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The Author’s fiction and articles appear in a wide variety of print and online venues. Her short story, "Arrangements," is included in the Mystery Writers of America anthology SHOW BUSINESS IS MURDER.

Mrs. Dinsmore’s Dilemma by Susanne Shaphren

Priscilla Makepeace Dinsmore poked the slender plastic straw deep into the sparkling crushed ice, seeking the last satisfying vestiges of diet cola. Having completed the tedious yet strangely pleasant research, she closed the book with a self-righteous bang and echoed a loud condemnatory "Filth!" through the empty apartment.

During the past few months, she had conscientiously skimmed the bland how-to books, advanced from step-by-step instructions to black-and-white photos and gradually to the color photographs and silky, provocative language of the books with the enticing titles: THIS WAY TO HIS HEART; CHEESECAKE AT A GLANCE; KEEP HIM BY THE FIRE; 1001 WAYS TO BRIGHTEN WINTER EVENINGS; and JUST THE TWO OF YOU.

The books were just part of the sinister problem, child’s play in comparison to the free samples, promises of ten-day free trials and explicit pamphlets sent through the mail.

***

"Mrs. Dinsmore, you don’t honestly expect me to take action on these––do you?" The postal inspector glanced at the contents of the clearly postmarked envelopes, dismissing them with a lustful chuckle.

"This disgusting material was delivered through the U.S. mail. It is most definitely unsolicited and clearly pornographic."

"The Supreme Court has ruled––"

"Are you going to do something?"

"Ma’am, I just don’t have the authority––"

"Go ahead, pass the buck. Someday, you’ll thank heaven there were those of us with the decency to care!"

One of the sinfully suggestive photos had stolen his attention. A surprisingly strong hand yanked it away. The agitated woman stormed off, not quite angry enough to ignore his comment. "Enough to make a man hungry, very hungry."

"Pig!" Mrs. Dinsmore hissed, slamming the heavy glass door as she left.

So that was the way bureaucratic justice operated. The petite grandmother was discouraged but not defeated. Priscilla Makepeace Dinsmore wasn’t afraid to do what had to be done, even if it meant doing it herself.

***

Lipstick, compact, lace handkerchief, traveler’s checks, airline ticket, a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and the name of a man at her destination who specialized in selling guns without the requisite questions, paperwork and waiting period... everything she could possibly need was systematically placed in the soft leather purse. A size-four suit of champagne tweed with cocoa trim lay in readiness on the Early American maple four-poster.

She’d always hated to fly, even before the crash that claimed her devoted husband of 27 years, but when one’s life finally had true meaning and a humanitarian objective, pedestrian fears could be joyously cast aside.

***

Savoring the in-flight meal which complied perfectly with her special instructions, Mrs. Dinsmore felt momentarily reassured that there were still some things and some people she could count on.

Just a quick taxi ride from the airport to pick up the small deadly package and a slightly longer ride to her ultimate destination.

"Mr. Cormorant is in conference at the moment. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll call you when he’s free."

Slim, young and polite––what was a nice girl like that... not a shred of pride! That must be the explanation. How else could she sit calmly behind that desk surrounded by stacks of sample publications even more offensive than those Priscilla had studied?

"Mrs. Dinsmore, do come in. Peppermint?" The obviously self-indulgent man crackled cellophane and popped the tasty tidbit into his cavernous mouth. If that monstrous jar contained one less than 5037 individually wrapped candies, the Chester County Bean Counting Queen of ‘49 would immediately relinquish her well-deserved crown.

"Disgusting!" she muttered. "I’m a reasonable woman with reasonable demands, Mr. Cormorant."

"Demands? Of course. We strive to do everything in our power to ensure customer satisfaction."

There was enough surplus on his flabby body to create two additional human beings, but that didn’t give him the right to talk like a group! His patronizing tone was equally annoying. No legitimate reason to postpone the inevitable.

"Do you have the slightest notion of the impact you have on innocent minds?"

"Mass communication is our goal, paper and ink our tools, proudly serving this country and the world since 1951."

"You obviously see nothing wrong in what you do."

"We’re in the business of selling what the public wants to buy."

"You won’t stop. They won’t stop you, but I will. Before it’s too late, before you corrupt the whole world."

Blood the color of vintage wine soaked into the lush carpeting. Her mission was accomplished. Mature adults with the experience and wisdom to overcome temptation had a moral responsibility to protect those who were younger, weaker, more naive.

Every crusader is destined to make sacrifices. Priscilla Makepeace Dinsmore knew that she would be no exception.

Of course, there was one small chance. That thought brought a smile to her lips. If the foremost fools who proclaimed themselves normal pronounced her insane, there would be immediate commitment to the state institution with a pleasant view and winding garden paths. It would be easy enough to manipulate those overworked and underpaid doctors....

The smile faded as suddenly as it had appeared.

"NO!" Mrs. Dinsmore protested as the baby-faced policeman thumbed through the vile book. "You mustn’t expose yourself to that, that! What would your mother think?"

"My mother!" The pure old-fashioned guilt on his face provided confirmation of the necessity of her act. She had saved this young man and countless others like him.

"I’d nearly forgotten. Sarge, it’s my old lady’s birthday. Think she’d get a kick out of something like this?"

"Mm. 'Sinfully Rich... A King's Ransom of Delights.' Do you think your mother can handle this kind of temptation?"

"Yessir. Should I read Mrs. Dinsmore her rights and take her into custody?"

"Unless you have something better to do!" Sergeant John Tipstaff didn’t philosophize much. He couldn’t afford that luxury while wearing the uniform, badge and gun of a police officer.

Still, he couldn’t help wondering what the world was coming to... a harmless dumpy man who published cookbooks and sponsored gourmet-by-mail clubs gunned down in cold blood by a woman who seemed old enough and sweet enough to be anybody’s mother, even his.

THE END