The Murder Plot
You've all seen the movie. It doesn't even matter which one, since there are so many out there with a murder plot. You can picture it,right?
The family house/mansion/cabin. The living room, after the reception. The weeping widow, dressed somberly in black. Perhaps a few lingering guests, also in black. Enter the detective, in a business suit. Grey, if he's thoughtful. Rumpled, if he's Columbo.
The policeman has a notebook, and writes in it each time the widow speaks. Everyone is sympathetic.
Two hours of movie go by, and the ending matches the beginning - The family house/mansion/cabin. The living room, after the investigation. The weeping widow, still dressed somberly in black. Perhaps a few lingering boyfriends, also in black. Enter the detective, in a business suit. Grey, if he's thoughtful. Rumpled, if he's Columbo.
The policeman has a notebook, but this time he reads from it. With each word, the widow's tears flow faster, her eyes widen, and with the last word, she crumples to the ouch/divan/loveseat.
The policeman pulls out handcuffs, if he's a hands-on kind of guy. He motions to the other policeman in the shadows, if he isn't.
It was the perfect crime, until that grey suit showed up. The widow insured her husband for several million dollars, and then hired someone to knock the old boy off. Perfect.
Until she got caught.
The papers laying next to me on the little table cry out. "Murder," they call. "Conspirator," they whisper. For years, I thought only people who were rich or scheming needed life insurance. Before putting all our debt in an Excel spreadsheet, I thought I'd never be one of those folk.
Today, I know if anything happened to Harry, I'd be in lots of trouble. I'd lose the house, for one thing. My annual salary is decent, but it wouldn't be enough to keep up the payments on alaHouse. And now that we've done our remodeling, and the road outside is almost done, I really want to stay here.
Enter the paperwork.
I've gotten the process started for insuring my husband, for enough to pay off our debts and give me some extra money for any expenses. I feel like the woman dressed in black in those movies, plotting that perfect crime.
"Murder," the papers cry. "Conspirator," they whisper. Excuse me for a moment while I cover them with something. There.
For the record, I'd much rather the 20-year term on this policy ran out without being used.
Copyright 2014 Michelle Hakala