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A Widow’s Plight by Dorothy Francis Authorities usually require 5 years to declare a missing person legally dead. That’s the law in Kansas. Had I known sooner, I might have chosen a different path to wealth. As it happened, I hadn’t done too badly for a 17-year-old. Now, at 22, I was ready to enjoy my inheritance plus all that lovely insurance money. With one shot to the back of his bald head, I had killed my 80-year-old husband, Earl, while he showered on our wedding night. Why wait longer! I’d found the perfect time and place. How easy to wash his splattered blood down the drain. I’d had enough of Earl’s mauling and groping during our courtship. I’d earned my freedom. But in anticipating my new wealth, I hadn’t thought about disposing of Earl’s body. Sometimes that’s how it is with teenagers. They don’t see the whole picture. What did I know about disposing of a body? Bury it? Some snooper might spot an amateur-looking grave. Dump it in the river? In January the water might freeze. Or what if his body bloated and floated? I’d read stories about that happening. Earl was a shrimp of a man, so I managed to stuff his nude and still-warm body into a large trunk, cover it with blankets, then fill the trunk to the top with old family photographs and pungent-smelling mothballs. Using a two-wheeled cart, I rolled the trunk to the unused carriage house on our Mission Hills estate. Earl’s absence went unnoticed. He’d been a retired investment counselor, and when we married, he’d told everyone we’d be honeymooning and traveling for a few months. I cancelled those plans and booked us an apartment in a Key West guest house for the winter. Key West turned out to be a live-and-let-live island and nobody questioned my husband’s absence or pried into my past. Anyone telephoning our Kansas mansion received a recorded message stating our desire for solitude, and I enjoyed the sunshine and activities of Key West until April. I thought that by then any unpleasant odors would have vanished from the carriage house. Even so, I kept a low profile for a week or so after returning home. Only my Aunt Maggie kept telephoning. One day I answered the ring and heard her gravelly voice. "Monique," she said, "I’m glad you’re home. I need help. I’m getting too old to live in this big house. I want to move to an assisted living home here in Kansas City." "That sounds reasonable," I said. "Where is it?" "My name’s in at Shady Pines, but I can’t take all my furniture. Family pieces. Antiques. I want you and Alfie to inherit them—when the time comes." I sighed. I didn’t want her junk and I doubted that my cousin did, either. Alfie’s a shyster lawyer making his living at Johnson County taxpayers’ expense by representing scumbags who can’t afford legal aid. I’ve hated Alfie since childhood when he used to chase me with frogs and snakes from Brush Creek, stopping only when I let him kiss me. I shuddered at the memory of his slobbery lips. "Monique? Monique? Are you there?" "Yes, Aunt Maggie. I’m here." "I want you to help me arrange to have my furniture trucked to a clean, dry storage unit." "Why not ask Alfie? He knows how to handle legal stuff like that." I put her off, and finally, she agreed to call Alfie. In early April, I drove to police headquarters. I’d tied my blonde hair in a ponytail for an innocent look, and I’d peeled raw onions so I’d look appropriately weepy. At the station, I waited a long time before a clerk ushered me to Sgt. Bailey’s cubicle. The stench of a smoldering cigar sickened me, but I smiled at the fat hulk of a man sitting behind a steel desk and I told him my problem. "When did you see your husband last?" Sgt. Bailey asked. "Yesterday evening." I stifled a sob. "He left for his usual twilight stroll, but he never returned. I’ve searched our grounds for hours. I can’t find him." That afternoon, officers came to the estate and searched for Earl. My lungs felt like fire-filled balloons as Sgt. Bailey and his partner checked the carriage house. Of course they opened the trunk, but after poking into the photos and blankets and smelling the mothballs, they closed the lid and walked on. I breathed again. Later, they had the nerve to suggest that Earl might have left of his own accord. I played the part of grieved widow well, I thought—dressing in black for the first few weeks after Earl’s disappearance. I enjoyed the charade. Black becomes blondes. However, the law’s the law. I faced years of waiting for the estate settlement, and Earl’s body in the carriage house gave me the nervous fantods. I placed my financial affairs in the hands of Earl’s trusted lawyer, and for months, I filled my life with activities that would prepare me for a bright future. I learned to swim at a health club so I could enjoy Key West waters once I moved to Florida. I took painting lessons at the Nelson gallery. Who looks more appealing than a young, grieving artist? I took dancing lessons—ballroom and jazz. I learned to cook and to mix drinks. I also toyed with another idea, and I called Aunt Maggie. "If you still want to store your furniture, I have the time now to help you." "Dear child," she cooed. "How kind of you to think of me in your time of sorrow. Alfie refused to help, so I’m happy accept your offer. Do make the arrangements for me. A suite has opened at Shady Pines. It’s mine if I can take residence this week." So I rented a storage unit for Aunt Maggie. I helped her decide what to take and what to store. When the truckers arrived, I secretly arranged for them to pick up the trunk from my carriage house and add it to Aunt Maggie’s things. At 65, Aunt Maggie was in good health. She might live another 20 years. Surely by the time she died, everyone would have forgotten Earl. When going through her things after her death, the police would suspect she had murdered someone. But what would that matter—since she’d be dead, too? When my legal waiting period ended, Earl’s lawyer helped me sell the upscale Mission Hills estate quickly, gave me free access my inheritance, and let me collect on the million-dollar insurance policy. Earl had always called me his million-dollar baby. I smiled all the way to Key West. *** I bought a condo overlooking the sea and a private beach, and I swam every day. I painted by the seashore. I joined and made generous contributions to local philanthropic organizations. I invited near neighbors in for cocktails. It’s surprising how easy it is to make friends when you flash a bit of cash. Josh seemed to drop into my life from the blue. What a hunk! He made up for all my bad times with Earl. He wined me and dined me and bedded me. We had just announced our engagement and set our wedding date when Alfie appeared. "We need to talk, Monique," Alfie said, stopping beside my easel on the beach. Nothing about Alfie had changed. Same greasy hair and fat belly. Same wrinkled suit, stained tie, and scuffed shoes. Somehow he always managed to smell like pee. "Talk away." I hoped nobody would see us together. "Aunt Maggie died in a car crash last week," Alfie said. I tried to look shocked as I hid my fear. The trunk! What would happen to the trunk? I hadn’t planned on it being opened so soon. My stomach clenched like a fist. "You’ve come all the way here to tell me that?" I forced nonchalance into my tone. "I know her demise doesn’t sadden you," Alfie said, "and I’ll admit that the situation gladdens my heart." "How so?" My throat felt so tight I could hardly speak. "I found a certain trunk." Alfie’s voice took on a cavalier tone. My hand shook and I dropped my paintbrush, but I said nothing. "I took care of the trunk for us, Monique." He looked at me knowingly. "I put it in a safe place in case I need it." Alfie kicked off his wingtips. He peeled from his wrinkled clothes and stood before me in a green polka-dot Speedo as he glanced at my home overlooking the sea. He smiled. "I think I could get used to living with you here in Key West. Yes, I think we’ll be very comfortable." Tears of frustration burned my eyes as Alfie ground my paintbrush into the sand with his bare foot. THE END Dorothy Francis © 2006 |
