No one believed it was an accident. The two had been at each other’s throats for years. She had never approved of the marriage – of the engagement really – and he resented the way she hovered about the house questioning everything he did.
It had been a decision motivated by kindness to have her stay at his and his wife’s home. They had built a special unit on the back lawn with its own bathroom, kitchenette, and sitting room. It had television and internet availability. She had a cell phone. There was even a place for her to park her car. But no! She was ever coming into the main house to rearrange this and that.
When Melville pulled the trigger she had been dressed in a black cloak, with a black mask, a hooked nose with warts, and a witch’s hat. Melville had got a heck of a fright. He pointed his gun, said “Hands up!” like he’d seen in the movies, and when she didn’t react he shot her. Dead.
Now he’s in prison. No bail. No trial as yet. Of course, it doesn’t help that he belongs to the wrong political party.
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