BY MARA BUCK
First published in Winward: Best New England Crime Stories 2016. Copyright is held by the author.
“DONNA, I don’t know why the hell you can’t turn out a piecrust like my ma’s. After all, it’s only flour and lard. Jeezum. Even kids can do that. In all them years we been married you ain’t got it right yet.” Harold wrinkled his nose at the soggy piece on his fork. After a few fumbles, he managed to find his mouth buried within his scraggly beard. Strings of rhubarb festooned his mustache like burned-out Christmas lights on a trailer and, after briefly clacking his teeth over the mess, Harold went in for a second forkful. “Gotta admit it though, this filling ain’t half bad. You surely got a touch with the rhubarb. Give you credit for that. Still, they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Well, you got you a ways to go there, girl. Yep, a pitiful ways to go.”
Donna’s head was buried in the oven, but her brain was floating high above their aqua-striped doublewide, sitting cozy on cinder blocks in the shade of a lightning-blasted oak in old Jake Wescott’s trailer park. She’d learned to tune out her husband’s ramblings the first day of their brief honeymoon in that wasp-infested cabin at the lake. The polyester satin of her wedding gown had stretched uncomfortably over her expanding waistline, leaving precious little room for cake at the reception. She’d lost the baby anyway. There’d been no others, but hey, that was life they all said and they all said what can you do and they all said Harold was a real prince, so she and Harold —“The Cuthberts” — had stuck together ever since, Harold with his pie-spattered beard and she with her mind in the clouds of romance. After twenty years, he’d grabbed his pension from the sheriff’s department and they’d sold the house she’d inherited from her aunt Wilma and once they’d settled into the trailer, things had really gone downhill. It hadn’t been much of a slide. When she’d first seen it, the trailer had reminded Donna of a can of Spam, minus the handy-dandy opening key. Doublewide, my ass! She hadn’t changed her opinion. Such a small space in that metal can for such a lot of nothing. No humour. No conversation. No sex. No love. Donna was no head-turner for sure, but she wasn’t about ready to crawl into the grave and pull the dirt in over her body. Not yet.
Donna had herself one first-rate, bona-fide, no-doubt-about-it, mid-life crisis.
She’d been obsessed with romance novels since her teens, swapping Harlequins with her friends, and when her library grew too tear-stained to read, she’d spun the revolving rack at the Greyhound Depot and a few books fell conveniently into her pockets. Only occasionally, of course. During that summer when she was clerking at Foster’s Drug, she’d snuck the heart-throbbing paperbacks right off the shelves and read them right there on the job. Old man Foster never was the wiser and she’d always replaced them, good as new. Ah, the addictive power of love.
Some years ago, the paperback romance biz took a steamy turn, and although Maine was always wicked slow to embrace new trends, all those lonely women in all those rusty trailers were as horny as their more sophisticated city sisters, and the low-slung jeans gracing all those sons-of-Fabio covers dropped lower and lower until proper folk shielded their children’s eyes from the acres of naked male skin displayed on the racks at the Walmart. Heaving bosoms and euphemisms were tossed aside with yesterday’s pantyhose. This was raunch and the real deal and there were no shades of grey about it! Donna discovered what she’d been missing throughout her tedious years with Harold. And she was not pleased. Donna decided she deserved a lover before it was too late.
When she was growing up, the name Donna had been woefully trendy, and she’d considered it was a fat-girl name since the six Donnas in her small town of Dim Falls had all been less than svelte and she herself had always been (ahem) chubby. This newly-awakened twenty-first-century Donna (who’d already lost a pound for every year of her hated marriage) deserved a new sexy name for her new romance-novel life and one night in the trailer while Harold snored beside her, the name Monique appeared to her in a vision, accompanied by angelic voices and glittering cubic zirconia — just like that! She began calling herself Monique (in private, of course) and she tingled with excitement at the name alone. Oh, the things Monique thought! Oh, the things she might do! Oh, the sexy Victoria’s Secret lingerie she would wear! The whole wide world beckoned! But Harold remained an albatross strangling Monique’s perfumed neck.
Donna immediately realized that the town of Dim Falls was too small to contain both Donna and Monique, so she drove the Chevy south to the capital city of Augusta (where she was a stranger) and filled out a form for a post office box. That was a bang-up start and that same day she rented a back storage unit on a side road near the interstate where she could stash Monique’s clothes and makeup. Donna had seldom worn anything except practical polyester, but Monique demanded better and the post office box was soon stuffed with delivery receipts for packages addressed to Ms Monique LaChance. Packages from exotic internet boutiques. Donna bought a rickety chair and a side table at a lawn sale, along with a battery lantern, and she set up camp in the storage unit. Her war room. Her strategic sessions for planning to rid Monique from the encumbrance of Harold. And she knew just how she was going to do it.
The rhubarb patch behind the trailer had never grown so lush, never so inviting. The stalks were red and meaty, bending under the weight of their juices. Of course everyone knew the leaves were highly toxic, but this year those leaves were the size of elephant ears, and, after all, Harold did so love his rhubarb.
***
Harold Cuthbert’s beady eyes bulged beyond possibility. He clutched at his neck, knocked the kitchen chair galley-west, collapsed in a flailing spiral onto the linoleum, and kicked and kicked until his boot heels chipped the floor. A geyser of rhubarb spewed from his throat — not a pretty sight, but the height was truly impressive — and there was a tremendous amount of kicking, more than Donna had bargained for. He kicked until he was doubly dead. First from choking on five gluttonous helpings of pie and secondly from a massive stroke caused by ingesting a massive amount of Oxalic acid, courtesy of a concentrated infusion of rhubarb leaves supplementing that delicious pie. Yet, for all his greed, Harold died as he had lived, his final words berating Donna’s piecrust. She was left with a mess as usual, but she was used to cleaning up after Harold.
Killing someone seldom goes quite as you had imagined in the planning stages. Bits and pieces of surprise sneak in like a poorly-mixed muffin with clots of dough circling the raisins, yet all things considered, Donna felt satisfied with the outcome. She hadn’t counted on the spewing and the kicking, but Harold was a big man and had always been given to the grand gesture, so she allowed him an indulgently dramatic death.
***
The department arranged for the funeral within a few short days, Donna being too overcome with grief to be much help. Considering the wretched circumstances, there was no casket, no need for any autopsy (anyone could see he’d choked to death) so Harold was cremated as the widow wished and his precious ashes returned to her care and his urn sat in a place of honor on a lectern at the services. The department presented her with a flag and a plaque with the state seal.
“I tried the Heimlich. I tried everything. Oh, dear, poor Harold! Whatever will I do without him?” Donna wailed as she patted the brass urn and was comforted by all and sundry. It was a small town. There was much hand-holding and tsking of teeth and a parade of foil-covered funeral casseroles decorated the folding table in the basement rec room. The three-cheese lasagna was the best of the lot by far.
The new widow couldn’t stop crying. Donna had inherited a substantial hoard of dainty handkerchiefs from Aunt Wilma, and she’d soaked a number in onion juice before she left the trailer. She dabbed at her nose and the tears flowed faster than the Penobscot in spring. She was beside herself at the loss of her beloved husband. The ladies of Dim Falls flocked around her, clucking.
“My goodness, Donna, you’ve already lost so much weight in this short time since he’s been gone.”
“How you’ve suffered!”
“My, my, you poor thing.”
“I’ve never known a closer couple.”
Donna wiped her eyes with a fresh hankie. “You’re all such dear friends. But I miss Harold so much that I’m thinking of selling the trailer and moving into something smaller. Best to try a fresh start in a new place. So many sad memories. I close my eyes and it all comes back. What a horror! I could get a cat for company. Oh, this is such a change!” Donna’s waterlogged eyes were redder than rhubarb.
***
“Go home, Jim. You’re drunk. You can’t come in.” The hollow-core apartment door rattled, straining at its hinges.
“Com’on, Monique, honey. Open up. I brought you something nice. A bottle of that high-class wine you like so much.” The man grunted as he pushed against the door. He was a big man and it was a cheap-ass door.
Donna, now Monique, had morphed into the heroine of a novel yet to be written, but she hadn’t met any of the men on the covers of the paperbacks. Rather, like Jim pounding at the door, her string of male encounters were all varieties of Harold. Older, younger, shorter, fatter, many married, some promising divorce, but none worthy of Monique. Sex with Jim made her wish she was alone with a hot bath and some chocolate cake. Then there was the dentist with table manners worse than Harold’s and the Tune ‘n Lube manager with the toupee. Monique had wooed a lawyer from one of the big firms near the state house, but he called her “Monica” and stood her up twice. A handsome pharmacist with those romance-cover abs seemed a sure bet, but he confessed he was gay and was hoping she could help him begin a new straight life. It was the same with the others. No sizzle. No romance. Boring as Dim Falls after choir practice. This wasn’t as simple as a change of name and a killer wardrobe. Although those raunchy novels had travelled across the Maine border, those sexy cowboys with their low-slung jeans and their roving hands had ridden off into another sunset.
Monique assembled her escape kit, second phase. She believed with a holy ardour that sex and romance were waiting for her somewhere west of the Kittery Bridge and she was no quitter —she deserved to have a tattooed cowboy named Slim whisper she was “one hot babe” before she grew too old to give a damn. She opened an internet bank account and transferred all her Maine savings. She kept her best clothing packed in the trunk of the Chevy. The backseat was littered with romance novels and roadmaps and she was ready for the highway when the time was right. She also packed her pie pans and baking utensils because, well, you never know.
She’d kept the old dependable Chevy although it didn’t suit her new Monique lifestyle. Despite Harold’s life insurance, that lifestyle was depleting her funds at an alarming rate, so a sexy new car would have to wait. The Chevy was still registered to Donna Cuthbert of Dim Falls. Same Maine lobster plates. Same dent in the front fender where Harold had hit a deer two years back. You can transform a Donna into a Monique, but a Chevy is always a Chevy.
Monique was in the final planning stages for her road trip, travelling up Route 28 to the CVS, when she saw flashing blue lights in her rearview. “Shit. I know I wasn’t speeding.” She pulled over.
The tall cop approached and leaned into her window. “Hello there, Donna.”
“Well, if it isn’t Earl Putney! Earl, it’s truly wonderful to see someone from home. I’ve been so lonely since Harold passed. I’ve tried to find another life, but it’s been so very hard.” Donna sighed and looked up into Earl’s reflective aviators. “Was I going too fast? I think I was within the limit.”
“Nope, I recognized the Chevy and that dent Harold put in her, hitting that doe a while back. Hope I didn’t scare you, but I wanted to pull you off to chat a bit. Got some strange news about Harold’s death and I don’t really know how to break it to you. Here in the middle of the road doesn’t seem fitting. Maybe you’d be more comfortable if I dropped by your new place this evening? We could go back to the station in Dim Falls, but that’s too formal at this point. I got your new address. Thirty Sullivan Court? I was planning to drop in, and then, well, you drove by and here we are.” Earl took off his hat and patted down his hair in a nervous gesture. She’d forgotten how much grease he used.
“It’d be lovely to have you for dinner, Earl. Shall we say around six? I can’t imagine what could be new about Harold’s death. It’s been over a year now. Mercy, time does fly, but I miss him so much it seems like yesterday. I’ll make a meatloaf. It’ll be good to talk with someone from home. See you at six.” Monique gave a flirty little wave and eased on out. She had some fancy stepping to do before six. And some defrosting.
***
The smell of home cooking greeted Earl when Donna opened the door of the courtyard apartment. It was a small place, sparsely-furnished, but that seemed reasonable for a new widow readjusting to life on her own. He’d always been attracted to Donna, but he thought it was way too early to even suggest a date. Anyone could tell she was still broken up over Harold. She gestured him to a seat at the table and she kept dabbing her eyes with a hankie. Still weeping. Poor woman.
“The meatloaf’s in the oven, but I thought we could have some coffee first, while you tell me the news about Harold. I can’t believe it can amount to much. Some unpaid bills, maybe?” Donna handed him a mug that proclaimed the drinker to be the “World’s Greatest Boss.” Lawn sale, he figured. Hard to start fresh. Poor woman.
“Well, Donna, mistakes happen in this world, and this here one I’m about to relate is a beaut.
I expect you got Harold’s urn someplace safe in your bedroom, and that’s as it should be, but the
ashes in that urn aren’t Harold’s. Seems the mortuary made a mistake and got their bodies switched around. Harold ended up as a John Doe so they took him in for an autopsy.”
“Autopsy?” Donna clutched at her throat. “But he choked to death. I was there. I’ll never forget it. I saw it.” The slightest sheen of sweat dampened the back of her neck. This can’t be good. Not good at all.
“Well, that’s the peculiar thing. They didn’t know who it was so of course they did an autopsy to determine cause of death. And they determined it was poison. Not really chocking after all. Something in the report about an acid called Oxalic. It’s used to removed rust, polish up chrome, things like that. How in hell could Harold have poisoned himself with that? Was he working on something in the shed, Donna?”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing, but you knew Harold, always tinkering with this and that. Oh, my, this is dreadful, brings it all back.” Donna’s mind was racing. Who knew what? And how? “How did they figure this man they autopsied was Harold?”
“Oh, they still haven’t. I was just sifting through some old reports on my desk and happened to see this one and there was a photo and I just about jumped out of my drawers. It was Harold, all right. I saw it only yesterday, but I wanted to tell you first. Ease you into the fact that those ashes are someone else’s. I figured I could go with you tomorrow to the coroner’s for a proper ID and you could claim the body.”
“Earl, that’s the sweetest, most thoughtful thing. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d heard this from anyone else. Dear, poor, Harold. So no one else still knows that this body is him?” Donna closed her eyes at the shock of it all. Time to think. Think.
“Nope. Didn’t think it was proper, like I said.” Poor woman. What a shock.
“Well, we’ll have us some visiting to do tomorrow, won’t we. But right now, I think that meatloaf’s done. Let me get you a plate.” She seemed to stumble ever so slightly as she got up, grabbing for the back of the chair for support.
“Donna, I think you’re pretty much done in after hearing this news. I’ll forgo the meatloaf tonight, but is that pie I smell? I could use a piece of that to finish up this coffee.” Poor woman.
“I’ve got to admit, Earl, that it’s a rhubarb pie I’ve had in the freezer for a while now, and I just baked it off this evening. Pretty sure it’ll taste all right though. I’ll bring it on over. Let me refresh that coffee, too.” Donna bent over the oven and despite the circumstances, Earl couldn’t help noticing that the poor woman did have one fine butt. Maybe he wouldn’t be so quick to leave after all. That pie smelled really tempting.
“You certainly have a way with the piecrust, Donna. A good lard crust is hard to find.” Earl smacked his lips and some rhubarb juice dribbled down his chin. “Think I’ll help myself to another piece, if I may.”
“You say the sweetest things, Earl. Please eat hearty. There’s more than enough. I do love to see a man enjoy his food.”
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***

Mara Buck writes, paints, and rants in a self-constructed hideaway in the Maine woods. She hopes to leave someday. Winner of The Raven Prize, Scottish Arts Club Short Story Prize, three Moon Prizes, F. Scott Fitzgerald Prize, Binnacle International Prize, short-listed for the Alpine Fellowship. with works in numerous literary magazines and print anthologies. The ubiquitous novel lurks.
Wow! Well written and a riveting read. Love it.
Hi, Connie. Thanks for reading. So glad you enjoyed this little tale. Choose your pie wisely.