Emily Groves wracked her brain for months trying to come up with the perfect
murder. Then serendipity presented itself.
    It was her husband that Emily wanted to kill. Not that Jason had long to go after
two heart attacks. Once an active and vital man, he was now mostly sedentary and
confined to the house. It was only a matter of time before Jason departed on his
own. Yet Emily’s patience had worn so thin with waiting she could see clear through
it, even when her glasses slid down her nose.
    Emily didn't hate Jason. Though granted, after forty years of marriage she had
little use for the man. Nor was it Jason's life insurance that prompted her murderous
intent. The money would make her twilight years a little more comfortable, but was
no great windfall. What was driving Emily Groves to contemplate the ultimate crime
were the sounds that issued from her husband's stomach.
    During the day Jason's stomach was quiescent. Not a peep out of it. Yet once
they ate dinner (rather once she ate and he stuffed himself) and they sat down
before the television for the evening (she watched while he dozed or read the
paper), his innards would kick into action. Gurgling. Growling. Whistling. An
interminable wet chugging like a train underwater.
    Emily was left with two choices, neither of which was to her liking. She could
shut off her hearing aid, turn on closed captioning, and read what was being said
while trying to watch the picture at the same time. Or she could turn up her hearing
aid and listen over the ongoing abdominal racket. Television was one of the few
things she had left to enjoy at her age. Jason's stomach was depriving her of even
that.
    Emily had tried serving a blander diet. It had no effect. She had suggested to
Jason more than once that he should be taking something to aid his digestion. He
either ignored her completely or responded in the same charming manner he had
increasingly exhibited in recent years.
    ‘‘Leave me alone. I'm fine. Take it yourself.‘‘
    She had talked to Doctor Benson during Jason's monthly check-up.
    ‘‘No problem with his stomach,’’ Benson told her, ‘‘ its his heart we have to
worry about.’’
    No problem! If only Benson could have heard the unseemly cacophony that
Jason's internal juices were capable of once they were on the prowl.
    Murder, Emily concluded, was her only sensible option. Yet the ‘‘how’’ had
proved far more difficult to resolve than her decision to commit the crime. There
were so many tempting possibilities ---- gun, knife, poison, the proverbial blunt
instrument ---- but all of them seemed to level the proverbial finger of guilt firmly in her direction. If their house only had a second story, she could have long since shoved the old fool down the stairs and passed it off as a fall.
    Emily had remained in a quandary until serendipity arrived.
    She was cleaning out the cabinet under the bathroom sink when she came across a bottle of Jason's heart medicine. Shortly after his first coronary he had stopped taking the medicine, claiming he didn't need it anymore. Naturally a second heart attack had followed. This bottle was a leftover from that time, nearly two years ago. Pushing her glasses up her nose, Emily examined the label. She counted off the months on her fingers. The pills had expired more than a year and a half before.
    After that, it was easier than she could have imagined. She took the bottle Jason was currently using, emptied out its pills into a tissue, and replaced them with the old pills. Five days after the exchange, Jason complained of chest pains before going to bed. By  morning her husband was stretched out motionless beside her, slightly blue, cold as the wrought iron bedstead.
    After forty years of marriage Emily realized she should have felt something. And
she did. Relief. Pure and joyous relief.
    Once she had switched the pills back and flushed the old ones down the toilet, Emily called the doctor. Benson came, examined the body, and filled out the death certificate. Funeral arrangements were made at a local mortuary and what remained of Jason was removed. Emily wasn't enough of an actress to summon tears, but throughout the ordeal she managed a dour expression that no doubt passed for grief.
    That night she sat down in front of the television. It couldn't have been a better night to celebrate her newfound freedom. There was a special two-hour Touched by an Angel movie followed by a Bette Davis biography on PBS. Turning up the volume on her hearing aid, Emily settled back to watch and listen to the show.
    Ten minutes into the program it began. Gurgling. Grumbling. Whistling. Wet chugging. Emily couldn't believe her ears. She stared at Jason's empty armchair in indignation. There was no reason her husband should be coming back to haunt her. No way he could have known she was responsible for his death.
    And there was nothing wrong with her conscience, thank you very much.
    She stood up and approached the chair cautiously. The sounds grew louder. Emily leaned forward. The noises were not coming from Jason's empty chair but from the wall beside it. She pressed her ear against the plaster and they grew louder still. It was not Jason's stomach that had caused the infernal din that plagued her evenings. It was the water pipes behind the wall.
    Emily Groves had committed the perfect murder. No one suspected a thing and they never would. She was free as serendipity on that count. Yet it had all been for nothing. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her own stomach, Emily realized that her real troubles had only just begun. Now she'd have to call a plumber.
 
 

 
 

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