Brenda’s husband, Colm, detested tripe; whereas Brenda loved it. It was Brenda who did most of the cooking, which is why Colm was subjected to a meal of tripe at least once a month.
Brenda hadn’t moved an inch in the fourteen years they had been married. At first, love overruled any tripe-dislike on Colm’s part. He heartily consumed it. But such action grows thin and now it was a massive monthly chore and had been that way for a dozen or so years. Indeed the marriage had grown decidedly rocky.
Brenda had always worked the night shift at the factory, which meant she would prepare a meal before leaving for work. From Colm’s point of view this was a blessing as he didn’t have to pretend to enjoy eating the tripe. However, he was a waste-not-want-not sort of guy so even though he detested tripe he forced himself to eat it. It wasn’t going to kill him and it was only once every four weeks or so.
It was Colm’s detestation of tripe that prompted Brenda to use the dish when she decided to poison her husband. He so disliked the taste that he would gulp it down, poison and all, with a grimace. The stage was set. Brenda went off to work.
Fourteen years of disgusting tripe is enough. Colm took his dish of tripe outside and buried it in the garden. As Anita from up the road said to Colm in the motel that evening: “Thank goodness you’ve at last taken a stand against that conniving, tripe-cooking lowlife. When tomorrow we begin to setup shop together I shall cook you a mean jellied eel.”
For some time now Clarice had suspected that not everything was right with hubby. Ramon had been in a bad mood for several weeks. He was working too hard. Every night this week he had come home late. He said he was “burdened with work”. Somehow for Clarice the story didn’t sit right.
“I suspect he’s having an affair,” thought Clarice. “That sprightly, lithe office assistant called Monica is the likeliest candidate to attract Ramon’s attention.”
Clarice searched online for a company that did private detective work. There it was! It was specific: “We specialize in investigating your spouse.” It was exactly what Clarice wanted. She phoned. They arranged to meet. Max wasn’t at all what she had expected. She had expected a tweedy little man with a monocle; well not exactly a monocle but at least horned-rimmed glasses. Max wasn’t any of that.
Anyway, that was months ago. Clarice no longer needs to have husband Ramon investigated as she’s moved in with Max.
How exciting it was after all these years of research to discover there were three murders in the family tree. Goodness! It had been staring Desirée in the face all this time.
Great grandfather Freddie was married to Irene and they had eleven children under the age of fifteen. During the census of 1918 Irene and her sister and mother were at an address at Brighton clearly having a break at the beach resort. The nanny looked after the children – according to the census records. Freddie wasn’t there. The address the census gave him was miles away from where he lived.
Irene, her sister, and her mother never returned from that beach address. They all died in the same weekend. A month later, Freddie remarried; to a widow called Fifi who lived at the address that Freddie had been visiting during the census.
Murder! It was so obvious. The death certificates of the three murdered women stated that they died of influenza. Yeah right! There was no inquest because every second person in that year died of the Spanish Flu. But clearly Freddie had poisoned them in order to marry the flirtatious Fifi.
Fifi was French. At least, the name looked French, which sent Desirée the researcher into a spin. She apparently was descended from the liaison between Freddie and Fifi. Not only murders in the family, but French blood! Let those who are not impressed eat cake.
Desirée shared her findings with her close relatives. How wonderful it was to be descended from a murderer with French connections.
And then something even more exciting happened. Desirée began to suspect the children’s nanny was doing a little more than cleaning up after the children. Desirée put her findings online.
History is so absorbing when people share the facts they find. The internet is riddled with such facts.
Darling, there’s a horrible weasel killing the chickens. I see it there quite often in the chicken house. I wondered if you could get your gun and shoot it. I’m quite scared of it. It’s ferocious. Oh! Thank you darling!
Dear me! His gun misfired and he’s dead. (Calling out.) Our plan worked, Norman. You can come out of hiding in the hallway cupboard now.
Mr Pawley was particular. He wasn’t a fusspot but he liked to do things in an orderly fashion. He was a widower and retired, and for his regular delight he would go to a different café each weekday, sit quietly at a table, and enjoy a latte. He would observe the world from such a perch.
Hardly a day passed without his pleasurable introspection being rudely interrupted in one way or another. Sometimes it was an over enthusiastic waitress. Sometimes it was a crying or screaming child. Sometimes it was a loud busybody gossip on the next table. Sometimes he sat in a draught. Sometimes the sun shone straight in his eyes. How rare was the perfect coffee in the perfect café!
On this day, however, it was perfect. The coffee was perfect. The table setting was perfect. The place was not too crowded and not too empty. The service was splendid. And the two old biddies within hearing distance were having an interesting discussion about… about this lady they once knew… what a ratbag she was! A lusty two-faced double-crosser!
The two old buddies certainly knew how to turn an ordinary instance of marital infidelity into a saga. But it wasn’t an “instance”, it was an habitual event. Mr Pawley had trouble controlling his laughter. They were that entertaining!
“Of course, she’s long dead now,” said Old Biddy Number 1.
“And not only that,” said Old Biddy Number 2, “but Mr Pawley apparently still has no inkling about the libidinousness of his late wife.”