“That chocolate’s going to kill you some day.”
I still hear Betty’s words every time I reach for some. I’m not worried. I’m much healthier than my nag of a boss ever was.
They do say chocolate can be good for the heart. Maybe she should have enjoyed more while she still could.
Betty was right. Chocolate can kill. It must have shocked her in those final moments to realize she would become its victim — or of the rat poison it contained.
She should have kept her hands off my stash, and finally given me that raise.
“I need your help with a school project,” said Sarah.
“Oh?” asked Ruth.
“I’m working on our family tree. Mom took me to the cemetery where your parents are buried so I could research dates.”
“I see,” Ruth muttered, hunching over Sarah’s binder of notes.
“I saw a grave for a little boy, only a few months old. His grave was next to your parents, and he had the same last name. Can you tell me anything about him?”
“Some things are best forgotten,” she said, slamming the binder shut and excusing herself from the table.
“What’s this?” Maggie asked. “I wanted the blue bag. Why can’t you ever follow the grocery list?”
“I’ll go back,” said Rick.
“Forget it. I’ll go.” She stormed out, returning thirty minutes later.
“I made dinner,” said Rick. They ate his new recipe, chicken satay.
Ten minutes later Maggie grabbed her throat, struggling to breath. The whites of her eyes turned red, her skin pale. She stopped breathing. Rick cleaned up dinner before calling 911.
“Did she eat anything recently?” asked the medic.
“She just came home. Then she couldn’t breathe. Maybe she ate out.”