“It is a shame, a terrible shame about poor Edith”
“
Oh my, yes Agnes, most definitely terrible”
Gertrude set her Royal Albert China teacup down. Normally the fine china would
never come out for the weekly bridge game, but the gruesome death of her bridge
partner required something more than the regular set she used.
She admired the cup, a wedding present she’d received fifty-six years
ago. During all of those years, only one cup had ever been broken.
“
Gertie, may I have another cup of tea?” Myrtle’s hands trembled
as she set the cup down. “Seems my arthritis is acting up again”
“
Of course Myrtle, I will be right back”
Gertrude gently picked up the cup and carried it into the kitchen. As she
poured the tea, she looked at her perfectly maintained yard. Since her husband
died ten years back, she made certain that everything was nice and tidy.
Frank had been a good husband, but he did not share her desire to keep up
appearances. Fortunately he was content to spend his retirement in his den,
watching TV or sleeping in that tattered lazy-boy chair. It was the first
thing she got rid off when he passed.
Now it was her house, filled with her favourite things.
As she returned to the dinning room, she heard Agnes set the cup down on its
saucer with a loud clink. She quickened her pace.
“
I tell you Myrtle, things are not way they were. Poor Edith. Beaten to death
with one of her own golf clubs. Only a monster could do something like that”
“
I heard the man the police caught was from New York City.” Gertrude
sat down. She took a quick look at Agnes’ cup. It appeared to be undamaged.
“
Well that doesn’t surprise me,” Agnes replied as she picked up
her cup. “Nothing but wickedness up there.”
Gertrude noticed Myrtle was staring at her cup, not saying a word. Edith had
been friends with Myrtle for at least twenty years and since Edith’s
death, she was not interested in doing anything especially playing Bridge.
‘
Not that you can play Bridge with only three people,’ Gertrude thought,
disgusted. It was Thursday afternoon and for six years they had always played
Bridge from 1:30 to 4:00. Then she watched her shows.
But for the second Thursday in a row, they just sat here and talked about
that old busybody. People die everyday. Doesn’t mean life should just
stop for everyone else.
Myrtle sighed loudly and retrieved her knitting from her purse. Myrtle always
knit when she was sad. When her husband John had passed, she made a ten-foot
square afghan for each member of the Bridge club. Gertrude kept hers in the
closet, certain one day it would find a use.
Agnes stood up. “Well, the big bake sale is tomorrow and I need to finish
baking my famous peach pies. I will drop by after the sale with any left over
pies, though they are so popular I doubt there will be any left!”
As Agnes walked out of the dining room toward the front door, Gertrude scowled.
Those awful pies. If Agnes wasn’t gossiping or getting into someone’s
business, she was making those dreadful pies. Thank goodness the tourists
didn’t know better, or Agnes would force them to endure a week of pie.
In fact, there was a rumor her husband didn’t fight the cancer just
to avoid another pie…
Gertrude was shaken from her thoughts by the sound of a teacup smashing on
the floor.
She jumped up from her chair and saw the remnants of her prized possession
spread across the floor.
Myrtle just sat there, staring. “I am so sorry Gertie, I know how important
these cups are to you.” She set her knitting down and kneeled on the
floor, slowly picking up each of the pieces.
“
For fifty-six years I cared for this perfect tea set and within three weeks,
two cups get broken.” Gertrude was very calm as she spoke. She picked
up the knitting needles off the table and carefully examined them. They were
steel with dull finish, but looked quite strong. She lifted them above her
head and with a single motion stabbed them into the base of Myrtle’s
skull. Myrtle instantly fell flat on the floor, her limbs flailed almost involuntarily
as she screamed. Gertrude watched as Myrtle’s movements lessened and
then finally stopped. A pool of blood was slowly growing around Myrtle and
the half-inch of scarf that she had been working on was soaked red with her
blood.
Gertrude sat back down in her chair and looked at her two treasured cups still
on the table. Everyone knew they were irreplaceable, especially her bridge
club.
At least Myrtle had apologized. Edith had just told her that accidents happened.
That was why it had to be different with Edith. She had spent two days waiting
for the right moment, the right punishment. So when Edith told them she was
bringing her precious golf clubs out for the summer, Gertrude knew it was
time.
Three hours she waited that Sunday morning for the old bitty to come back
from church. Waiting gave her the chance to select the correct club. She decided
to go with the brand new three iron Edith had just bought. She had boasted
about how good it was, how the weight was just right. Gertrude had to admit
it was a good club. Edith’s punishment took a while
and Gertrude was not really tired when it was over.
But this Myrtle situation needed her attention now. Gertrude fetched the massive
afghan from the closet, wrapped Myrtle up in it and mopped up the blood.
There are many ways to get rid of a body, so that part would not be a problem;
she just had to wait until nightfall. Since Myrtle loved to gamble and liked
to go to Vegas when she was depressed, her disappearance would not be questioned
for weeks.
The only problem was the floor. She opened the phone book and called a local
renovation company.
“
Hello, my name is Gertrude Sampson. I am planning to sell my house before
moving south and I would like my hardwood floor refinished. My husband coated
it
with so
many layers of varnish that I can’t even see the wood anymore. Besides
no one wants to buy a house with scratched and stained floor…Yes Friday
afternoon is good. I will drop off the keys just before I leave. Just tell
your people to be very careful. I get very upset if any of my favourite things
get broken."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When not wandering the streets in a bathrobe muttering conspiracy
theories, K. Robert Einarson finds time to work as a computer programmer,
a volunteer firefighter and eccentric magazine publisher.
Since hearing
about the Da Vinci Code, he has spend hours in Da Vinci’s
Pizza trying to find hidden truths within the lists of toppings.
Return to Summer 2006 Table of Contents
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