Page 6 of A Dark and Stormy Night

“Yes. I should have done more, but the teachers said I was emotionally immature.”

“Imagine that.” Kateri patted Cornelia's shoulder.

Cornelia didn’t know if Kateri was being comforting or patronizing. In fact, she didn’t know what she thought about Kateri. Kateri was tall, but no taller than Cornelia, and well-built, but not more than Cornelia. Yet unlike Cornelia, Kateri moved well. She wore her uniform with authority. She carried her Native American ancestry with pride, looking a little like Disney’s Pocahontas, but without the swirling leaves and the wild swishy hair. Kateri's hair was black, gleaming black, but she wore it cut shoulder-length and, when she was in uniform, pinned up against her head.

Kateri was more than pretty. She was beautiful. She was stately. She was dignified. People liked her. Kateri was everything Cornelia was not.

Many times, as Cornelia was growing up, Cornelia's mother had said that Cornelia could be pretty if she tried.

That didn’t make sense to Cornelia. Girls — all human beings — were either appealing, or they weren’t. Sexual appeal was nothing more than a few millimeters of bone and muscle in one place or the other, and while it seemed allure was unfairly distributed among the population, Cornelia didn’t see how trying was going to help her achieve that state.

But her mother had Cornelia taking ballet to help her with her regrettable clumsiness. The ballet teacher had been in despair, and once Mama had disappeared, Miss Stimpson avoided Cornelia as if her awkwardness was a communicable disease.

Cornelia still hurt herself walking down the stairs or burned herself when cooking, which was why Mason prepared their dinners. Yet, in the end, grace and prettiness had made no difference; she had a good job digging around in the bowels of the government computers, she had the handsomest husband in Virtue Falls, a man who treated her kindly and with awe, and no one in town spoke to her if they could avoid it. Yet she listened to them whether they wished it or not.

It was a good life.

Cornelia changed channels again.

She’s not happy. Killing her would be a kindness.

Oh, no. Someone had to put their pet down. Cornelia couldn’t stand when someone had to put their pet down. She suffered in tandem. She liked dogs and cats, really liked them, but Mason was allergic so she couldn’t have one.

She’s not unhappy. She’s just … different.

That’s for sure. Dear, your loyalty does you credit, but she can’t remember anything. She has a lot of things wrong with her. Really. You just need to think of this as a kindness.

I can’t. I just can’t.

Think of the money we’ll inherit. The life insurance alone is sizeable.

Cornelia sat back in her chair.

This wasn't a pet. Someone was going to kill his — or her — mother. And that someone’s wife — or husband — was urging the deed be done.

It’s not about the money!

I know. I know. You’re right. In the end, it’s about us. Being free to do what we want. At last! Don’t you want that?

I do. I just…

We’ve got to stop talking about it, and just do it.

But how?

I’ve been looking up poisons. There are some good ones, organic poisons from mushrooms.

This was serious. Somebody’s mate really wanted the mother-in-law gone.

You’re way ahead of me on this.

In all her years of eavesdropping on e-emails and texts, Cornelia had never come across a murder plot. She wasn’t equipped to deal with this kind of reality. What should she do?

She looked around, seeking help.

She didn't find help. She found guilt.

Mrs. Branyon was sitting with her daughter, Frances, complaining about the lousy job Frances’s brother had done fixing her sink.

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