Crime Fiction by Carla Ward
Henrietta Johnson, dressed in a long flannel nightgown, returned to the master bedroom with a glass of water, eager to get back to the book she’d been reading. Randall, her husband of forty-nine years, leaned against a throne of pillows on his side of the mattress, skimming the sports section of the newspaper.
She placed the glass next to her paperback on the nightstand, then searched for her reading glasses. “Where’d they go?”
Randall lowered his newspaper and shot her a disparaging look. “Cripes, woman. Pat your head.”
She bristled at being called woman in that condescending tone. “What are you talking about?”
“They’re right there.” His bushy brows cinched together, a warning sign of his rising temper. “On top of your fat melon.”
Palming the crown of her head, she felt the familiar shape of plastic frames buried in her gray curls. “Oh. Thank you, dear.” Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
“Why don’t you do like I suggested?” Randall shook his finger at her like a preacher at the pulpit. “Put your things in an assigned spot. Then you’ll always know where they are.”
Henrietta swore she’d set them beside the book like she always did, but obviously, her mind had played tricks again. What Randall didn’t understand was that she tried desperately to stick to a routine, to consistently keep things where they belonged, but her slips of memory were coming more frequently now, especially in the evening.
“Sorry I bothered you,” she said in a placating tone she’d perfected over the decades.
“Yeah, yeah.” Randall opened his paper with a flourish, oblivious of his wife’s wounded expression. “Shut up now, would ya? I’m trying to read.”
Henrietta let his rudeness slide. To call him on the carpet would do no good. The man was allergic to apologies. She crawled under the covers and reclined against the tufted headboard with her paperback, her only real sanctuary. As she removed the bookmark, movement from the other side of the bed caught her attention. Randall had his hand under his pajama shirt, rubbing his chest.
She narrowed her gaze, studying him. “Your ticker bothering you?”
A little over a month ago, Randall had survived a heart attack. The cardiologist advised him to clean up his diet and lower his dangerously high cholesterol. Randall defiantly told the doctor, with Henrietta right there beside him in the exam room, “If red meat will shorten my sentence with ol’ Swiss cheese brain here, then bring on the steak.”
Randall’s remark, like many insults he’d hurled at his wife, flickered in and out of Henrietta’s conscious recollection. At the moment, that particular anecdote lay hidden in her psyche like a dust-covered box tucked in a dark corner of an attic.
“Stop fussing over me,” he snapped. “I’m a little sore from fishing is all.”
There was no point in saying anything else. If she tried to comfort him, he’d only grow more agitated, so she went back to reading.
Two chapters later, her eyelids drooped. She marked her place with the bookmark and closed the paperback. “Do you mind if we turn in, dear?”
“Geez.” He slapped the section of newspaper together, then folded it in half. “Fetch me a sleeping pill then, ‘cause I’m not tired yet.” Randall shooed her with a dismissive wave like she was a naughty dog who’d gotten on the furniture.
With a sigh, she swung her feet to the floor and set aside her book and glasses. Would it kill him to say please once in a while? She tromped across the hall to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. The bottle of over-the-counter sleeping pills sat on the lowest shelf, between the hemorrhoid cream and aspirin.
She reached for his medicine, then reconsidered. The way Randall was grumbling tonight, he might do better with her sleep aid, which was a prescription and more potent. They both suffered from occasional insomnia, but Henrietta’s had recently subsided. She hadn’t needed to take anything for the last two weeks.
“Did you forget what you went in there for?” Randall hollered, then brayed with wheezy laughter.
Ignoring him, she grabbed her prescription bottle from the top shelf, poured two white caplets into her palm, and filled a paper cup with water before trudging back to her husband. “Here, darling.”
He didn’t notice the substitution, just accepted the cup she offered and sent the caplets down the hatch, then laid down without so much as a thank you.
Henrietta flipped off the light and got into bed. The temperature in the house was as fair as it was outside, in the low seventies, but she’d always been one to run a little cold. Even covered with a lightweight blanket, her toes were freezing, but she knew better than to snuggle up to Randall for warmth. They hadn’t touched each other in eons.
“Good night,” she said.
He grunted and rolled away from her.
Henrietta closed her eyes, but as she drifted toward sleep, a sudden shimmy of the mattress startled her. Randall must’ve been uncomfortable because he tossed and turned with a vengeance. It was too dark to see, but she imagined he looked like a toddler in the throes of a tantrum.
“For heaven’s sake, Randall.” She lifted her head and fluffed her pillow. “I’m sorry I asked you to turn in early, but do you need to carry on like that?”
A low moan came from his side of the bed. He thrashed once more, then went still. Apparently, he’d found an agreeable position.
“That’s better.” She pulled the blanket up to her chin. “Rest well, dear.”
After several minutes, she slipped into the quiet depths of sleep, unaware that for the first time in half a century, Randall wasn’t snoring.
***
During their long, arduous marriage, Henrietta had learned Randall was the sort of man who took his grudge to bed and fed it breakfast in the morning. So when she woke the next day, she was careful not to disturb him.
Quietly, she rifled through her dresser and selected a pair of blue pedal pushers, a white cotton blouse, and a pair of knee-high hose, then slinked across the hall to the bathroom to dress. She planned to leave the house for a while, giving Randall some time and space to cool off. Where she would go or what she would do, she had no idea.
After she dressed, she migrated to the kitchen and fetched what she needed for breakfast from the fridge. As she set the wheat bread and carton of eggs on the counter, she remembered she needed to check the mousetrap under the dishwasher.
With considerable effort, she lowered herself to her hands and knees and peered into the empty space where she’d removed the dishwasher’s bottom panel. The spring-loaded mousetrap stood empty, save for the dollop of peanut butter she’d applied as bait. Oh well. In time, she would catch that pesky creature.
As she came to her feet, the phone rang, giving her heart a jolt. She hurried to the opposite side of the kitchen and plucked the receiver from its mount on the wall before it could ring again. “Hello?”
“You alright, Henri? You sound out of breath.” It was Ethel Davis, her oldest and dearest friend.
“I’m fine.” Henrietta kept her voice low. “What’s shakin’ bacon?”
“Care to join me and the girls for some cards? We need a fourth for bridge.”
“Sure.” Henrietta twirled the phone cord around her finger. “When should I come?”
“Head over now if you can. I’m serving brunch before we play.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
In a hurry to get to Ethel’s, Henrietta went directly to the powder room to do her hair and makeup, forgetting all about the loaf of bread and egg carton still resting on the counter.
After her hair was perfectly coiffed and her lips painted pink, Henrietta peeked into the master bedroom. Curled in the fetal position with his eyes closed, Randall appeared to be enjoying a good long rest—something he sorely needed.
In the living room, she shrugged into a lightweight sweater and grabbed her purse before heading out the front door. It was a lovely day, perfect for the five-minute walk to Ethel’s house, but as Henrietta prepared to cross the street, a paranoid thought sprang to mind. What if one day she forgot to look both ways before crossing?
A violent shiver rattled her slight frame. Despite the sweater and bright sun overhead, the chill permeated her bones. She rubbed her arms, desperate to warm up. What in the world was wrong with her?
The answer was beyond her reach, hidden in the shadows of her ailing memory. Closing her eyes, she searched her mind for the incident nagging at her. She couldn’t discern any details, but her gut suggested this sudden fear had something to do with Randall. She released a heavy sigh. Whatever he’d said or done would remain a mystery for now. Most likely it would come to her later.
Determined not to let Randall ruin her outing, Henrietta gathered her courage and looked up and down the street—three times—before making her way to the other side. Safe and sound on the sidewalk, her heart rate slowed and the frightening chill dissipated. She’d gotten worked up over nothing.
***
Bridge was fun, though Henrietta wasn’t very good at it, but the girls didn’t mind. After an hour, the foursome abandoned their card game in favor of chatting over coffee on Ethel’s patio. By afternoon, they elected to browse antique shops downtown, and afterward, went out for Italian. By the time Henrietta arrived back home that evening, she felt like a whole new person.
“Randall?” she called as she opened the front door. The house was dark, save for the fluorescent light on in the kitchen. “Are you home?” She kicked off her flats and slid her feet into the slippers that sat poised and ready in the tiled entry. “Randall?” She waited for a reply, but none came, so she assumed he’d taken advantage of the nice weather and gone fishing.
In the kitchen, she poured a glass of merlot and noticed the eggs and bread sitting on the counter. Randall must have made himself an egg sandwich while she was gone and forgotten to put everything away.
“See,” she murmured, “I’m not the only one who forgets things.”
Knowing Randall would make a fuss if he came home to a messy kitchen, she tidied up, then checked the mousetrap under the dishwasher.
“Gotcha!”
The dead mouse’s head was flattened by the trap’s spring-loaded hammer. Dull black eyes bulged from their sockets, staring up at her vacantly.
Henrietta rose to her feet, went to the kitchen sink, and grabbed the yellow dish gloves lying on the drainboard. She put them on and carried the whole kit and caboodle outside to the aluminum trash bin next to the garage.
“Good riddance.” She tossed the trap in first, then the gloves.
When she returned to the living room, she curled up on the couch and sipped her wine as she flipped through the channels, finally settling on Dial M for Murder, one of her favorite Hitchcock movies.
An hour later, about the time Jimmy Stewart learned his plan to kill his wife had backfired, Henrietta got up for a refill. In the kitchen, she uncorked the bottle and poured it a little too quickly. Wine sloshed over the sides of her glass, splattering the white Formica countertop with crimson dots, missing her blouse by an inch. The close call jogged a flash of memory.
Yesterday, Randall had gotten angry with her because she’d added bleach to a load of his clothes—a load of colors, not whites. She felt terrible about the mix-up, but her apology wasn’t enough to satisfy him.
“You ruined my favorite shirt,” he said. “Now I’m going to ruin yours.” He picked up Henrietta’s half-full wineglass and chucked its contents at her chest. “Maybe that will teach you.” When she’d glanced down at her yellow knit blouse, it looked like she was bleeding to death.
Henrietta blinked and shoved the memory aside. She cleaned up the wine spill with a sponge, then ventured downstairs to the laundry room. Her yellow top was in the large washbasin in the corner, soaking in a murky mix of Woolite and water. If she didn’t attend to it right this minute, she would forget about it again.
After wringing it out, she loaded it, along with other dirty laundry, into the washing machine and pressed Start. Immediately, the copper pipes nestled in the basement’s ceiling creaked and groaned as they called for water. Tipsy, Henrietta mistook the overhead noise for footsteps upstairs. Thinking her husband might be home, she climbed the staircase and looked around the living room. No one was there, save for Grace Kelly on the television.
“Randall?”
Only silence greeted her.
“Hmm. Just the pipes, I guess.”
***
When the credits rolled, Henrietta swallowed the last of her wine and clicked off the glowing television, plunging the living room into darkness. Arms outstretched, she groped her way down the hallway to the master bedroom. Stepping inside, she palmed the wall, searching for the light switch. When she flipped it on, she found Randall already tucked into bed.
“Randall!” She stumbled backward, nearly losing her balance, but caught the door frame in time to right herself. “I thought I heard you come in earlier.” Hand on her chest, she tried to steady her pounding heart. “How long have you been home?”
He didn’t stir.
“Don’t play opossum with me.”
But he didn’t move.
She crept closer and noticed white foam leaking from his mouth. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Randall?”
Not so much as a twitch.
Trembling, she pressed two fingers against the side of his neck.
No pulse.
Her legs refused to move—as if her lower half were planted in concrete. It took all her concentration to draw air into her lungs, and even then, she only managed short shallow breaths. After what felt like minutes, but was probably less, she regained control of her limbs and staggered to the kitchen to dial 911.
When the ambulance came, two uniformed men charged inside and examined her husband in the master bedroom. One of them tried to lift Randall’s arm, but it hardly budged. Even in death, Randall refused to cooperate.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the first paramedic said. “I think he’s been gone awhile. Maybe since this morning.”
Had she woken up next to a dead body? Left him there all day while she visited her girlfriends and watched television tonight? She shuddered.
The sheriff arrived next. He spoke in hushed tones with the paramedics as they zipped Randall into a black body bag.
“Sorry for your loss, Mrs. Johnson,” the sheriff said, approaching her. “I’m Sheriff Witt, and I have a few questions for you.”
Henrietta nodded absently, watching the paramedics load Randall’s body onto a gurney and wheel him out of the room.
Sheriff Witt pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket and clicked the top of his pen. “How was your husband’s health?”
“He had a heart attack about a month ago. He had high cholesterol.”
“Would you mind showing me any medications he might’ve taken in the last twenty-four hours?”
She strained to recall, but thankfully her faulty memory cooperated. She went across the hall to the bathroom and returned with two translucent-orange bottles.
“This is his heart medicine. And this one is my prescription. A sleep aid. He took some last night.”
The sheriff read the labels of both bottles, then opened the one bearing her name and peeked inside. His expression said he didn’t like what he saw. “Come with me.” He motioned for her to follow him. “I need a second opinion about something.”
She trailed behind him to the front porch, where he beckoned one of the paramedics, now standing behind the ambulance, to join them.
The young man jogged over. “Yes, sir?”
“Look at these for me.” He handed him Henrietta’s prescription bottle. “She said her husband took these last night before bed. Do they look strange to you?”
The paramedic peered inside, scowled, then examined the label. “These were prescribed to you, ma’am?”
“Yes. I used to struggle with insomnia.”
The paramedic and sheriff exchanged a look.
“What’s wrong?” Henrietta asked. “Have they expired?”
The paramedic shook his head. “That’s not why we’re concerned.”
“What is it then?”
“I don’t think they’re pills, Mrs. Johnson,” the paramedic went on. “They look like pellets of some kind.”
“Pellets?” Henrietta was confused. “Let me see.” She edged closer to the young man to get a better look, but without her reading glasses, she saw what she always saw—blurry, white caplets. “They look alright to me.”
“I’ll take them with me if you don’t mind.” Sheriff Witt took back the bottle and replaced the cap. “I might need to run an analysis on them.”
“Analysis?” Henrietta couldn’t understand why they were making such a fuss about all this.
“Just procedure, don’t worry. I’ll be in touch if I have anything newsworthy to report.” The sheriff adjusted his wide-brimmed hat. “In the meantime, try to get some rest, Mrs. Johnson.”
Henrietta stayed on the porch as the sheriff sauntered to his cruiser parked at the curb and the paramedics boarded the ambulance, then watched as two sets of taillights faded into the darkness like embers of a dying fire.
When she stepped back into the house, she went straight to the bathroom, took two of Randall’s over-the-counter sleeping pills, and sought refuge from her horrifying evening in a dreamless night’s sleep.
***
Henrietta filled her days with dusting, vacuuming, and ironing. Chores defused the stress and strain of waiting for her husband’s body to be released. Until that happened, she couldn’t arrange his funeral.
Her method of distraction worked so well there were stretches when she forgot about his death entirely, but she received a swift reminder a week later when she answered the door and found the sheriff on her porch. Though his face looked familiar, she could not summon his name.
“Good evening, Mrs. Johnson,” he said. “I need to speak with you. May I come in?”
“Of course, Sheriff . . .?”
“Witt.”
“That’s right.” She patted her mop of hair, feeling self-conscious. She’d been so busy cleaning, she hadn’t bothered to run a comb through it. As a rule, she didn’t entertain company when she looked a fright, but law enforcement seemed a worthy exception. “This way.” She led him to the dining room, and they sat together at the round oak table.
He took out a notepad, flipped it open, and scanned something written in blue ink. “Last Tuesday night, you gave your husband your prescription sleep aid, correct?”
“Yes.” An image of a gurney loaded with a black body bag leaped to mind. “Oh, dear. Was there an interaction with his heart medication? Is that what did it?”
Sheriff Witt shook his head. “No. We ran a tox panel. Turns out he was poisoned.”
“How on earth?”
“I had your prescription analyzed,” he explained. “The pills had been replaced with rodenticide pellets.”
“Row-denta-what?”
“Rat poison, ma’am. Given the man’s poor health, it didn’t take much to kill him.” He paused. “Did Randall know he was taking your prescription that night?”
“I don’t think I mentioned it. He just swallowed them and went to bed.”
“I suspected as much.” The sheriff held her gaze as if struggling to find the right words. “Mrs. Johnson, did you and your husband get along?”
“I think he found me tiresome,” she said. “I have memory problems, and he often got frustrated with me.”
“I see.” Sheriff Witt paused and blew out a weary breath. “Listen, the reason I stopped by tonight was to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“I suspect your husband was trying to kill you.” Worry etched his rugged face. “I wanted to make sure you knew, so you could take precautions.”
Henrietta swallowed hard. “I knew he despised me, but I didn’t think he’d stoop to murder.”
“I’ve seen it all, ma’am. Unfortunately, this kind of thing isn’t that uncommon.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
He scraped his chair back and stood, gazing down at her with obvious concern. “I suggest you throw out all your medications. He may have tampered with others, and I’d hate to see something happen to you.”
“Alright.” Her hand fluttered to the hollow of her throat. “I’ll do that.”
“You can start making funeral arrangements tomorrow. His body will be released in the morning.”
“Thank you, I guess.”
She showed him to the door and locked it behind him. That’s when the washing machine downstairs buzzed, signaling the load of towels she’d started earlier was finished. Grateful for the distraction, she went directly to the laundry room to transfer the wet towels to the dryer, but when she reached for a dryer sheet, she found the box empty. Intent on getting another, she tottered to the cabinet above the washbasin, but when she opened it, she saw nothing but bare shelves.
Well, almost bare.
There, on the second shelf, was a small, skinny box, about the size used for baking soda, but the contents weren’t anything used for cooking or cleaning. According to the large-type—printed above a cartoon mouse with an X over each eye—the product effectively eliminated rats and mice, guaranteed. A narrow slip of paper stuck out from under the corner of the box. Carefully, she slid it out.
It was a receipt.
She carried it upstairs so she could use her reading glasses to inspect the small print. Perched on the edge of her bed, she slipped on her specs and read the receipt. Two weeks ago, someone had purchased a mousetrap and a box of rat poison from the hardware store down the block. Near the bottom, written in familiar handwriting, was the customer’s signature.
Henrietta Johnson
The receipt sparked her memory, illuminating the darkest corner of her mind. On the date in question, Randall had ruthlessly laid into her for burning the hamburgers she’d made for dinner. She’d put the meat patties under the oven broiler before stepping outside to fetch the mail. That’s when the neighbor across the street called to her and chatted her up. Distracted by the conversation, Henrietta forgot about the meal she was making.
By the time she returned to the kitchen, the smoke detector was blaring. Randall pulled the pan of blackened burgers out of the oven and shouted, “Do us both a favor. Next time, forget something useful, like looking both ways before crossing the street!”
That’s when Henrietta came up with the perfect plan to rid herself of not one, but two rodents.
Since Randall had heart problems, she banked on his death being attributed to natural causes, but to be on the safe side, she put the pellets in her prescription bottle, just in case the authorities made an inquiry. It had worked beautifully, too. The sheriff believed Randall had tried to do away with her and received a dose of karmic justice instead.
Of course, there was always the risk she might forget what she’d done and take the pellets herself, but that was a gamble she was willing to make. She’d felt confident she wouldn’t put herself in harm’s way, that on some level, she would remember not to use them anymore.
Turned out, she’d been right.
She tore up the sales receipt and tossed it in the garbage, then headed to the bathroom to shower. As she rinsed the rose-scented shampoo from her hair, she imagined her troubles with Randall flowing down the drain with the suds. A wonderful sense of peace filled her, knowing he would never bother her again. By the time she toweled off, her mind was clear, so clear, in fact, she didn’t even remember the sheriff’s visit.
Once dressed, she went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was suppertime.
“Randall, dear,” she called. “What are you in the mood for tonight?”
She didn’t get an answer, so she assumed he was out fishing. She decided to whip up some meatloaf and mashed potatoes. He would appreciate her cooking his favorite meal. A day on the lake always worked up his appetite.
BIO: Carla Ward is a short story author, occasional poet, and Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work has been published by The Saturday Evening Post (online), Yours (U.K.), Woman’s World, Oakwood Magazine, Avalon Literary Review, Dark Horses, Night Picnic Journal, Penumbra: A Journal of Weird Fiction and Criticism, and 2-Minute Mini Mysteries.
You can find her at her website, X and Instragram.
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