When Melba took evening classes in gardening it wasn’t exactly so she could learn how to pull out a weed. It was so she could devise a plan to rid herself of something noxious in her garden, namely her husband. He was more than annoying; he was a downright pest. Melba never got any rest from his bragging stupidity. For example, he couldn’t stop going on and on about the evening classes he was attending. That’s what had given Melba the idea to attend evening classes herself.
Specifically it was the section on organic weed killers that interested her. It would be a lot easier to construe death by organic weed killer as accidental. “Oh I had no idea, Officer, that that was poisonous. I thought it was an antioxidant.”
And indeed! Melba learned that a sturdy dose of toxicity would be enough to rid herself of her garden pest. Her course finished next Friday. She would perform the deadly deed on Saturday!
Her husband’s course finished on Thursday, just a day before hers, so he would be home and available for dosage. His favourite part of his evening classes on Rifle Shooting was “How not to miss your mark”.
When Esther attended the night school rifle shooting classes over a six week period, it was for one specific reason: she wanted to shoot her husband. Dead. None of this hanky-panky lovey-dovey nonsense that many murderers espoused. No! She wanted it to be fast and clean. And accurate.
She took the night school classes because quite frankly she didn’t have a clue how to fire a gun of any sort. The aim was to grow in confidence; to become familiar with the firearm; and to have the wherewithal as to how to use it.
Her husband, or more particularly her ex-husband, suffered from schizophrenia. He was so bad that Esther had joked (only to herself of course) that she would need more than one bullet in the gun to kill all his different personalities. True, he was the father of her only child, a son called Steve. Steve would visit Esther quite often, but he would have nothing to do with his father. His father was present at his conception, but apart from that he’d played a very minor part in Steve’s upbringing. Anyway, with the schizophrenia it was very difficult to know which personality was his true father – so to speak.
Esther’s night classes had finished. She loaded the gun. She waited in the sitting room. The door opened. She shot the gun. Bull’s eye! Dead as a door nail.