BUSINESS AND PLEASURE By: Jamie Blair
Wednesday, March 4th, 2009Mrs. Steinblat walked around her garden. The heat wave of forty-five degree weather in February had melted most of the snow. It wouldn’t be long before the crocus popped their shoots out of the ground. She scuffed her foot along the leg of her dead husband lying on the ground, icicles, fallen from the roof, jabbed into the ground all around him. In his chest gaped a fresh gash.
Mrs. Steinblat dug her phone from her pocket.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“It’s my husband,” she cried, “he’s been killed!”
“Do you know who killed him?”
“I think it was an icicle.” Her steady hand jerked one of the jagged pieces of ice from the ground. “They’re lying all around him and he has a big hole in his chest.”
“The police are on the way.”
“I hear them now.” Mrs. Steinblat ran into the front yard. “Yes, here they come. I can see them.”
“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”
“Okay.”
She shut her phone and tucked it back into her pocket. The police cruiser pulled in the driveway and parked. She went over as two officers got out and an ambulance pulled up behind them.
“Where’s your husband ma’am?” one of the officers asked.
“Around back.” She sniffed and made a choking sound like a sob. She covered her face as they approached the frozen man on the ground.
“When did you find him?”
“Just a few moments ago when I called 911.”
“Had he been out here doing something?”
“I don’t know. We are… I mean, we were separated. I haven’t talked to him for about a week.”
The officers glanced at each other. “We’ll just need you to come down to the station where we can talk about how you found him.”
“There’s not much to tell,” she said, exasperated. “I came out here to walk around the house since it was such a nice day and there he was, dead.”
“Alright, we’ll just need to clear the scene, you know, incase there was any foul play involved. We don’t want to corrupt any evidence.”
“Foul play?” she gasped. “Who would want to hurt him? He’s the best mortician in the county. People love him.”
“It’s just procedure ma’am.”
She stood against the house as they walked around and took some notes. They documented the direction the icicle would have dropped from the roof and how his shirt was wet as if ice had melted on his chest. They noted the footprints in the snow and mud, only Mr. and Mrs. Steinblat’s. Finally they taped off the area until the detective could arrive.
“If you don’t mind,” Mrs. Steinblat said, “I would like to go back inside.”
They excused her and she went in the house. She threw her mittens into the dryer and ran a hot bath, warming her frozen fingers. When she got out and dressed, she called the, now, best mortician in the county.
“Mr. Steinblat’s dead,” she said. “I’ll come by this evening to settle the arrangements.” After a pause, she continued, “The cause of death is an icicle to the heart.” After another pause, “No, no regrets, his cold heart was dead long before today.”
The police and emergency crew finally left. Mrs. Steinblat put on her black suit, stiletto heels, flawless makeup, and dabbed on the expensive perfume that Mr. Steinblat had given her on her last birthday. She twisted her golden hair up off of her neck and grabbed a silk scarf.
She let herself in the back door of the mortuary. The stale smell in the lifeless room enveloped her. She heard the mortician working in the basement and descended the stairs.
He stood, silhouetted by the moonlight streaming in through the narrow block windows. He turned as she approached, needle and thread in hand, standing behind the casket. His slick black hair shone like oil, his dark eyes like bullets encircled by olive toned shadows.
He held back a smile, but she caught a gleam of light flash off of a sharp fang. A thrill of excitement ran through her. “It’s done,” she said.
“You honored your word Mrs. Steinblat.” A full smile crossed his pale face, making her week.
“You’ll honor yours, I presume,” she said, her voice breathless. She dropped her scarf and shed her suit jacket revealing only her nude torso.
He looked down at the corpse. “Goodbye Mr. Steinblat. An icicle makes the perfect murder weapon, doesn’t it? It disposes of itself.” He let out a deep laugh and slammed the casket shut.
Mrs. Steinblat wrapped herself around him and pulled him down on top of the casket. “Pay up,” she said.
He dug his teeth into her neck and she moaned in ecstasy.
—
© 2009 Jamie Blair
Aspiring YA Fantasy writer and telemarketing strategist. (Telemarketing - You have to be in hell to write about its horrors.) www.jamieblair.blogspot.com
