A WIDOW’S PLIGHT

A missing person can’t be declared legally dead for 7 years.  At least that’s the law in Missouri.  Had I known that sooner, I might have chosen a different path to wealth.  As it was, I hadn’t done too badly for a 17-year-old.  Now at 24, I was ready to enjoy my inheritance and all that lovely insurance money.

With one shot to the back of the head, I killed my 69-year-old husband, Earl, on our wedding night in Branson.  Why wait any longer!  I’d had enough of his mauling and groping during our months of courtship.  Why put up with that any longer?  I’d paid my dues and earned my freedom. 

Even in the Ozarks, disposing of a body can attract attention.  But in thinking about all my new wealth and the many possibilities it would offer, I hadn’t thought about getting rid of Earl’s body. 

Sometimes that’s the way it is with seventeen-year-olds.  They don’t see the whole picture.  They see the cake and the lovely frosting, but they don’t see the dirty dishes.  I had little family—Alfie, a rotter of a cousin, and an elderly great-aunt both living up in Springfield.  My parents had died in a plane crash last year—not that I could have gone to them for help in this matter. I was on my own when it came to getting rid of Earl.

What did I know about disposing of a body?  Bury it?  That’s what people usually did with dead bodies.  But digging a deep hole was hard work.  Sweaty work.  I wasn’t into sweat.  And I was afraid that someone might come nosing around, find Earl’s amateurish grave, and start asking questions.

Dump Earl into a river?  A lake?  Plenty of those around here, but I had no boat, nor did I want to hire someone to do the job for me.  Earl was my secret and a secret isn’t safe if two people know it.  Beside that, what if his body bloated and floated?  I’d read about that happening.  One woman had to bury her husband’s body three times because it kept washing ashore.  That scene wasn’t for me.  No way.

Earl had insisted on a small and private wedding on Linger Longer, his estate here in the hills.  That suited my plans just fine.  Earl was a small man, so once our wedding guests and the servants left I’d shot Earl as he stood in the shower.  I thought it rather touching that he was wearing the gold chain and personalized medallion I’d given him as a wedding gift. 

Of course there was a lot of blood, but it washed down the shower drain.  I considered my choice of crime scene a brilliant one.  I stuffed Earl’s nude and still-warm body into a large humpback trunk that I found in the attic. It made a suitable coffin since it was engraved with his initials as well as the name of the estate.  I covered his body with blankets, and then filled the trunk to the top with old family photographs and lots of mothballs. 

Using a two-wheeled cart, I rolled the trunk to the unused carriage house on Earl’s huge estate.  A rank, sweetish smell permeated that carriage house for weeks, so I waited until time and spring breezes freshened the area before I called the police.

Until then, Earl’s absence had gone unnoticed.  He had been a retired investment counselor.  When we married, he dismissed his servants and made it clear to his friends and associates that we were honeymooning and perhaps traveling to England, Greece, and the Greek islands.  He asked that we not be disturbed.  Anyone telephoning our mansion received a recorded message that stated our desire for solitude.  

Only my Aunt Maggie kept calling from Springfield.  I had Caller ID, so usually I ignored her intrusions, but one February day I felt extremely lonely and I picked up her call.

“Monique,” she said, “I’m so glad you’re back from your travels.  Did you and Earl have a wonderful trip?”

“Yes, we had a great time.  London.  Athens.  Rhodes.  It was all wonderful.”

“I’m pleased for you, Monique.  And now that you’re back, I need your help.”

“What can I do for you?” I hoped she couldn’t hear my sigh.

“I’m getting too old to live alone in this big house.  It will be a wrench to give it up, but I want to move into an assisted living home.  I’ve thought it over carefully and that is my decision.  What do you think? ” 

“It sounds reasonable to me,” I said.  “An excellent idea.  Where will you go?”

“I’ve put my name in at Shady Pines.  It’s that huge English half-timber out on Montauk Road east of Highway 69.  They admit only 40 residents.  The suites are fairly large, but even so, I can’t take all my furniture.  Family pieces.  Antiques.  I want you and Alfie to inherit them—when the time comes.”

I sighed again.  I didn’t want Great-aunt Maggie’s junk and I doubted that Alfie would want it, either.  Alfie’s a shyster lawyer who makes a good living at taxpayers’ expense by representing thugs who can’t afford legal representation. 

I had hated Alfie since our childhood when he used to chase me with frogs and snakes, stopping only when I let him kiss me.  It made me shudder to think about it.  I still remember his thick, wet lips and how he slobbered.  A knee to his groin finally stopped his unwanted attentions. 

“Monique?  Monique?  Are you still there?”

“Yes, Aunt Maggie.  I’m here.”

“I want you to help me arrange to have my excess furniture moved to a commercial storage shed.  I’ve inspected several of them.  They’re clean.  They’re dry.  And they’re roomy enough to suit my purpose.”

“Why don’t you call Alfie for help?  He knows how to handle stuff like that.  There’ll probably be legal papers to sign—you know—that sort of thing.  Alfie’s good at that.”  I put her off, and finally, she hung up. 

On a warm day in late March, I went to police headquarters.  I could have telephoned, but I thought a personal appearance would seem more sincere.  I had peeled onions for an hour so I’d look appropriately weepy. 

I planned my costume in minute detail.  I wore a low-cut tank top that didn’t quite meet the waistband on my short shorts, and a long unbuttoned shirt that barely covered the shorts, making it look as if I had little on under the shirt.  High-heeled pumps completed my outfit.  Earl had liked these clothes.  He said they made me look as if I had legs that reached my shoulders. 

I hated police headquarters.  A blue-gray haze of smoke hung near the ceiling and all the walls had been painted a tobacco-spit brown.  The pace smelled like a dirty ashtray.  A cigarette butt lay on the floor in one corner.

“When did you see hour husband last?” Sgt. Bailey asked.  He leered at my cleavage and my legs.  I sat very straight, hoping my navel would wink at him.

 “I saw Earl yesterday evening,” I said. “He went for his usual twilight stroll and he never returned.  I’ve searched the grounds for hours.  I’ve telephoned neighbors and friends.  I’ve called the local hospitals.  Nobody has seen or heard of him.  Please help me.  I can’t find him anywhere.”  I dabbed at my eyes with a lace-edged hanky.

That same day, officers came to the estate and searched for Earl.  They were thorough.  They tramped the grounds.  They searched the mansion.  I held my breath when they reached the carriage house. They opened the trunk, but when they saw family photos and blankets, and smelled the mothballs, they closed it and walked on.

The police listed Earl as a missing person and that got the legal ball rolling.  Of course I hired a lawyer.  I tried not to seem too eager to get my inheritance.  I played the role of grieving widow well, I thought—even dressing in black for the first few months after Earl’s disappearance.  That was the easy part.  Black becomes blondes.  However, the law’s the law.  I faced a seven-year wait for my inheritance, and Earl’s body in the carriage house made me nervous. 

For seven long years, I filled my life with activities that would prepare me for my future.  I learned to swim so I could enjoy the Caribbean waters once I moved to St. Croix.  I took painting lessons, joining dozens of would-be artists who try to paint our lovely Ozark hills. .  Who looks more appealing than a young, grieving artist?  I took weekly dancing lessons in ballroom and jazz, driving all the way to Kansas City in order to get expert instructors.  I learned to cook from gourmet recipes—and to mix fancy drinks.  Many of my handsome teachers tried to console me in my grief, but I wanted no part of that.  I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize inheriting all that was due to me.  Handsome men could come later—and I would welcome them.

One day early in my widowhood, I had an idea.  Earl had been dead a year when I called Aunt Maggie.  I hoped she hadn’t already appealed to Alfie for help.

“If you still want to store your furniture and sell your house, I have the time now to help you.”

“Dear child,” she cooed.  “How kind of you to think of me in your hours of sorrow.  But your offer has come at a very good time.”

So much for Alfie, I thought.  I should have known that rotter wouldn’t have time to help an old lady.

  “Do go ahead and make the arrangements for me,” Aunt Maggie continued.  “A suite has opened up at Shady Pines.  It’s mine if I can take residence this week.”

So I called a realtor to handle the house sale and I arranged for Aunt Maggie to rent a storage unit.  I drove to Springfield to help her decide what furniture to take and what to store.  On moving day, I secretly arranged for the truckers to stop by Branson first and pick up the brown trunk from my carriage house and add it to Aunt Maggie’s things in Springfield. 

Aunt Maggie was 70.  She could easily live another 20 years.  By the time she died, everyone would have forgotten about Earl.  When going through her things after her death, the police would think Aunt Maggie had murdered Earl.  And what would that matter—since she’d be dead, too?   I congratulated myself on my clever plan.

When my 7-year wait ended, I sold my estate quickly—and for megabucks.  My lawyer helped me settle Earl’s business affairs and collect on the million-dollar insurance policy.  Earl had always called me his million-dollar baby.  I smiled all the way to St. Croix.

I had loved the Ozark hills, so now I bought a hillside home in the islands, white stucco with red-tile roof, overlooking the sea and a white sand beach.  I swam every day.  I set my easel up on shore and painted seascapes and palm trees.  I joined the country club.  I invited near neighbors in for cocktails.  It’s surprising how easy it is to make friends when you can flash a bit of cash. 

Josh Logan seemed to drop into my life from out of the blue.  What a hunk!  He was the wealthy owner of Logan Realty, not that his wealth mattered.  I had enough money for both of us. 

What mattered were his broad shoulders, his slim hips, his sea-green eyes.  He dressed in white slacks and black silk shirts.  But his clothes didn’t matter either.  I undressed him with my eyes.  And I wanted his body.

Josh made up for all my bad times with Earl.  He wined me and dined me and bedded me.  We had just announced our engagement and set our wedding date when Alfie appeared.  My worst nightmare.  How had he found me?  What could he possibly want!

“We need to talk, Monique,” Alfie said, shuffling through the sand and stopping at my easel on the beach.

Nothing about Alfie had changed.  Same greasy hair and fat belly.  Even on the beach he wore the same wrinkled suit, stained tie, and scuffed shoes.  Somehow he always managed to smell like pee.

“Talk away,” I muttered, hoping that none of my new friends would see us together.

“Aunt Maggie died in a car crash last week,” Alfie said.

I tried to look properly shocked and grieved as I hid my fear.  The trunk!  What had happened happen to the trunk?  I made a pretense of adding another cloud to my seascape.

“You’ve come all the way here to tell me that?” 

“I know her demise doesn’t sadden you,” Alfie said.  “And I’ll admit that the situation gladdens my heart.”

“How so?” I asked.

“I found a certain trunk among her possessions,” Alfie said. 

My hand shook.  I said nothing.  But I stopped trying to paint.

“It was an engraved trunk, Monique.  And what was left of the body inside wore a gold chain and medallion personalized with your words of undying love.”

“The police?” I asked. 

“No police.” Alfie smirked.  “I took care of trunk and contents for us, Monique.” He looked at me knowingly and moistened his already moist lips. 

“But . . . but . . . ”

“I thought all along that you’d done Earl in.  You always had a mean streak.  Anyone who would knee a young cousin who only wanted a kiss or two. . . “ Alfie paused for breath.  “Well, I remembered times past.  I stored Earl’s trunk in a safe place, a secret place—in case I need it.”

Alfie kicked off his wingtips.  He peeled from his navy blue suit, his white shirt, his stained tie.  He stood before me in a green polkadot Speedo. 

Alfie glanced at my home overlooking the sea and smiled.  “I’ll miss the Ozarks, but I think I can get used to living with you here on St. Croix, Monique.  Yes, I think we’ll be very comfortable here with each other—and our secrets.” 

Not so!  I felt uncomfortable almost immediately and my mind began working on this new problem—Alfie.

            (The End)