Lancelot's Lady (47 page)

He can
'
t believe he made away with it all. And he didn
'
t even set off the Best Buy
'
s alarm.

Harry gasps.
Maybe the press will give me a special nickname.

"
Maybe they
'
ll call me
The Disappearing TV Thief
.
"

Laughter escapes from his mouth, his bulky belly doing
'
the wave
'
as it ripples with each laugh.

He covers his mouth with fat fingers.

What to do now…

He must have an excuse for having all this state-of-the-art equipment. Now what can he tell Beatrice? Maybe an uncle passed away and left him—no, that wouldn
'
t do. Beatrice knows he doesn
'
t have an uncle.

He snaps his fingers as an idea hits him.

Harry grins.
"
I
'
ll tell her I won everything. In a lottery.
"

She
'
ll never know the truth. She
'
d never approve of it.

Suddenly, Harry hears a sound that makes his heart stop.

Footsteps.

Good God, Beatrice is awake!

* * *

You can read the rest of REMOTE CONTROL at
Amazon
or
Smashwords.

Visit Cheryl Kaye Tardif
'
s site:
http://www.cherylktardif.com

Most families have deep, dark secrets and...

Skeletons in the Closet

SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET & OTHER CREEPY STORIES

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

A Grave Error

(
Myrtle Murphy Mystery #1)

Myrtle Murphy had everything she wanted out of life—a dead husband, a grown son who
'
d moved to the opposite coast and neighbors who minded their own business. But what she didn
'
t have was money. She needed a job. At sixty-one and living off a pittance of an early retirement pension, she had no skills to fall back on.

Unless you could call slipping your husband small doses of rat poison in his evening tea for over a month a skill. Yet, on the other hand, it
had
taken a certain amount of talent to flavor the tea—
just so
—to avoid being caught. And it had definitely taken a particular cleverness to dispose of Norman
'
s body.

Norm.

Now there was a waste of space.

Ever since he decided to have a midlife crisis at forty-eight, the man had been virtually useless. And yes,
he
decided. That
'
s exactly what he told her after he came home with a brand new sports car that they couldn
'
t afford.

"
I
'
m having a midlife crisis, Myrt, and you better get used to it.
"

After that he started going out with the
'
boys
'
.

Boys! Yeah, right!

The
'
boys
'
were three semi-retired old coots, like Norm, who had nothing better to do than sit around Farley
'
s Pub and get drunk, while spending their paychecks at the slot machines. Sometimes she
'
d find one of boys passed out on her couch the next morning. Often there was a mess of vomit on the floor.

And who do you suppose cleaned that up?

Myrtle, of course.

For a while, she considered having her own midlife crisis, maybe buy herself a sports car, or go to a club for ladies
'
night. But she knew she was well past all that nonsense.

Myrtle was having a Norman crisis instead.

Her husband of thirty odd years was always complaining about how his life could have been better if he had done
this
. Or become
that
. Or lived
there
. He had practically driven her around the bend with his constant complaining.

"
I should
'
ve gone into computers,
"
he muttered one day while they were dining at Denny
'
s.
"
That
'
s where the money is.
"

"
That
'
s what you said last week about banking,
"
she said dryly.
"
Why can
'
t you just be happy with being a plumber? Some of your friends make more than enough.
"
She paused, stroking her chin in mock thoughtfulness.
"
Course, they work twice as much as you do, and they don
'
t turn down jobs because their thumb hurts.
"

"
Well, it did,
"
he argued.

She rolled her eyes.
"
And what about the time you said no to the townhouse complex, just because you wanted to go to the races with your
boys
?
"

"
I needed a couple of days off,
"
he said belligerently.
"
I worked hard that week.
"

She snorted.

"
What?
"
he demanded.
"
What do
you
do all day? Watch soap operas is my guess.
"

Her eyes narrowed.
"
You mean, what do I do after I
'
ve cleaned the house, washed all the laundry, paid our bills, checked the mail, gone shopping and made dinner? Hmm, well since you
'
ve been getting home around three each day, that doesn
'
t leave me much time to watch soap operas, now does it?
"

The waitress interrupted them with their meals, a chicken salad for Myrtle and a bacon cheeseburger with fries for Norm. The girl plopped a bottle of ketchup on the table, then asked if they needed anything else.

How about a cattle prod?
Myrtle was tempted to say.

"
Oh, by the way,
"
Norm said when the girl had left.
"
I
'
m gonna take back that vest you bought me.
"

Her brow arched.
"
Really.
"

He was talking about the green plaid vest she
'
d gotten him for his birthday last week. The one he had practically begged her for, that she
'
d traipsed three malls to find.

"
Yeah,
"
he continued.
"
The boys said it washed me out, made me look old. Said I
'
d look better in red.
"

She was about to make a sarcastic remark when Norm got to his feet.

"
Be right back,
"
he said, before disappearing into the washroom.

She picked up her fork, but her gaze came to rest on the ketchup bottle. It was the glass kind, the one with the little twist-off cap. The kind that was always temperamental, that wouldn
'
t release the ketchup, forcing you to—

A monsoon of an idea washed over her.

She covertly glanced around the restaurant, then eyed the bathroom door. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she loosened the cap on the ketchup bottle. Then she slid the bottle toward her husband
'
s plate, knowing that he wouldn
'
t resist having ketchup with his fries.

Sure enough, as soon as he sat down, he gripped the bottle in one hand.

She held her breath, waiting to see him upend it all over his meal.

But that
'
s not exactly what happened.

What
did
happen was far more rewarding.

Norm shook the bottle. Vigorously.

The cap flew off and ketchup exploded everywhere. It coated his gray hair, his grizzled face, then slid down his throat and under the collar of his white shirt. The shocked look in his eyes swiftly turned to embarrassment.

Myrtle passed him a napkin.
"
You should always check the lid first.
"

A dribble of red goo oozed down Norm
'
s shirt and plopped into his lap.

"
I
'
ll go clean up in the bathroom,
"
he mumbled.

When he was almost at the bathroom door, she couldn
'
t resist a last dig.

"
The boys were right,
"
she hollered.

Heads turned. People gasped, pointed and laughed.

"
About what?
"
Norm snapped.

She grinned.
"
You do look better in red.
"

That night, her husband went on a rampage. He didn
'
t outright accuse her of loosening the ketchup cap, but she could see it in his eyes. He suspected her.

"
You better wash my shirt right away,
"
he insisted.
"
I don
'
t want it to stain.
"

"
Wash it yourself,
"
she said with a scowl.

"
I can
'
t. My back hurts.
"

Her mouth thinned in anger.

If it wasn
'
t his back bothering him, it was his leg. Or he had indigestion, or his eye was twitching, or his ear was itchy.

"
If it gets worse I won
'
t be able to go to work tomorrow,
"
he said slyly.

She washed the shirt. And left out the fabric softener.

* * *

The next night, Norm continued his little game. This time he had a migraine.

That was the moment she snapped.

"
You
'
re giving
me
a migraine!
"
she yelled.

"
Shh,
"
Norm moaned, cringing and squinting up at her.
"
Make me some tea, will ya.
"
It wasn
'
t a request.

She glared at him, hands on hips, fuming.
Sometimes you
'
re such a pest, Norm.

A slow smile emerged.
"
Sure thing…
dear
.
"

The rat poison was tucked under the kitchen sink, way in the back. She
'
d found it the other day when she was looking for a scrub brush. She had no idea where the box had come from. She hadn
'
t even known they had a rat problem.

"
One half teaspoon,
"
she murmured, carefully measuring out the fine white powder.

A sprinkle of cinnamon and a spoonful of honey made Norm
'
s tea just right. At least she hoped so. She certainly wasn
'
t going to taste it to make sure.

"
Here,
"
she said, plopping the cup down on the coffee table.
"
And here
'
s a wedge of lemon.
"

She studied him, a bit like a scientist studies a lab rat just before he administers something deadly. When Norm squeezed the lemon into his tea, she walked away, pleased by his inadvertent assistance.

That night in bed, her poor husband couldn
'
t sleep.

"
I have a tummy ache, Myrt,
"
he whimpered.

Tummy? What grown man said
'
tummy
'
?

"
Must be something you ate,
"
she said, rolling away from him so he wouldn
'
t see her grin.

* * *

The following night, she made his evening tea with its special ingredient. She did this every day afterward. After a week, Norm began complaining that his vision was blurry.

Myrtle told him to get new glasses.

Then she upped the rat poison to one teaspoon.

This went on for just over a month—until the night Norman Murphy did something phenomenal. He dropped dead.

Actually, it wasn
'
t so much a
drop
, more like a
crash.
And a
splatter
.

It happened while she was sitting on the couch, watching House. Norm went into the kitchen and brought back a pitcher of orange juice. He was standing right in front of her, about to set it on the coffee table, when he let out a tortured groan. The pitcher flew out of his hands and juice erupted into the air.

Unfortunately, Myrtle wore it. From the top of her head, down to her toes.

"
For heaven
'
s sake!
"
she sputtered.
"
Watch what you
'
re—
"

Norm hit the floor. He slid, face-first, until he rested at her feet.

"
Norm?
"

He didn
'
t move.

She prodded him with her foot.
"
Hey, get up.
"