Free Small Plates by Katherine Hall Page Page B

doubt that the Reverend Dobbins would arrive with words of comfort immediately. Mr. Carter thought “For the Beauty of the Earth” would be an appropriate hymn for Mabel’s service. He’d leave the rest to Reverend Dobbins.
    Interment was no problem. They had a plot, purchased years ago. He’d have his own name carved on the headstone too with his birth date and the rest blank. Although, if he remarried, that might hurt his next wife’s feelings. Just Mabel’s then, with an appropriate epitaph. Best not to burn one’s bridges.
    Word would get around. The phone, which seldom rang, would ring off the hook. He’d ask one of the women in the church to help him plan a suitable collation for after the service. Lilies, not gladioli.
    â€œI think I’ll go to bed. Kinda tired.” Mabel’s speech was definitely slurred. She stood up and knocked into the Benjamin’s fig tree next to her chair as she stepped toward the stairs.
    â€œAre you all right, my dear?”
    â€œFine. Need to sleep, that’s all.”
    Mr. Carter lingered for a moment, enjoying the emptiness of the room and the prospect of the continued void in his future, then went to bed himself. He set the alarm for three o’clock—enough time for the lethal cocktail to have worked and time to set the stage. When it sounded, he walked soundlessly down the carpeted hall and opened the door to his wife’s room. For a moment he felt a twinge of regret as he gazed at the still figure in the bed, but it passed quickly and he found he had a sudden desire to laugh with glee. But that would be unseemly. He composed his face into a proper widower’s expression and approached Mabel’s corpse. The inhaler was on her bedside table within arm’s reach. He reached to move it, and fling the bedclothes about a bit, then froze.
    â€œWhat do you think you’re doing?” Mabel sat up in bed, her face an angry mask. “I thought I made it clear, we’re past that sort of thing.”
    Fright turned to stunned surprise, and he gulped for words, unable to utter the ones racing through his head. How could she possibly have drunk the mixture and be alive? And awake!
    â€œThought I heard you call, my dear,” he mumbled. “Must have been dreaming.” He hastened out of the room, pulling the door firmly shut. Yes, he had been dreaming and awakened to a nightmare.
    Mr. Carter was a persistent man. He had been successful at his job not because of hard or soft sell, but persistent sell. He possessed the ability to wait. Rebuffed by prospective clients, he’d call two years later and like as not sign them as new customers, dissatisfied with the coverage they’d purchased instead. Most of the population regarded insurance companies as potential adversaries, and it wasn’t difficult to get them to switch loyalties with a few well-chosen aspersions. Therefore, when he awoke the next morning, he was calm. True, he had expected to be widowed by the end of the summer, but these things took time. He’d taken to reading the obituaries and news reports of fatal accidents for ideas. Most involved automobiles, but one day he happened upon a column describing, with some humor, what a death trap one’s home was.
    He read eagerly, eliminating household poisons, ladders, and carbon monoxide as unsuitable for his purpose. The section his eyes lingered lovingly over involved electrical appliances and water. He should have thought of it before. It wasn’t as kind as the other approaches, but Mabel was making things difficult. However, there was always the chance that it would be so quick, she wouldn’t realize what was happening. Several years ago they had indulged themselves with a whirlpool tub, or rather Mabel had. Mr. Carter never used it, finding the jets of water disconcerting and the noise it made annoying. All he had to do was plug in a radio and drop it into the tub. She