by Peter Ponzo
It may seem strange that I wanted to kill myself. It may seem even stranger that I wanted to implicate my wife. However, I have a form of prostate cancer that will kill me in six months, I'm told, so suicide will just move up the date of my demise. Not too drastic. Further, I hate my wife. Sylvia has been having an affair with her boss for almost six months now ... and she openly admits it. I know I'm not the best husband in the world, but we married for better or for worse. We argue all the time, she insults me and she tells all her friends about my inability to make her happy. She's not even pretty. In fact, she's very plain looking. If she is arrested for the murder of her husband, I can die happy.
That leaves two questions:
How to commit suicide so no one would suspect it was a suicide.
How could I make it look like my wife was the murderer.
Chapter Two
My husband, Oliver, was in the garage, a half dozen knives protruding from his body. I found the body two days ago. When the police arrived, I was the principal suspect. The knives were my kitchen knives and, of course, had my fingerprints all over them ... yet I did not kill my husband. The police said that every knife would have been enough to kill the man. That meant that he could not have stabbed himself a half dozen times.
Oliver wasn't a good man, not a good lover, not a good conversationalist and he certainly wasn't handsome. In fact, he was pretty ugly with an oversized nose, scars on his cheek and he walked with a limp. He was also diagnosed with cancer, so if I waited long enough, I'd be rid of him. On the other hand, my boss, Jeremy, made me feel wanted. He was considerate, affectionate and oh-so-handsome. He was an insurance broker and could arrange insurance for your left knee cap, if that's what you wanted.
Jeremy also had a lot of money, unlike Oliver who worked as a part time carpenter. That was really funny: Oliver was a carpenter, yet our home was a mess. He never fixed anything, he just let things wear out. He spent most weekends in the garage, playing with his toys, his gadgets, his wooden designs. They were all junk as far as I was concerned. There were collapsible tables, folding chairs with strange wavy seats, devices that would play ball, wall dividers that would fit into a car trunk. All junk. He thought he could interest some company in mass producing them: Oliver would make a commission. Never happened. And Oliver was just too stupid to market them himself.
I always wondered what I saw in Oliver, ten years ago, when we married. He really wasn't very smart. I often had to correct his statements when we were talking to friends. He'd say, "I'd like to visit Atlantis" and I'd say "That place doesn't exist". He was a foolish man.
But, two days ago, Oliver was clever enough to somehow kill himself and make it look like I did it. Although I was a suspect and was told not to leave town, I wasn't actually taken into custody. Not yet. Although getting rid of Oliver was a plus, my being the principal suspect was distressing. When my boss, Jeremy, learned of Oliver's death he immediately came by the house to comfort me. I had taken Oliver's death and my being a suspect pretty painlessly, but now I fell into Jeremy's arms, crying that I was suspected of killing my husband. Jeremy was stunned.
He stayed for dinner, just some warmed-up pizza and a beer, then he stayed the night, sleeping on the sofa. I didn't sleep well and woke up late. Jeremy had already made French toast which he kept warm in the oven. He had a curious grin on his face while we ate. Then he said he wanted to show me something and I followed him to the garage.
"See that?" he said, pointing to one wall where some of Oliver's junk lay.
"Yes. I think that's Oliver's ball throwing junk ... batting practice, you know."
"Sylvia, come look inside," he said, and lifted the top of the wooden structure. I looked in and saw six knives, my kitchen knives! "Stand back," Jeremy said."
I stepped away, he checked that it was plugged into the electric outlet, then he pushed a button and five knives came flying out of the contraption. They all landed embedded in a sheet of plywood.
"My God!" I exclaimed. "That's how Oliver killed himself!"
"Yes. Pretty clever, I'd say. Now I'll call the police and explain."
"But how did the knives get in there?"
"I was curious and came out here early this morning. When I saw the gadget I plugged it in, put a small scrap of wood inside and pressed the button. I nearly got hit by flying wood! Then I tried it with your kitchen knives and it works pretty well. Sometimes one of the knives get stuck ... like now."
I was so happy. This man was a genius and I loved him so. He called the police, two detectives came by, he demonstrated the knife throwing device. Only five knives came out and Jeremy explained, sometimes, that happened. After some discussion in which Jeremy seemed like a trial lawyer, he was so clever, the detectives agreed that Oliver did, indeed, kill himself. All charges against me were dropped. I flew into Jeremy's arms and kissed him all over.
Chapter Three
Sylvia and I got married two weeks later and we moved into my condo. One day we'll sell her house. It's a terrible property and we won't get much, but neither one of us wants to live there.
It was on a Saturday, just six days after our honeymoon, that we sat having breakfast and I gave her the good news.
"A few years ago," I said, "Oliver approached me about buying an insurance policy. That was before you and I got to know each other. It was a million dollar policy and you were the beneficiary."
I waited for that to sink in. Sylvia took a gulp of coffee, put down her cup and stared, open-mouthed.
"You know the joint bank account we set up last week? Well, it now holds a million dollars."
I showed Sylvia the bank statement for our joint account. It said one million dollars. Sylvia coughed up her coffee.
"Oh Jeremy! That's wonderful!" she said.
"Yes. I think that, a few years ago, Oliver was deeply love with you."
Sylvia seemed pensive. "Yes, Oliver was a good man ... years ago."
"It was a bit of a problem to convince the insurance company that it was an accidental death, but that's my forte. Okay, there is one last thing that we have to do–sell your old house. Let's go over there and see if there's anything worth saving, shall we?"
By late afternoon we had wandered through the old house and decided there was little that we wanted to keep. We could just auction off the entire contents. Then we went into the garage. The knife-throwing machine was still there and it was still plugged into the wall.
"Be careful," I said. "You better stand over there."
Sylvia was clearly upset at seeing the device. She was shaking. I pointed to a far wall and she stood there as I raised the lid to look inside. There were the six knives that I had placed there the night before. I put on the gloves I had in my pocket, pulled out five knives and walked over to Sylvia and stabbed her five times. I left one knife inside in order to explain to the police that one knife often got stuck. They were, by now, familiar with the device and that particular explanation.
I called the police and they came within minutes.
"She was so upset by the death of her first husband," I said, wiping a tear from my eye. "I couldn't console her. She kept saying that she wanted to die, just like he died." I sat on a box in the corner of the garage. "When I brought her here, I didn't know that she had loaded the machine. She put in six knives, but, as you can see, only five were ejected."
"We understand," said one of the officers. "We both remember that the sixth knife gets stuck. And we are very sorry for your loss. I understand that you were just married, not long ago."
"Yes, she was a wonderful woman and I ... I loved her so."
The two officers stood for a moment.
"Will you call the funeral home, to arrange things?"
"Yes, of course," I said, my voice trembling. "Thank you for coming by."
When they left I stood before Sylvia's body.
"You silly wench," I said. "Did you really think I could love a plain Jane like you? Aah, but a million dollars, that's quite an
other love story."
I laughed.
"When I met with Oliver, years ago, to talk about the insurance he wanted, he insisted upon bragging about his inventions. The one that most intrigued me was that ball-throwing machine. I planned, even then, to kill Oliver and blame it on the machine. Then, of course, I needed to marry then kill you, my dear Sylvia, to get the insurance money. Now I'm free to spend all that money, unfettered by a stupid fellow–but a great inventor–and a silly dame."
I figured I should get rid of the knife-throwing machine. I doubt if I'd need it again. I put the gloves back in my pocket and began to pull the device off the wall bracket, forgetting that it was still plugged into the electrical receptacle. I accidentally hit the button and the sixth knife ...
Chapter One
I'm a banker. In fact, I own the bank. I do very well, financially, thank you. However, there is one problem: my wife spends too much money, more than I make–and that's a lot. I often have to take out a temporary bank loan to cover her purchases: silly, stupid, meaningless purchases, like another ruby ring or the hundredth dress or pair of shoes. She doesn't buy from Walmart. She buys from Sylvana diMitrios, the most expensive shop in town ... and I've seen roughly the same stuff at Walmart. It makes no sense. I've come to hate that woman.
Anyway, taking out temporary loans is a pain, so I decided to rob my own bank. Any losses are covered by insurance, so the customers would not suffer financially. But the robbery wouldn't be easy. There are dozens of security devices in place: cameras, alarms, laser beams, etc. I know them all, of course, yet how could I rob the bank and have none of the security devices identify me, personally? Could I hire somebody, informing him of all the devices–and could I trust him? Could I cut the power and make most devices inoperative?
I've spent the better part of a week thinking of how to proceed ... and I think I have the solution.
Chapter Two
My husband, Henry, is a banker. You'd think that would make us rich, but it doesn't. He's such a cheapskate. He counts every penny. Maybe I should have realized that when I married a banker. But there are things a girl wants, needs, for everyday living. When I meet the girls on Wednesdays, at the Club, I certainly can't wear the same dress as last Wednesday, can I? I look down and I see that they all have different shoes than last week. Must I wear the same shoes as last week? The girls aren't married to a banker, but I am. Does that mean that I should look like the poorest girl at the Club, with just one change of clothes? I don't think so.
Henry is always telling me I spend too much money. I hate it when he nags like that. Over breakfast and over dinner, he talks of my spending habits and nothing else. It's getting very tiresome, that kind of talk. I've come to hate that man.
Maybe I should have married someone who would appreciate the better things in life, the need to improve one's appearance, the feeling of excellence when one exhibits a quality look.
Maybe Henry should get a job that pays better. Actually, since he owns that bank, why can't he just take money whenever I need it? Do the customers ask to see their money every day? Surely they wouldn't miss a dollar here and there. I wonder how one goes about taking money from the bank?
Chapter Three
When I mentioned to Marg the possibility of borrowing from the bank, the first thing she said was to just take the money. Why borrow? It was my bank, so the money was actually mine. She is such a stupid woman. What on Earth did I see in her, way back when? She is pretty and she has a lovely laugh, but that's about it. Between her ears, there is a void.
Anyway, I decided that she would rob the bank. She wouldn't even suspect that it was illegal, because her husband owned the bank so he owned all the money inside. I would set it all up, in the evening after the bank closed. I would give her the keys to the bank and I'd tell her where the money was located. I would, of course, stay home or, better still, I'd spend the evening at Gilmore's Bar on Fremont Street, the one where the bartender knows me personally. I'd chat it up so he'd remember that I was there that evening.
"Say, Marg," I said over breakfast. "I think you're right. In fact, you've been right all along. I own the bank so I should just take money when we need it."
Marg almost choked on her scrambled egg.
"You silly man!" she said, in a very loud voice. "I kept telling you but you always ignored my suggestions. You're finally getting smart!"
"So, when would you like to get some money?" I asked.
"The sooner the better," she said. "What's wrong with tonight"
"Tonight sounds great. I'll let you decide how much we'll need. I think you might want another pair of shoes and definitely a new dress."
"Yes, definitely. I was thinking exactly the same thing!"
"Oh, just one thing ... I have a meeting with the board tonight, but there's no need for me to be there. In fact, it might be better if you went alone, so you'll be familiar with the procedure. After all, you may want money again, in the future. Who knows when you'll need a new dress, eh?"
"Oh, yes. Just tell me where the money is and I'll go get some," Marg said enthusiastically. "Next week I may need more because I saw this wonderful gown at diMitrios. It'll be on sale next week."
"Okay, here's what you have to do."
And I explained how to get into the building, into the safe and where to find the cash. She was stupid, so I had her repeat everything several times so I was sure she understood. I was home by seven pm and I gave Marg the keys and had her recite the procedure one more time. Then I left. Marg said she had some things to do before she left and could she take my car. I gave her the keys to my car and walked to Gilmore's Bar. I was there by eight, talking to the bartender ... and grinning. I'd be rid of that stupid woman.
Chapter Four
After Henry left I phoned Jack and he arrived within minutes. I explained the ritual that Henry proposed and Jack understood exactly what he was to do. He changed into Henry's clothes, put on Henry's hat and his heavy overcoat, took the keys to the bank and left, driving Henry's car. I sank into the sofa and thought of all the money Jack and I would have in just a few more minutes. Jack and I had planned on living in the Bahamas and I did my best to collect money from Henry. I bought huge quantities of clothes at Walmart and said they were from diMitrios. Henry was too stupid to know the difference. Henry grudgingly gave me the money in cash and I put it into a bank account, but not at Henry's bank, of course. I had practiced this stupid act for years. In fact, it was often difficult for me to get out of the habit of acting stupid, but Henry had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. He is such a stupid fellow.
It was almost ten o'clock when I got the phone call. It was from the police. They said Henry's bank had been robbed. I had a hard time holding back a loud hee-haw and saying, "Yes, I know that!" I phoned Henry's cell phone and he answered on the first ring. Henry seemed confused. He asked if I got any money. I said my car wouldn't work so I thought I'd postpone until tomorrow. Then how did the bank get robbed, Henry asked. I said I didn't know, but I was smiling. In the meantime, I wondered why Jack had not come back earlier.
Chapter Five
The clothes didn't fit very well, but that was okay. Marg stayed home while I robbed the bank. I parked Henry's car right in front of the bank and left the headlights on so anybody could see it. I let myself in, pulled Henry's hat tight on my head and was careful not to let the cameras see my face. I walked to the huge safe and spun the lock as Marg had explained. She was one smart cookie, that Marg. Inside, the shelves were lined with metal boxes. I found several that held cash. I took as much as I could carry in my overcoat. It had very deep pockets and they were hundred dollar bills so I did get a lot of money. I was in the bank for less than five minutes. I drove away in Henry's car, directly to the airport where I boarded the plane to Grand Cayman Island.
Marg would be waiting.
Wouldn't she be surprised that I kept the money myself?
Chapter One
SEE-01 had been orbiting about the
sun for over thirty years and it was now thought to be defunct. No signals had been received for over three years. Although the batteries were charged from the sun's radiation, it was clear that their life span had been exceeded. Nevertheless, the scientists at SpaceLab were intent upon recovering Sun-Earth-Explorer #1 and that seemed possible, given that the satellite would be closer than the moon in less than a week. James Default would head the recovery team.
"The MOV can guide the satellite into low Earth orbit," James said. "From there we can use the Netcape to drag it home. Any questions?"
"But can the Mobile Orbit Vehicle reach that far into space?"
"Yes. It could, if need be, reach lunar orbit. However, we need only get the MOV to about 250,000 kilometres. It has remote control jets that we can control from the ground station. It then should be simple enough to steer SEE-01 into Earth orbit."
"And Netcape?" someone asked.
"Well, that's a bit dicey. We've never actually tried to capture such an orbiting vehicle before, but I see no reason why it wouldn't work. Of course, it requires some skill to eject the cape and have it enclose the satellite. If we can do that, then dragging it to ground level will be easy enough. Anybody here good with a lasso?"
There was laughter from the dozen scientists gathered in the briefing room. Without further questions, the meeting broke up and James was left alone with Zemira Alvarado.
"Is it going to work," she asked. "You sounded pretty confident."
"I hope so," James said, grinning. "I can't see any other procedure with a better probability of success."
