- MELANIE'S MEAL
By Pat Christensen
What would you do if you knew a murder was about to be committed?
Granted, all I did was bump into Melanie Threep in the grocery
store. And we discussed mushrooms, not murder. But I knew from
that meeting that Melanie Threep was about to murder her husband.
So what do you do when you know a murder is about to be committed?
More importantly, what do you do when you are wholeheartedly
in favor of the murder being committed?
It's not that I approve of murder. I don't. Murder is wrong.
Murder is illegal. Human life is sacred. And Roger Threep is
a detestable little weasel who's never brought anything but aggravation,
indigestion and misery to anyone in his entire life. In fact,
he thrives on bringing pain and suffering to everyone he meets.
He's someone who not only needs to be killed, he practically
sits up and begs.
Even so, it's a bit of a moral dilemma, isn't it? Let me explain.
I know Melanie Threep casually. We'd worked the last church bake
sale together. Melanie loves to cook and bake. And she's good
at it. Roger, her husband, not only has the personality of a
pig but, thanks to Melanie's singular expertise, he has the shape
to match. He likes to tell people that he only married Melanie
because she could cook. Problem is, it's entirely believable.
Melanie Threep is not hideous, or deformed or demented. She's
a tad plain, a bit unimaginative, perhaps, but otherwise, quite
acceptable. But what Melanie Threep is, above all else, is a
dishrag. A doormat. The kind of woman who would seek out any
Roger Threep in her immediate vicinity and latch on for dear
life. Melanie seems to live to be walked on. It's sometimes hard
to watch.
At the bake sale in question, Roger Threep took pains to show
up midway through the first hour. He paced the room, then circled
our table like the vulture he is, commenting on everything he
saw, in grotesque detail. The raisin cookies looked slug-infested.
The chocolate-almond clusters looked like they'd come off the
business end of a pooper-scooper. And his "take" on
Mrs. Ferris' oatmeal cookies even turned my cast-iron stomach.
Did I mention that Mrs. Ferris is the minister's wife?
Then he started in on his own wife's offerings and by the time
he was done, he'd almost cleared the room. And the faces headed
out the door weren't a healthy color at all.
Melanie not only apologized for him, she bought up most of what
was left on our table, including the oatmeal cookies. That's
Melanie. I never had the nerve to ask her if she took it all
home and stuffed it down his gullet or up his posterior. I suspect
she donated the lot to a local hospice she also volunteers at.
That's also classic Melanie. She lives to serve. The needier
the better.
I suspect that's the attraction of darling Roger. To say he's
something of a hypochondriac would be doing grave injustice to
the word. Roger Threep is a walking abnormal physiology text.
He has weak kidneys and a spastic colon. He suffers from asthma
and allergies too numerous to count. Not only is he allergic
to pollen, peanuts and pollution, he can't drink milk or walk
on grass. He wears gloves to read a newspaper. He can't even
handle paper money, or so he claims, which is why Melanie does
all of the shopping. Also the cooking, cleaning, bill-paying
and garbage disposal. She washes his car, irons his underwear
and, in all likelihood, flushes his toilet.
I'm not sure what Roger does all day at work. He's some kind
of financial analyst, I believe. Strange occupation for a man
unable to hold a dollar bill in his bare hand. But the worst
of it is that Roger Threep is due to retire. In three weeks.
You can count the days on the beads of sweat that break out on
Melanie Threep's brow whenever the dire event comes up in conversation.
Not that she says anything, but I'd break out in more than sweat
at the thought of spending all day, every day, for the rest of
my life, cheek-to-jowl with an unemployed and underfoot Roger
Threep.
Which, if I'm any judge of character, is why she's going to murder
him. Tonight, I think.
You see, as I said, I bumped into her in the store today. We
were in what I call the "fancy" aisle. That's where
they keep the gourmet goodies, like Swiss chocolate and Russian
caviar, pickled eggs and exotic oils. Which is, in fact, where
we met, she and I. We were picking up peanut oil and olive oil
respectively and stopped to chat, gossip and exchange recipes.
All I was making was spaghetti. Melanie was making the same,
only hers was some bizarre concoction involving Portabello mushrooms,
three varieties of pepper, and some kind of fancy rigatoni I
don't even want to think about. Squid ink pasta of some kind.
Ick. I can handle green noodles, but black?
I had to ask her about the mushrooms and that squid ink pasta,
given good old Roger's allergies. But she assured me that he'd
eaten both the pasta and the mushrooms many times before with
no ill effects. I shuddered at the thought of dear, delicate
Roger Threep sucking down that black, goopy stuff. But the way
Melanie cooks, she could make it with what really comes off the
business end of a pooper scooper and, if you knew her cooking
at all, you'd suck it down too. Whatever else her flaws, Melanie
has a genuine way with food. She can probably make those nasty-looking
Portabello mushrooms taste better than they look, too.
It wasn't until I had paid for my food and was in the car on
the way home that the oddity of Melanie's meal struck me. And
the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that Melanie
Threep plans to murder her husband tonight. In cold blood and
hot pesto sauce. The question is, what do I do about it?
I could call the police and tell them. They might be able to
intervene. If they believed me, that is, based on nothing but
the evidence of her shopping cart. They'd probably have to wait
and dissect the ingredients of the prepared meal to prove that
Melanie was trying to kill her husband. I know they have special
labs that do that kind of thing. But the timing is tricky; after
it's made, but before it's consumed.
Still, in any case, Melanie could claim it was just a silly error.
That she'd, somehow forgotten about rollicking Roger's allergy.
Or perhaps that she thought that the liquid form was less lethal.
But an allergy to peanuts tends to be severe in most cases. Fatal
usually. Cooking her pasta in pure peanut oil would probably
do him in and in fairly short order. Making Melanie a short order
cook? What am I thinking?
What I really think, when I consider the whole situation, is
that Melanie Threep could claim self defense. And get away with
it, too, if the judge had ever come into contact with Roger Threep
while alive.
But if he hadn't? And if Melanie were actually brought before
a judge and tried for the premeditated murder of the most tiresome
wart who ever drew breath? She'd be convicted, of course. And
then either executed or forced to spend the rest of her life
in jail. And all because I turned her in. Somehow, it would be
like kicking a puppy. So maybe I shouldn't interfere. Only, it's
still murder, isn't it? And murder is wrong. Isn't it?
You see my problem? So, tell me, what would you do?