Tag Archives: murder

Repeat of Story 386: Marietta plans a murder

(This is the sixth story in a week or so of repeats. “Marietta plans a murder” first appeared on this blog on 31 October 2014.)

Don’t get me wrong. Marietta wasn’t an evil person. When she decided to murder her husband it was out of the purest of intentions. He had been unfaithful.

Marietta had always vouched for the sanctity of marriage. She couldn’t understand why all these participants in broken marriages insisted on divorce. Hadn’t they vowed to remain faithful unto death?

Now that her husband had committed infidelity after infidelity she knew exactly how these other people felt. Divorce was not good enough. She had promised unto death and that’s what she was going to do.

But how best to go about it and not get caught? Poison? The autopsy would discover it. Gunshot? It would have to be in self-defence, and that would be too difficult to set up.

She would simply (after searching it online) “undo the brakes” of his car. And that’s what she did! He drove to the pub every Thursday evening over a wild and winding road. Thursday was perfect. That was the evening she attended her prayer meeting. She could feign distress, with a touch of hysteria, when the sad news was phoned through.

She drove off in her car for the prayer meeting. It was with a certain amount of nervous excitement.

“Goodbye, darling,” she waved. “Goodbye!”

All that can be said is that great minds think alike. Marietta and her husband were suited to each other down to the ground.

May she rest in peace.

1688. An inconvenient visitor

Terrence had just finished putting his wife’s corpse in the back of his car and cleaning up the kitchen in the house when his wife’s sister knocked at the door. This was the last thing Terrence wanted. He had planned the murder meticulously, and a large part of the planning was to do with how to get rid of the body. He hadn’t planned that Rhona’s sister would turn up in the middle of it all.

“Where’s Rhona?” asked Astrid.

“She went yesterday to visit a sick friend,” said Terrence. “She’ll probably be away for a few days.”

“Strange,” said Astrid. “She usually tells me things like that.”

Terrence wished she’d leave. He had to invite her inside. He had to act normally. Thank goodness he’d cleaned up the mess in the kitchen where Rhona had been baking when the deed was done. It hadn’t been more than quarter of an hour since he’d killed Rhona. The body in the back of the car would still be warm.

Astrid volunteered to go into the kitchen to make coffee. “Sure,” said Terrence.

A few minutes later Astrid called out from the kitchen.

“Do you want me to take the cake out of the oven?”

“What cake?” answered Terrence.

“Well it hasn’t been in the oven for any longer than 25 minutes.”

Terrence now has two bodies to get rid of.

1674. The tale of a prosthetic leg

Chrissy was not her real name; it’s a pseudonym. Name and gender have been changed to protect the identity of those concerned. The trouble Chrissy had (she now lived alone but years ago had married a returned soldier who had lost a leg in the war. The husband had taken off after a few years, and according to Chrissy, his whereabouts was unknown) was not that she hadn’t got rid of the body. Over time and bit by bit she had destroyed her husband’s corpse. There was only one difficulty: what to do with his prosthetic leg? It was made mainly of metal and plastic. Since her husband’s murderous demise she had kept his leg hidden in a tall slender vase she kept at the front door. She used the tall vase as an umbrella stand.

Chrissy had neither the skill nor the tools to disassemble the leg. It was a millstone around her neck. It was the last remnant of evidence that could send her to prison for her dastardly deed. You see, as already implied, Chrissy had murdered her husband and concocted a story that he had left her and disappeared into the wide world. Not only was the prosthetic leg indestructible, but it had been the murder weapon. In a moment of passion Chrissy had picked up the leg while her husband was in the shower and swiped him over the head with it.

The strike to the head didn’t actually kill him, but knocked him out. With considerable effort Chrissy had blocked the shower plughole and her husband was drowned in the rising water.

That was the beginning of Chrissy’s slow and methodical destruction of evidence.

If you have a suggestion as to what to do with the prosthetic leg I’d be very keen to hear.

1667. The worst of rats

The thing that irked Iris wasn’t so much Harvey’s little eccentricities, but the fact that the poison hadn’t worked. They had been married for thirty-two years and for the last twenty-seven Harvey had driven Iris nuts. He’d squeeze the toothpaste tube, for example, at the top. It should be squeezed at the bottom. That way the paste would work its way up to the top. If you squeezed it at the top all you’re doing is driving half of the toothpaste downwards.

Then there was the way he’d spin the teapot before pouring. He’d turn the teapot three times to the left, then three times to the right, then once to the left; to aid the tea drawing process. Iris had been brought up the proper way, and she turned the teapot first to the right, then to the left, then to the right. Harvey was not going to compromise. He was stuck in the mud. He was what Iris called “a social embarrassment”.

Iris didn’t know how many times she told him, on a daily basis, when putting things into the dishwasher he should RINSE THEM FIRST. The dishes should be rinsed first; that’s what the instruction booklet said. RINSE THE DISHES FIRST. But no! In they went; straight into the dishwasher.

These were just a few of the things that riled Iris every day, all day, for twenty-seven out of the thirty-two years of wedded bliss. The solution to the problem lay in rat poison. If ever there was a rat, it was Harvey. Iris no longer cared about the consequences. Iris loved the irony of the possibility: rat poison for a rat. She put it in his food, in his coffee, even in the snuff he grotesquely sniffed about four times a day before sneezing loudly into a snuff-stained handkerchief.

It was all for nothing. Harvey seemed to have developed an immunity to rat poison. The worst rats sometimes do that.

Things came to an end when Iris, not Harvey, took ill and died. It was a slow, drawn out, painful death, in which she convulsed and writhed on the bedroom floor for a good half hour while Harvey meticulously filled the dishwasher in the kitchen, and poured himself a single cup of tea.

1654. A secret revealed

(Thanks to badfinger20 of PowerPop… An Eclectic Collection of Pop Culture for the opening sentence).

Nine-year-old Marty secretly buried a box next to his parent’s house. Why? I hear you ask. And what was in the box? Even though it’s secret, some of us are party to the information. But first, we must backtrack a little to provide some context.

Marty had lived an eventful nine years. He had been shuffled from one foster home to another. Eventually he was claimed and adopted by his biological parents who regretted giving him up nine years earlier. What became obvious very quickly was the reason they had given Marty up for adoption in the first place: they were incompetent parents.

Neither parent worked. Mom got drunk every night. Dad was hardly ever home; he was out doing whatever it is that grownups do. Marty was always hungry. In many ways he was the only sensible person in the household.

Anyway, he had no trouble getting rid of the bodies. It was the tell-tale kitchen carving knife he was most worried about.

1609. All was right with the world

(Today’s final sentence was suggested by observationblogger. It was thought it might be nice to end with a positive sentence for a change!!!)

It had got to the stage where Delia was too frightened to walk down the street to go to the shop. Despite a high concentration of police in the area, it was still unsafe to walk alone. In the past month there had been three gruesome murders. Before that, who knows how many? The murderer always left the same beautifully written note pinned to the victim: Thanks for the memories.

Once a week Delia would phone for a taxi and get taken to the supermarket right in the busy centre of town. Then she would return laden with bags of the coming week’s supplies. If she ran out of anything (for example, one week she ran out of sugar) it was bad luck. There was no way she would walk to the local shop.

Of course, getting a taxi added hugely to the weekly grocery bill. The taxi there and home again could cost Delia almost as much as the week’s groceries. Fortunately she was experienced at looking ahead and planning. So it was a little unusual when she ran out of milk, butter, flour, and eggs a good two days before she was due to go and shop via the taxi.

“I know,” thought Delia to herself, “I shall simply get a taxi two days earlier and plan to get a little extra so as to get back into the routine.” She phoned for a taxi.

The taxi driver was most pleasant, and had wonderful news. No sooner had the journey begun when he said, “I suppose you know they’ve caught the murderer. The police announced it just a few minutes ago.”

“That’s a huge relief,” said Delia. “I guess then this will be the last time I take a taxi.”

‘I’d imagine it will be,” smiled the nice taxi driver.

Delia sighed. All was right with the world.

1592. How best to murder a spouse

To poison someone by putting poison in their lemon curd or lacing a black currant pie with arsenic is highly uncreative. It’s very run-of-the-mill. Likewise to get a gun and shoot someone point blank is crass. Such gross behaviour is equally uncreative. Let it be made clear: to murder someone by shooting them with a pistol is the height of boring unsophistication. Only a yob would do something so dull and unrefined. Martin Werherall believed that if he was going to kill someone it was best to do it creatively. After all, he was a pharmacist and had all sorts of resources at his fingertips.

As a teenager Martin had developed wonderful, dexterous skills. His parents had sworn black and blue that no child of theirs should put sugar in their tea or coffee. Sugar was the scourge of the contemporary diet. One simply did not need to add sugar to a beverage. Drinking sweetened things was a matter of sugar addiction. But Martin knew a magician who taught him, with practice, how to conceal a sugar cube in the back of his hand and the palm of his hand and goodness knows where else. Then with a modest wave Martin could drop the sugar cube into his mug and his parents were none the wiser.

Now that he was all grown up with his own pharmacy and married and struggling to find happiness he decided to rid himself of all matrimonial encumbrances. The easiest way was to combine his pharmaceutical and magician abilities and drop a pill into his wife’s cup. It should be made clear, in the interests of creativity, that this pill was not a pill of poison; it was a pill that was intended to prolong life and happiness in the pill-taker. Martin frequently dispensed such pills to patients in this pharmacy. But it was for sick people. Healthy people would possibly discover that their heart would begin racing irregularly and they would drop dead, basically from too much health! Such was the brilliance of Martin’s plan.

One day, with a wave of the hand, he surreptitiously dropped a pill into his wife’s cup of Camomile and Spiced Apple Tea infusion. That should finish her off.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” said his wife of seven years, pulling out a pistol concealed in her breast. She shot Martin dead.

God! No wonder Martin wanted to be rid of her. That woman was so crass.