the night Norman Murphy did something phenomenal. He dropped dead.
Actually, it wasn’t so much a drop, more like a crash. And a splatter.
It happened while she was sitting on the couch, watching House on TV. Norm went into the kitchen and brought back a pitcher of orange juice. He was standing right in front of her, about to set it on the coffee table, when he let out a tortured groan. The pitcher flew out of his hands and juice erupted into the air.
Unfortunately, Myrtle wore it. From the top of her head, down to her toes.
“For heaven’s sake!” she sputtered. “Watch what you’re―”
Norm hit the floor. He slid, face-first, until he rested at her feet.
“Norm?”
He didn’t move.
She prodded him with her foot. “Hey, get up.”
Still no movement.
That’s when it hit her.
Norm was dead.
She cocked her juice-drenched head to the side, watching him for a long moment. She’d always wondered if she’d regret her actions, feel sorry for him, miss him, maybe even feel guilty.
“Nope,” she said to his lifeless body. “Nothing.”
With a shrug, she set to work on cleaning up the mess he’d made.
“Can’t have a stain on the floor,” she muttered. “Now can we?”
After all, it was Norm who always told her that if there was a mess in the house he expected her to take care of it. Right away.
It took almost an hour to get her husband wrapped up in an old tarp and drag him into the garage. It took another hour to clean up the orange juice and bleach the floor. After that, Myrtle had a leisurely shower, whistling all the while, and then changed into a more practical outfit―black pants, a black turtleneck sweater and black leather gloves. She was tempted to wear Norm’s black ski mask, but figured that might be overkill.
Since she’d made Norm take back the sports car the day after he brought it home, she had to settle for either his old Honda or her Mazda. Panting and straining, she inched his tarp-covered body into the trunk of the Honda. Better his car than hers.
“Shoulda gone on a diet, Norm.”
With a final grunt, she heaved him into the trunk, crammed his legs inside and tossed a shovel in beside him. Brushing her hands off, she let out a satisfied sigh and slammed the trunk lid shut. She drove half a mile out of the city, veered off down a country lane, then pulled over.
Under a pitch black, starless sky, she began to dig. Thankfully, the ground was soft, newly plowed. When the hole was deep enough, she opened the tarp and rolled Norm’s body toward the edge.
“Dust to dust,” she said. “Et cetera, et cetera.”
She shoved him into the pit.
Norm hit the bottom with a soft thump. He landed face up, his eyes staring blindly at the sky. His left arm was bent, half-covering his chest, and one leg was twisted under him. His jumbled pose made him look like a puppet that had lost its strings.
She tossed the tarp into the grave.
An hour later, the puppet was buried.
That was almost two months ago. And now here she was, sitting at the kitchen table, scouring the classified section of the Edmonton Sun, while she considered employment ads because the old coot had forgotten to renew his life insurance policy. She should have checked into that before she decided to get rid of him.
“That was a grave error on your part, Myrtle.” She doubled over in a fit of laughter. “Oh my, you’re punny.”
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
With a huge grin on her face, she opened the door.
A white-haired woman in antiquated cats-eye glasses stood on the porch, looking as though she’d just stepped out of Vogue.
Myrtle recognized her immediately and her smile faded.
“Mother Murphy. What brings you to town?”
“I’m looking for Norman,” her mother-in-law said, peering down the aquiline tip of her nose. “He hasn’t called me in weeks. That’s not like him.”
She pushed past Myrtle and strode into the living room, her regal head swiveling back and forth as her piercing blue eyes took in every speck of dust. “Where is he?”
“He went camping with the boys.” It was the first thing that came to mind.
“Camping?” Mother Murphy’s lips pursed in disapproval. “When will he be back?”
Myrtle gritted her teeth. “I’m not sure. Would you like to sit for a few minutes before you head back?”
Her mother-in-law gave her the look. The one that said her son had married a moron.
“Of course I’d like to sit. Do you think I’d drive all this way just to stand here? It was a four-hour drive, in rush hour traffic, and only to find out that my son has gone…camping, of all things.”
They settled in the living room, Mother Murphy in the armchair and Myrtle on the couch. For a long moment they simply watched each other. Myrtle knew the old woman was sizing her up. It’s what she’d always done, ever since Norm had brought his fiancé to meet his mother.
“I wanted to let Norman know I’ve updated my will,” her mother-in-law said finally.
Well, that was a shock. And it must have been written all over Myrtle’s face because the woman continued. “Wadsworth died, and since I can no longer leave my money to my dearly departed cat, I’ve made Norman my beneficiary.”
“Good for him.”
“Of course, he probably won’t see anything for a few more years. My doctor says I’m in tiptop shape.” Mother Murphy gave her a chilly smile. “You probably won’t see much of it anyway. I’m sure Norman will want to buy a new car, since you made him give his last one back.” She leaned forward. “I never could understand why he married you. You’re so…common.”
Myrtle bristled. “Common? Your son’s a plumber, for crying out loud. Not the royal heir to the throne.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless it’s a toilet.”
Her mother-in-law gasped, one hand raised to her throat. “Myrtle! I’m appalled.” She raised her chin in defiance. “I will be speaking to Norman about this.”
Myrtle hid a grin. “You do that. I don’t care.”
“Well, you should care,” the old woman threatened. “I am his mother after all. He listens to me.”
“He didn’t when you told him not to marry me.”
The old woman stood slowly. “I best be getting back before my neighbors wonder where I’ve gone.”
“Didn’t you tell them?” Myrtle asked, surprised.
Her mother-in-law was usually very meticulous at letting her neighbors know when she’d be gone for more than an hour. The woman was always so petrified that she’d get stuck somewhere and poor Wadsworth―a miserable, unpredictable siamese―wouldn’t get fed on time.
Correction, Myrtle. A miserable, unpredictable and now dead Siamese.
“I completely forgot to tell them,” Mother Murphy admitted. “I was worried that something had happened to Norman. I know you don’t look after him. He told me how you refused to wash his clothes or make his favorite meals.” Her eyes iced over. “And how you watch soap operas all day.”
At first, Myrtle said nothing. She was too busy trying to remember if there was another tarp in the garage.
She took her mother-in-law’s arm and steered her back toward the living room.
“What are you doing?” the old woman demanded. “Let go of me!”
“You should rest a bit longer,” Myrtle said. “You look exhausted.”
“Do I?” Mother Murphy touched her face. “Perhaps I should rest. It has been a long drive. And talking to you is enough to exhaust anyone.”
Myrtle smiled with saccharine sweetness. “How about I make you a nice cup of tea?”
~*~
Note from Cheryl:
I've left this story up in full as a special thank you to my textnovel readers. I hope you enjoyed it.
A GRAVE ERROR will be available in early August as one of 13 short stories in my new collection titled SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET & OTHER CREEPY STORIES. It will be available as an ebook on Kindle, Smashwords, KoboBooks, iPad and more.
Check out the creepy cover at http://www.cherylktardif.com/skeletons-in-the-closet
Thank you to all my readers here on Textnovel. I appreciate every one of you.
Cheryl Kaye Tardif, bestselling author
http://www.cherylktardif.com
http://www.cherylktardif.blogspot.com
