Blackberry pie was Patricia’s thing. It wasn’t really blackberry pie; it was more a custard pie with a handful of blackberries scattered on top. She had made it for years, and for every occasion. Only once, when fresh or frozen blackberries were not available, had she resorted to blueberries. It was not the same. She vowed to make blackberry pie or nothing.
Patricia’s husband Herb wasn’t overly fond of blackberry pie. He used to like it, especially in the first flushes of love, but now after quite a few years the novelty had worn thin and he craved variety. He would still eat a slice when the occasion called for it. And he knew how to pretend delight.
It was this attribute of Herb’s that Patricia was relying on. He was sure to devour with fake enthusiasm the slice she had poisoned.