No common old weedkiller for Shannon. I needed some advice.
I reached for the phone. “Jake! It's been a little while since we talked.”
“Not long enough,” he replied.
I asked him how he was and he told me, at length.
Finally, he paused for breath. “I'm so glad everything's going well for you.”
“My wife's left me for my father, my son's married four Mormon women, and the pet python's eaten the cat. And you think things are going well?”
“Perhaps they could be better,” I conceded. “Anyway, Jake, what can I buy over the counter which will poison someone fatally?”
Jake explained that poison wasn’t available over the counter these days, and asked snidely if I’d been reading Victorian potboilers again.
“Better than that bunny boiler you’re married to,” I retorted, remembering too late what he had just told me about his wife leaving him.
Pity about the poison, I thought, as I imagined Shannon clutching her throat, her expression one of utter astonishment, as her body locked into a toxic paralysis. Or would she expire in an undignified frenzy of agitated limbs, revealing her famous green underwear?
Oh, well. I still had one more murder method to investigate. And I had resumed contact with an old friend, I thought, as I hung up the phone on Jake’s rantings.
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