Free Small Plates by Katherine Hall Page Page A

I’m going to have one myself.”
    Mabel said that would be nice. She was still in her gardening clothes, although her hands were clean, scrubbed raw, the nails chipped. Gloves were a bother and got in her way.
    He went to the kitchen, thinking paradoxically that a truly thoughtful wife would offer to fetch the libations herself rather than be waited on by her handicapped husband. She had been typically unsympathetic about the injury and had expressed her opinion several times too often that he needed to walk more or his muscles would be even limper. He reached for the glass she liked and using the ice maker on the refrigerator door, filled it. He took the chloral hydrate from behind the flour canister, where he’d placed it earlier in the day, and poured it, filling half the tumbler. The dose the doctor had prescribed was two teaspoons before bedtime. Mr. Carter was both taller and heavier than his wife; most people were. With the addition of the cherry brandy, the drink should send her swiftly to sleep and then with any luck into a deadly coma. He planned to put her to bed, inhaler on the floor by her side, apparently knocked out of reach.
    Unlike the pillow method, she’d never know what hit her. The perfect crime. He’d be certain to mention the brandy to whomever responded to the 911 call he’d make in the morning after failing to rouse her and noting with horror the absence of all vital signs. No one would suspect the chloral, but if it was found, he’d been taking his medicine as ordered each night and there was his name on the half-empty bottle to prove it. But he doubted it would come to that. If Mabel and he had been younger, perhaps there would be some suspicions, but at their age people did die, especially people with severe allergy-induced asthma.
    He topped off her drink with the sweet brandy and poured himself a more generous than usual amount of Rémy Martin. He had heard that it was the cognac connoisseurs drank. It was expensive enough, certainly. Carrying the two glasses, he made his way back into the living room, emphasizing the awkwardness of his cast as he approached Mabel’s chair. She was reading The Encyclopedia of Plant Lore, a gift from him several Christmases ago. She snapped it shut and took her drink. “Yum.” She smiled appreciatively, and by the time he reached his own chair and turned around to face her, she’d quaffed more than half of it. He started to chide her. Really, it was most unbecoming to watch a woman swill alcohol that way, but stopped himself. The quicker the better. The quicker the deader.
    â€œCheers,” he said and lifted his glass. She set hers down and picked up the book again. Was it his imagination or did she seem unusually flushed? He held his breath and put his cognac down. Tonight of all nights he needed a clear head. Tonight! His blood raced. It would be tonight. Probably the first person he’d call after the emergency number would be Mrs. Parsons, who lived next door. They had been neighbors for thirty years, and when Mr. Parsons had been alive, the two couples occasionally played bridge. They were pleasant enough but fully occupied in bringing up their four children. Mrs. Parsons had put on considerable weight since the death of her husband, and an endless stream of children and grandchildren were in and out of the house. She was a good cook, judging from the Christmas cookies and Fourth of July blueberry pie she bestowed upon them each year. He could count on her for any number of meals and other forms of sustenance.
    He let his mind drift to the next few days. Tomorrow would be the worst—or the best, depending on one’s viewpoint. There would be the police rescue squad, then when it became apparent that it was, alas, too late, he’d have to deal with the medical examiner, or perhaps it would be their own doctor? He’d be finding out soon. Then arrangements with the funeral home, and he had no