by Sunny Frazier
Except for that one incident with the Godiva chocolates, my marriage would have been perfect.
My wife wasn’t beautiful, but she was intelligent and rich, qualities a man looks for when he climbs the corporate ladder. My marriage had survived the seven-year-itch twice before I hired Marvella to be my secretary. She had a figure that would make any man re-think his marriage vows. She swiveled in her office chair with hips designed to drive men wild. She lounged seductively on the patio during her endless smoke breaks. Before long, I was drawn into my first affair.
Marvella wasn’t demanding. She simply adored me so much that she thought I’d look better behind the wheel of a Corvette rather than a Taurus. She hinted that she wanted a diamond tennis bracelet, although she never held a racquet in her hand. My cash reserves were soon running low.
Marvella pointed out that murdering my wife was the logical solution to my marital and monetary problems. Between my wife’s inheritance and the sizable insurance policy, I’d have plenty of money. Marvella told me to find a fool-proof method, but didn’t want to know the details in case the cops came calling.
Committing adultery is one thing–committing murder is quite another. I knew my wife’s habits but now I studied the details of her daily routine. I asked questions, went out with her more often, even took her shopping to see what she bought. Surprisingly enough, I rediscovered all the reasons why I married her in the first place.
Her passion was candy. There were caramels on her nightstand, buttercreams next to her reading chair and nougats near the TV. Valentines Day was around the corner. Deadly bon bons would do the job.
Finding just the right poison was difficult. What I needed was a lethal liquid, something I could inject in a piece of candy without disturbing the outer appearance. I found a recipe for liquid nicotine on the internet. When my wife left for three days at a health spa, I shredded cigarettes, soaked the tobacco and boiled the mass down to a potent liquid.
On February 14, I placed the tainted box of Godiva chocolates and a long stemmed red rose on the dining room table and left for work. I stayed away from the office all morning to make sure that Marvella and I weren’t seen together. I’d kept her in the dark on the exact date of the murder.
“Did you find the box of candy, sweetheart?” I sputtered.
“You’ve been so romantic lately,” she purred, “that I’ve been dieting. So I dropped by the office and gave the candy to your secretary. She seemed delighted when I said they were from you. She ate a half a dozen pieces before I left.”
It was supposed to be the perfect murder–and in some respects, it was.
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