Malcolm's Murder Plot

While on a motor trip, Malcolm comes up with what he thinks is a foolproof way to kill his wife.

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He had wanted to kill his wife for a long time, but only recently had Malcolm figured out the best way to do it. Poison? No, too detectable. Ditto for guns, knives, baseball bats, or a tumble down the basement stairs. In the movies the cops always figured these things out. No, Malcolm needed another method, one that could not be detected, a method unique and unprecedented, one that no one—in real life or in fiction—had ever thought of before.

Malcolm had his first glimmer of an idea on a road trip. He was exceeding the speed limit on the Pennsylvania Turnpike and suddenly smashed his foot on the brake when he saw a slow-moving car ahead. “Malcolm! You will be the death of me!” his wife said. “I can feel my heart racing when you do that.”

“Sorry, dear,” Malcolm grunted. He put his foot on the gas pedal as he passed the poky little car, smiling as he caught the driver’s eye. “Should have given her the finger,” Malcolm thought.

Up ahead another poky driver was moseying along in the passing lane. “For crying out loud,” Malcolm said out loud, adding a whine to his cry. “What’s with these people?” He quickly passed the poky car on the right, moving quickly back into the passing lane, forcing Mr. Poky to put on his brakes.

“Yikes,” yelled Malcolm’s wife. “You will be the death of me, Malcolm! My heart is pounding!”

“So sorry, dear. Why don’t you try to sleep for a while?”

“Promise you won’t do anything bizarre. Don’t suddenly put your foot on the brake, please. And don’t go over the speed limit. Maybe I will try to get some sleep.”

“Of course, dear. No problem.” Malcolm smiled. His wife closed her eyes and adjusted the small ergonomically correct pillow she always had with her.

Now free of obstinate drivers, Malcolm sailed along at 75 mph, enjoying freedom and power, imagining a life without his dear wife Dolly.

Dolly. What sort of a name was that for an old, cranky woman who made his life miserable? Nag, nag. Loud. Ugly. Self-centered. That was Dolly. It was time to get rid of her.

With force he suddenly stabbed the brake with his foot.

“Ay yai yai! What’s wrong with you? What are you doing?” Dolly was awake.

“Nothing, dear. A squirrel ran across the road.”

“A squirrel? On the turnpike? You gotta be kidding. Honest to God, Malcolm, you’ll be the death of me! I want to sleep, and I can’t sleep if you keep braking the car like that. My heart is pounding.”

“It won’t happen again, dear.” Malcolm gave her a reassuring smile.

Malcolm started to think hard. “If she really has a weak heart, and if I keep driving fast and braking like mad, maybe she could die. I wonder. Is that really possible? Has anyone really died of a heart attack brought on by her husband’s driving? It could be that it’s happened lots of times, but the police couldn’t figure it out. I’ve struck gold. That’s the way to get rid of her.”

He wondered how long it would take to wear down Dolly’s heart. They still had a couple of hundred miles to go before they reached their destination in the Poconos. He might as well just start driving like a madman. In fact, he was beginning to feel like a madman.

“O my God! Malcolm, what are you doing?”

“Just trying to get to the Poconos before Christmas!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s July. You don’t need to drive that fast.”

“Yes, I do. I need to rev up this car and get it to 90 miles an hour. Then I need to jam my foot on the brake. Then I need to do it again—push like crazy on the gas pedal and then brake real hard.” He laughed.

“Malcolm, what do you want to do that for? That’s crazy. It’ll hurt the car. We might hear a police siren. And my heart is still pounding. You keep that up, it will be the death of me. My heart can’t take it.”

“Really, darling? Oh, I think your heart is very strong. Stronger than mine, I’ll bet. Let’s check it out.”

And Malcolm began changing lanes, coming within inches of cars ahead of him, weaving in and out while Dolly screamed at him. He checked the rear-view mirror for signs of the cops, but they all seemed to be on vacation. He got the car up to 85 mph and then jabbed his foot into the brake pedal, then back up to 80 and then a sudden braking, on and on, as Dolly screamed.

Now sobbing, Dolly yelled, “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Yes.”

She screamed again as they rounded a bend. Two trucks suddenly loomed into view, one in each lane. Malcolm braked like mad, but his little car still hit the rear of the Acme Van Lines semi. The car spun out of control and headed for the hill on the side of the turnpike. It crashed into a lovely oak tree, its leaves green and profuse.

Malcolm was dead. We will never know if it is possible to kill someone with a brake pedal. Dolly survived. She was wearing a seatbelt.

By Anita G. Gorman

From: United States

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