A presentation of:
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New Marlborough Village Association
and the
New Marlborough Cultural Council
All part of the village of New Marlborough in Berkshire County , Massachusetts

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	Slice ‘em & Dice ‘em or: I Think I Need to Lie Down Now

In Golden Fields

By Uli Nagel

A gentle breeze rustled the spiky leaves of ripening corn. Henry Brown wiped the sweat off his forehead extending the other hand towards the brunette from the EPA. “I am glad”, he said, too exhausted to smile. “Let me know when the legislation is drafted, I’ll have my team go over it.”

“Thank you,” Laila, the young woman, replied, “and be assured Doctor, we have the vice-president’s support - for recalling the licenses and for ending the subsidies. “ Brown nodded and turned away, bodyguard in tow. The woman too had armed protection. Both had received threats to their health and family, as well as their career, anonymous ones and those from expensive lawyers in Chicago. Before entering the lab, Henry watched Laila’s black sedan dissolve in the shimmer of heat above Interstate 155.

Henry too was being watched. His adversaries were annoyed, maybe worried, but very determined. This was their century, their time. Ever since the Nixon years, humanity on the quest for cheaper food had handed over the world to them, one field at a time. Now not just people but cows, chicken and lately even fish, farmed in places from Thailand to Ireland, had become unsuspecting customers whether they liked it or not. Bio-fuels and bio-plastics followed - it was the run of a lifetime and no one, no one, was going to ruin the take-over. This planet would belong to them.

Laila was stroking her sleeping daughter’s hair, the soft blond streaks reminding her of corn tassels, browning on endless acres of fields she had passed through today. She’d better stop thinking about the stuff, she thought, pulling herself away from the child.

It was late and there had been no time for dinner – Laila could not stomach roadside food. She opened the fridge and pulled out some greens. A salad would do. There was some Edamame in the freezer, already shelled and for color she could add some red pepper and - oh well – corn. Organic. She never bought the regular kind. It was all genetically modified by now - the warnings of worried scientists about this practice had compelled her years ago to study bio-chemistry. Now, she thought, she was finally close to reigning it in.

The salad looked delicious. She pulled her legs up on the couch and switched on the TV.

Pernicia, Laila’s bodyguard, had protected Laila ever since her daughter was born. The moment she opened the door this morning, she knew something was wrong: the television was running and the toddler was wailing in her room. Her heart beating in her throat Pernicia hurried into the living room. Laila was stretched out on the couch, her body twisted, her tongue blue and extended sideways out of her mouth.

A few hours later, a burly forensic doctor shrugged his shoulders. “She choked”, he told the inspector, “we’ll have to go in to see why.”

“She was working on repealing licenses for genetically modified corn and received several threats”, the inspector said, then sneezed again.

“Cheers”, the forensic expert said. “No foul play that I can see. But I’ll be in touch.”

Pernicia was too distraught to think. As much as she told herself that Laila’s death was not her fault, she could not shake off the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Her gut sense had never failed her, and this time it was very strong. She turned on the news.

‘The outbreak might have originated in frozen corn tortillas, traced back to three restaurants in downtown Chicago”, the anchor just said. “Sixteen people are critically ill, among them five lawyers of one of Chicago’s largest patent law firms. Another lawyer has died. Bob, is this outbreak contained or is there still reason to be scared?”

Pernicia shook her head in disbelief. She knew the law-firm, knew of the law-suits against the EPA aimed at stopping Laila’s work. That these lawyers had apparently been poisoned by corn was too much to believe.

“Seems like some corn got her,” the forensic doctor told the inspector not long after they had spoken at the morgue.

“I guess that’s it?”

The inspector did not answer. Corn? The first official to seriously challenge the industry suffocates from its very product? What a cynical coincidence. Yet, what else could it be?

When Henry Brown heard of Laila’s death he stormed out of the house, wanting to scream. It had taken decades to find an open ear in the government and now this. He ran into the field of stalks as though, in the sea of green, he could wash off his despair. The rows stretched for miles and he ran until his chest hurt. Then he stood, looking up at the chards of blue high above what had become the love and the curse of his life.

They had been waiting for him. The man could not be permitted to continue his work. It was a matter of principle, of carrying through what humans had started and what had become their task to complete. It was a matter of evolution.

The inspector found Henry later that day, having called for an interview nine times before finally driving out. He stood for a long time, staring at the corpse. Here too was no apparent sign of foul play – the man seemed to have stumbled and never gotten up again. He noticed the large patch of bent stalks around Henry’s body – a pattern that reminded him of a spider web. Henry must have had a heart- or asthma-attack, he told himself, trying to quench the sense of panic in his gut. By God, Henry and Laila. His cell phone rang.

“Pernicia here, Laila’s bodyguard - I assume you heard about the lawyers in Chicago?” When he said no she ran him through the story. He told her about Henry. There was silence. “Why them too?”, the inspector mumbled, too quiet to hear. “That doesn’t make sense.”

He did not understand. Nor did Pernicia. Nobody had any clue about corn – its intelligence, its plans, its destiny. Us humans were not ready yet. While we were squabbling about genetics, patents and organics, thinking we had it all under control, corn was on its own path. The lawyers, who had become too cocky and sure of themselves had been warned. And so had the EPA with its destructive attempts to stop the corn subsidies. Corn, confident that nothing would get in its way at least for a while, could be at ease, its botanical soul at rest.

And humans? Only decades later, when theories of morphogenetic fields and plant intelligence finally made it into the mainstream of scientific thinking, did we realize that we were the ones who had been manipulated by our most successful crop. By then there was hardly an area of life that was not dependent on corn: food, plastics, computer parts, medical implants, the list was as endless as the cornfields, covering what used to be the Amazon basin, the Mongolian steppes, the Australian desert and the African savanna. Corn did indeed rule the planet, as it had our minds.

 

THE SMELL OF THE BODY

Lisken Van Pelt Dus

I know what you're expecting: the body's rank smell mixed with sodden leaves, along an abandoned logging road. Or mixed with garbage, in a rusty dumpster against a brick alley wall. But you're wrong. This body came up smelling like roses.

I mean it. Forget pinching your nose and breathing through your mouth - though she'd been dead for several days, the body of Amanda Pirochaud smelled sweet, invited you to lean in and inhale deeply. And so I did.

I'd been called right away. The police don't like to admit it, but they do reluctantly seek help from what some consider fringe elements - psychics, animal whisperers, and, well, me. What's my gift? A particularly finely honed sense of smell, and a background in chemistry that allows me to give most odors names.

It was immediately obvious that Amanda Pirochaud was simply saturated with rose water. The smell of phenethyl alcohol overwhelmed even the omnipresent smells of the ocean.

Ms. Pirochaud's body was seated at a filigreed metal bistro table on her patio, overlooking her lawn and the sea beyond. She was remarkably upright, so that she appeared to be merely napping, legs decorously crossed at the ankles and sunhat shading her fair skin and delicate features. Laid out on the table was the most astonishing array of sweets and pastries.

Critters had obviously discovered the feast before us, as barely a crumb remained on some plates, but among the delicacies that survived were platters of Turkish Delight and gulab jamuns, bowls of rice pudding, and dishes of marzipan shaped not only into little fruits, but also into pigs, roosters - and roses. One plate was on the ground, a madeleine hidden under its rim.

A cursory sniff at each of the foods determined that they were all loaded with rose water.

The detectives found that pretty useless and wasted no time in ordering me off the premises. Trouble is, I've never been much good with orders. While the police stayed busy taking pictures and scooping dishes into plastic bags, I detoured into the kitchen.

Sure enough, on the top shelf of the fridge stood a huge, nearly empty bottle of rose water. Otherwise, the fridge's contents seemed unexceptional, my sensitive nose only recoiling at the soured milk and rancid cottage cheese, and at a lingering aroma of seafood, though whatever had produced it was now gone. My brain did its usual pinpointing - clams. I closed the heavy stainless steel door and turned to scout some more, trying to recapture the smell of roses in my nostrils.

There wasn't much else to see, though. The kitchen was immaculate: dishwasher and draining board empty, counters wiped clean. I slipped out the unlocked side door, leaving the police to their work.

You've already gathered I'm nosy…. Groan, if you like, but I'm not punning. For me, figurative is literal - I follow my nose. So, whether I'm playing any continuing role in an investigation or not, I can't help pursuing each case I've been called in on. I snoop.

In the Case of Amanda Antoinette Pirochaud, my snooping revealed the following: she lived alone; was a breast cancer survivor; doted on her Jack Russell terrier who was now nowhere to be found; read constantly (mostly novels); had lived when she was younger in Spain, Turkey, India, and Morocco; had never been married, though she had plenty of male visitors and was rumored to have had a “serious relationship” in her European days; and, finally, appeared never to have offended a single person. Her cleaning lady, her neighbor, her banker - all sang her praises. She was fastidious, gracious, responsible.

The police announced that she had died of respiratory failure, probably brought on by a spinal cord stroke. No foul play was suspected.

That “probably” bothered me.

I snooped some more.

Amanda Pirochaud had no arteriosclerosis whatsoever. Her cholesterol numbers were outstanding, and her physician had declared her “in perfect health” just three weeks before.

Only one neighbor's house had a view of Ms. Pirochaud's, and I got lucky. The widow Mrs. Adamson was charmed enough by my ability to name her perfume that she opened up more than she had with the police investigator who'd come around. Had she been home the day Ms. Pirochaud had died? Why, yes! She'd gone out the day before, spending some time wandering on the rocks down at the shore - why, she and her husband used to go there together every morning when he was alive - but she was home that day. Had she seen anyone entering or leaving Ms. Pirochaud's property? Well, now that she thought about it, why, yes, she had.

Gradually, details emerged. While there were several men who visited occasionally, there was one particularly regular guest - who often didn't leave until morning. Ms. Pirochaud had pulled Mrs. Adamson aside one day about a year ago, and had asked her, gazing intently into her eyes, please to be discreet, wouldn't she please?

Until now, Mrs. Adamson assured me, she had been. And I believed her. Lies emit a very particular smell, and there wasn't a hint of it.

So, did he visit that day? Why, yes, indeed he did. In fact, he'd arrived the day before. And that afternoon, she'd seen him walking the dog out towards the ocean.

And had she seen him leave? Why, no, she didn't believe she had.

So that was a puzzle.

I kept snooping, read the autopsy.

Apparently I hadn't exaggerated the volume of rose water in Ms. Pirochaud's system. Her urine showed a slew of alkanes and monoterpenoids: not only phenethyl alcohol, but citronellol, geraniol, docasone, heptadecane. And guanidine, a normal by-product of protein metabolism.

Unbidden, a sense-memory of the smell of shellfish….

The clams….

Saxitoxin is a guanidine!

Paralytic shellfish poisoning….

Thence, respiratory failure….

When my nose led me to the bodies of the Jack Russell and of Ms. Pirochaud's frequent visitor, Mr. Martin Delgado, not far from each other in a hidden declivity on the rocky shore, and both also dead of respiratory failure - well, the police kind of had to listen to me. Prints on the side doorknob and on the rose water bottle matched Mrs. Adamson's; they analyzed the rose water, and it was loaded with saxitoxin.

Confronted, Mrs. Adamson confessed. She so missed her dead husband. The jealousy, she said, why, it just ate her up, why, yes, it did. And when Ms. Pirochaud had boasted about Mr. Delgado's plans to put on a rose-water feast for her sixtieth birthday, in remembrance of their youthful travels, well, Mrs. Adamson had snapped. Her husband had taught her all about shellfish, and this year had been a doozy for red tide. They'd shut down the official beds, but, well, that didn't stop her from harvesting, now did it, and it had been easy enough to slip in and pour the juice into the rose water. Why, yes, she deserved everything she had coming, yes, she knew she did. But she didn't regret a thing.

I know about jealousy, I thought: the police hate it when I'm right.

And satisfaction too: boy, did the investigator who'd questioned the neighbors catch it. I can smell his chagrin from here.

 

Salad Greens

By David A. Smith

Doctor Cornelius Conrad stood beside the lifeless body of Harold Fortmiller, who lay on the stainless steel examination table in County Hospital’s outdated yet sufficient morgue. Having just finished the dead man’s postmortem, Corny, as he had been called since the third grade at the Central School, was stumped.

Meanwhile, in New Marlborough, the newly widowed Mrs. Fortmiller sat at her dining room table, leafing through paperwork from a funeral home and a life insurance company. As she did so, the Widow Fortmiller slowly picked at the crust on a thin slice of pie accompanying her mid-morning coffee.

Two miles away, Police Chief Adsit Crosby sat at a desk in his subterranean Town Hall office, rubbing his temples. What was supposed to be a quiet month, filled mostly with fishing and ignoring all paperwork except the pension claim preceding his pending retirement, had instead been interrupted by Mr. Fortmiller’s untimely passing.

The Chief’s telephone rang. “Police Department,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Myron,” said the voice on the other end, and the chief immediately recognized the doctor’s habitual smoker’s cough. That, and Corny had called him “Myron,” since the third grade, for the sole reason that Miss Mahoney, their teacher at the Central School, would not allow him to call Adsit “Moron.”

Fortunately, unlike some hometown rivalries that linger for decades, this one had instead mellowed with time, aided by the fact that Adsit had endorsed Corny during Corny’s first campaign for County Coroner. Corny, for his part, had introduced Adsit to younger sister, Margaret, who became Mrs. Adsit Crosby. Or, maybe Corny introduced Adsit to Margaret, and then Adsit endorsed Corny. It’s hard to say, exactly. It was thirty-six-odd years ago.

“I just finished,” the doctor said from his end of the telephone line. “And?” Adsit asked. “Not sure,” the doctor started. Adsit could tell that Corny was lighting a cigarette. “No signs of trauma, and nothing readily obvious, like a heart problem or other medical condition.” The doctor exhaled. “Plus, he was in my office not three weeks ago for his annual physical, and I found him healthy as a horse.

Heart, lungs, liver, blood pressure, the whole bit, were all in good shape. Besides, he didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, didn’t do anything that would suddenly land an apparently healthy man on a coroner’s slab.” Adsit heard the doctor take a drag on his cigarette. He also heard ice cubes tumble into a glass. The doctor exhaled, coughed, and began again. “With the exception of stepping out from time to time with that blond cashier, you know, the one who works afternoons, sometimes Monday mornings, at Grocer’s Corner, the man lived a clean life.”

“You know, Corny,” the chief sighed. “You could make my day easier by sharing that sort of information earlier in the conversation.” “Sure,” the doctor replied, “And you could have made things easier for me by telling Miss Mahoney that I did not flush several important pages of her grade book down the boys’ bathroom toilet.” “But you did,” Adsit thought. Or, maybe not. It was hard to say, now. That was fifty-six-odd year ago.

“One more thing,” Corny continued. “Fortmiller’s gut was full of salad greens.” “Interesting,” Adsit allowed, “but the fact is, Corny, you’d find a bunch of them in me right now, too. I mean, Peg and I had chef’s salads for dinner the last couple of nights. It’s just been too hot of late for cooking.” Corny agreed. “Well, the bottom line is, Myron, we don’t have much to go on so far, though I have sent samples off to the lab Springfield for further toxicology. We should hear more in a couple of days. That’ll narrow things down.”

“Sounds good,” Adsit replied. “Meantime, I’ll visit the widow again.” Harold and Mrs. Fortmiller lived out on the road between Hartsville and New Marlborough. In New Marlborough, the road was called “New Marlborough- Hartsville Road.” In Hartsville, it was called “Hartsville-New Marlborough Road.” Adsit really didn’t care. He lived on, well, Adsit Crosby Road, so named not for him, although the chief did little to dissuade those who thought otherwise. The road was instead named for some uncles or grand uncles on his mother’s side, or maybe his father’s side. It’s hard to say. His mother told him that forty-six-odd years ago.

If the Widow Fortmiller were surprised to see Adsit Crosby, she showed no signs. Indeed, in the hours after her husband’s death, she had already flawlessly answered a litany of questions — where did she find Mr. Fortmiller? How did she find him? What was his condition earlier that night? She answered them all with flying colors, and now she greeted the chief again at her front door. They exchanged pleasantries. She offered lemonade. He took a seat on the porch. She brought a pitcher.

“Mrs. Fortmiller,” Adsit began, and he opened with a softball question. “Is there anything else you could share about your husband’s health that might help us determine what may have happened?” “With Arthur’s health?” she asked. “No. In fact, he just received a clean report from Dr. Conrad.” “So I heard,” the chief replied, and he tried a new line of inquiry. “How about his diet? Anything unusual?” “Not that I know of, except we had eaten a lot of salad lately,” the widow offered. “It’s just been too hot to cook. Arthur never complained, though. He liked salad, with lots of oil and vinegar. He said that they made even bitter lettuce taste good.”

The chief got to the point. “Mrs. Fortmiller, did you know that Mr. Fortmiller may have been friendly with another woman?” The Widow Fortmiller looked surprised — taken aback, actually. “Harold?” she asked. “With someone else? Why … no. Who said that?” “It’s just part of our investigation,” Adsit said, trying to be reassuring. “We’ve got to cover all possibilities, even remote ones.” “And where are you now with your investigation?” the widow asked, still shaken.

“Well, Doc’s still working on the autopsy,” Adsit replied. He stood. “We’ll know more in a few days. When we do, I’ll let you know. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Fortmiller.” “Well, thank you , Chief,” the widow replied. “And if you’re in no hurry, would you care for a piece of my rhubarb pie? It’s fresh-baked.”

Adsit thought for a moment. It was a tempting offer.

“No, thank you, ma’am” he said. “It wouldn’t be right — not when I’m charging you with your husband’s murder.” The widow’s half-empty glass of lemonade slipped from her hand and crashed onto the porch floor. Moments earlier, Adsit had recalled that it was his Uncle Jim who told him that rhubarb leaves were poisonous. That much, he was sure of — even though it was many, many years ago.

 

Death By Chocolate

by Christine Koneazny

 

“I like what you’ve done with the place, Ruth. It’s not as dark and cramped as it used to be.”

Ruth’s gaze snapped up from her wine glass to stare in surprise at her brother, Charles. “Well,” she sputtered, “I haven’t done much in the past five years.”

“No, but really, I mean I haven’t been here in so long, but are these curtains new?”

Ruth’s gaze flickered over the old, sunflower yellow curtains, “I don’t believe so. I haven’t replaced them since Mom’s death.”

“Oh, I see.” Charles was obviously scrutinizing the place by his constant questions and prodding.

Trying to regain her composure she leaned back slowly in her chair, “ How’s your place in the city looking?”

Charles paused to take a slow sip of his wine, giving it a slight swirl in the glass. Ruth knew the look on his face only too well, as he gauged the vintage and flavor. Setting his glass down he finally turned a pair of cool gray eyes on her, “Not bad. I’ve moved into a new apartment in The Village.”

“Wow, so business must be good then. Are you still doing the restaurant reviews?” Ruth pulled herself to her feet, pushing her long, black braid behind as she began to clear the dinner plates.

“Yes, I do believe your dinner might have passed a review.”

Ruth started, surprised. Was her brother actually teasing her? “Well, thank you, I’ll have to remember that when I start up my New York café. Are you planning on staying much longer in that business?”

“For now, I might be getting the opportunity to start my own food show though. So you can say I’m not doing too shabby.” No, Ruth could definitely tell that. Besides the silver watch flashing on his wrist he practically emanated ‘city looks’. Black turtleneck, black dress pants, and what looked to be a very expensive blazer. Her plain brown eyes made the briefest of flashes towards her own old jeans and knitted sweater.

“So how about you? Still into the whole herbal thing?”

Barely restraining her sigh Ruth pointed towards the millions of hanging herbs decorating her kitchen. “Yes, you could say that. But it’s a hard profession. More people are getting into natural medicines, but business hasn’t been tops. That’s why I wanted to talk to you…”

“Did I tell you I’m getting a book published? Possibly the fall, we’re still not sure.” Not even giving the slightest hint to show he’d purposefully cut her off, Charles started rattling on about different food origins and such in his book.

“Charles!” Ruth hesitated only slightly as he broke off his sentence with a huff pointed in her direction. Fixing her eyes directly on his she let out, in a single breath, “I need money from Mom’s trust fund! The one she left us. I’m not doing so well in keeping up with my bill payments. They‘ve threatened taking the house.”

Closing his eyes, he sighed, obviously annoyed. Then, as if speaking to a toddler, “Ruth, I can’t do that. Mom left that in my name first, and I’m afraid I need it more. It’s not easy to pay for an apartment in New York City! Especially one the size of mine! Mom must have foreseen that when she died five years ago. Supposing I find a partner soon?” His tone obviously indicated that he didn’t expect a response.

Ruth’s breath hissed out from behind clenched teeth. Never helping! Always so focused on himself! Turning, she stared out the window, knuckles white as she held onto the counter for support.

“But, I thought you just said you weren’t doing too shabby?” Her voice had a chill to it that startled even her.

“Ah, yes, well, you see, Ruth I have been but one can never be too sure in these times. I have to say that, in truth, I have used some of the trust money, in tight situations.” Casually reaching out and snapping off a piece of dried rosemary, he held it up and breathed in deep. Now, the counter was the only force holding Ruth steady.

“What?”

“Yes, now you do understand right Ruth? Why I simply don’t have the means to help you?”

“Perfectly. Excuse me a minute, I forgot something in the dessert.” Quickly escaping the room, she practically fled to her herb closest. She threw it open and began rummaging through it frantically before finally holding up the jar she’d found. Clear black letters in her flowing script announced Bittersweet Berries .

Grabbing the dessert out of the fridge she promptly mixed in the contents of the jar, a large amount of scarlet berries. After taking a couple plates out of the cabinet she set them and the dessert in front of her brother with a flourish.

“Oh, this looks good enough to die for! What is it?” Charles gazed into the layered mixture of chocolate cake, chocolate pudding, crushed heath bars, and cool whip mixed in with the berries.

“A little something of mine that I call Death By Chocolate. Have as much as you want, I forgot I need to make a quick call.” Before exiting she glanced back over her shoulder, watching in satisfaction as Charles heaped a large helping of the dessert onto his plate.

Taking her time she walked out to her neighbors dumpster, disposing of the Bittersweet berries’ jar. A smile crept across her face as she made her way back into her tiny cottage.

As she entered the kitchen she noticed the majority of the desert was gone. Still smiling she slowly eased into the chair across from her brother, picking up her wine glass at the same time. A thrill went through her as she observed Charles’s pale face and already the slight tremor in the fingers clutching his wineglass.

His voice was weak and he murmured, almost incoherently, “Ruth, I’m not feeling well. I think I need to lie down now.”

 

ACTING OUT

By Barry R. Shapiro

Agnes had ignored her suspicions for too long. Ultimately, all it took was one call to learn that, for months, John had not been working late. And Agnes knew exactly where he was. Off she rode on her bike to Hampshire Lane and down Madeline Adelman's long driveway where, next to a row of blooming lilacs, sat John's car.

Few yellow Volvos had rolled off the assembly line in 1997 and John bought the car, more impressed by the reduced price than the offbeat color. Now it was parked in Madeline Adelstein's driveway at 12:30 am. The explanation was obvious.

They'd been married for 13 years and the stress of John's career had drained much of the magic from their relationship. John hated being a lawyer, hated the firm he worked at, hated the drudgery and the long commute from Bedford. John had wanted to act. He'd studied in college, fancying himself a cross between Laurence Olivier and Tom Cruise. Yet somehow he became another person, puffy, middle aged, always in a foul mood, shuffling off to Manhattan five, sometimes seven, days a week.

Agnes felt John's frustration with his life and, she feared, with her. When she noticed the flyer telling interested thespians to contact Madeline Adelstein for an audition, she called at once. Madeline had founded the Pleasantville Playhouse. Though not exactly Shakespeare and Co., for John—and for Agnes--, it might prove just the ticket.

Over a lunch of spinach and mushrooms, Agnes told Madeline of John's thwarted ambitions and Madeline seemed genuinely impressed. Agnes left the meeting elated, sure that John would be chosen for prominent roles and would be happier with his life--and with her.

She was only half right. John soon starred in “Pygmalion” and resurrected his high school performance of Nathan Detroit. Although a big fish in a very small pond and more “famish” than “famous”, John's new status shot to his head like tequila on an empty stomach. No longer did he want to join the sour faces boarding MetroNorth. No longer did he want to sacrifice his eyesight to small print. And no longer did he feel satisfied with his seemingly dull, prosaic wife.

With the flashy formalwear she wore to openings and her revealing décolletage, Madeline found John easy pickings. Agnes had noticed sparks between them but trusted her husband and believed him when he claimed he was working late on an important case. But as months went by and John stayed out most nights, Agnes gave in to her suspicions and called his office, where he was supposedly toiling away. John's associate stated that John was not there and had not been around at night for months.

Agnes's head spun. She steadied herself against the kitchen wall, then rushed into the bathroom and vomited. She could no longer ignore what she was afraid to acknowledge. She climbed onto her bike and rode to Madeline's home where the yellow Volvo glared at her.

Over the next days as John came and went oblivious to her discovery, Agnes's emotions rollercoasted from hurt to deep depression to howling fury. She thought of ending her life. She thought of ending John's. And, of course, she thought of watching the loathsome Madeline breathe her last. Days passed as Agnes struggled with her emotions and then, finally, her mind cleared and she knew what she wanted to do.

In college, Agnes, fascinated with mushrooms, had studied mycology. In fact, while hiking in the woods behind her home, Agnes was startled to find the legendary “Death Cap” mushroom growing at the base of a Norway spruce. Poison mushrooms, while a clichéd murder weapon, would work. She smiled as she recalled how Madeline enjoyed spinach and mushrooms at their first lunch.

Soon Madeline was seated in Agnes's kitchen, ostensibly to talk about the Playhouse where Agnes had been volunteering. Agnes smiled as Madeline devoured her spinach and mushrooms, even commenting on the salad's freshness. Agnes knew that the toxins would take a day or so to cause death, although Madeline would feel pretty sick by late afternoon, assuring that John would be home for dinner. No way would Madeline spoil her sexpot image by barfing all over her amorata.

And home for dinner John was. He seemed subdued and sat quietly as Agnes sliced mushrooms for the spinach and mushrooms that would accompany marinated steak and crispy oven fries. Watching her, John thought about those qualities which had originally attracted him to Agnes. She really was quite lovely, in a girl next door sort of way. And her culinary skills were exceptional.

Madeline, by contrast, was a stranger to the kitchen. A stack of menus sat by the kitchen phone, the refrigerator empty but for sour milk, rotting veggies and moldy leftovers. Culinary deprivation was one thing, but deprivation in the bedroom quite another. John knew that things were cooling. Madeline had begun to flash her phony eyelashes at Phil Stewart, the newest company member. Phil had something that John didn't--an Actors' Equity card--and was already stealing juicy roles from John. It was but a matter of time before Phil stole the juicy Madeline. John knew that his fantasy of a life in the theatre and in Madeline's bed was over and that it was time to return home. Perhaps home was not so bad after all.

John's reverie was suddenly shaken. Agnes stood glaring at him. “I know all about you and that woman. How could you do this to us?” John's heart stopped. What followed was predictable. John wept and begged for forgiveness and professed his love for Agnes. He used all of his lawyer and actor skills to convince Agnes that he loved her and that he wanted to start anew.

John's performance somehow touched Agnes. Confused thoughts raced through her head. She hated him and wanted him dead. Or did she? Did he really love her or was he lying? Could they start over? Could she be happy on her own? Did she even know how to live alone? Did she even want to live? And what would happen when Madeline turned up dead?

Her mind a chaotic jumble and her heart racing, Agnes stared at the bowls of mushrooms on the counter. To her right, the mushrooms she had purchased at the market. To her left, the mushrooms she had fed to Madeline and which she had intended to serve to John. Her head pounded while her hand paused over the bowls. First over the poison mushrooms; then over the store bought. Then back and forth again as she pondered a world without John, a world without her, a world without either of them.

Finally, she placed the salads on the table and sat down. She felt calm and resigned. She stared at John, raised her wine glass and, with an unreadable, far off expression, said, “We've talked enough, my dear. Let's eat”.

 

Jughandle Farm, Ashe County, NC

By Charles A. Steady

I remember chasing her up the stairs the first time. Running on the balls of her feet her calf muscles hard, legs smooth. She was wearing her wedding dress. I married Bethany Marie Cavanah under a three hundred year old apple tree decorated in lace. She was the most beautiful thing I recall ever seeing. She had a long, thin oval face covered in light peach skin and symmetrical nebuli of freckles. Below a perfect elegant nose she kept plush lips, plump enough for kissing but thin enough for breaking into a wry, plaintive grin. I was marrying the woman of my dreams.

The ancient tree we wed under was at the edge of my farm. Jughandle Farm, its name taken from its infamous barnful of stills my great-grandfather operated during prohibition. Jughandle is on the border of Tennessee, between the towns of Husk and Apple Grove, in Ashe County, NC. Although we technically pay our taxes to Husk and Apple Grove, the farm is really located at the center of Nowhere.

I grew up on the farm with my grandpa, my parents had abandoned me at his doorstep when I was six weeks, so that they might contrive their more important meth habits. Grandpa was smart and, I believe, raised me well. When I was 21, he 78, he took ill. Literally on his deathbed he told me, hospice workers all around, “seeds, boy. Seeds are what make or destroy a farm and a man with it. Pick the right ones and know how and JUST when to plant them. And be wary of who you give your OWN seeds to.”

He was buried in Husk Cemetery, next to his mother and father. And there lay Travis T. Malingford Jr. And at 21, I Travis T. Malingford the fourth, inherited Jughandle. I divided up the land and rented it out to distilleries. There was 420 acres of rye and 200 acres of barley rented out to a well-known whiskey distillery. The remaining 220 acres were purchased by another company that made potato vodka. I kept the small dairy for myself to work.

Every three months the Husk Organic Vodka Company puts (or as they call it, “births”) another batch. They celebrate each “birthing” at a tavern in Apple Grove, a woody, candlelit bar called Petty’s. Naturally, they invited me to shindigs and, to keep up to their health. It was at one of these parties that I met Bethany. I was sitting alone in a corner booth, nursing a drink when she interrupted my life.

“Hey, you.” Her voice was lyrical, inviting. I looked up, her alfalfa green eyes lit like emeralds and I guess I didn’t speak. “Uh……hello? Hi there!”

“Oh, um, hi. Um….” I choked and awkwardly gestured for her to sit. She took the booth directly across from me. I quickly finished my martini. Noticing her accent, I asked where she was from. She said that she was half Irish and half Yankee. She asked me where I was from. I told her I was from Jughandle. I ordered another martini.

She asked me why I didn’t have to pay for my drink. I explained about the farm, about the distilleries, the cows. The next thing I knew we were meeting every Saturday at Petty’s. She told me about Connecticut and UConn and lacrosse and her ex-husband, Jerry, the agriculture major who couldn’t stay faithful. Soon we were going home together after our Saturday dates. She would cook breakfast on Sundays. She said she loved Jughandle as we walked one morning around the farm, hand in hand. Then she said she loved me, Travis Malingford the fourth.

Seven weeks later we were exchanging vows under a three hundred year old tree. My life was terrific, my wife inside the house cooking, using the internet and decorating the house. She would come out to the barn and ask me questions, and like an eager teacher I would explain.

“I use the old milking machine parts, mostly metal and hard rubber...”“After each bucket fills, I tun off the suction and bring the bucket over...” “At night, I undo the stanchions and let them graze...” “Alfalfa mostly, red clover, white clover, they really seem to enjoy the Bermuda grass...”

Indeed, she seemed so interested in my dairy chores that she noticed my habit of occasionally dipping a metal mug into a bucket of warm milk. It was just something my grandpa did, said it “gave him a jolt of quick strength.” On our one year anniversary, amongst others exchanged, she gave as a gift a new, larger glass mug with my initials etched in the side, just for milk dipping. Sweet, sweet girl.

Our first year of marriage was bliss. Me, Travis, at only 22, had everything he could have hoped for. In fact, the bliss made me oblivious to small white flowers that had sprung up in the grazing patch. I would remember seeing them later, but by then it would be too late.

In August I suddenly took ill. I was out milking one afternoon and threw up all over the cement. I’d been sick once before that week, but this time I brought up blood. My head started to pound and my stomach twisted into a knot. I ran for the house, for Bethany, the phone, something, but my legs didn’t work right. I fell on the grass, got up, ran, fell again. I finally reached the front door and put my hand out to grab the doorknob, but it moved, the door opened and I fell into the mudroom.

Bethany stood before me in a sundress, barefoot and smiling. “What?” I was interrupted by more vomiting. She gingerly got out of the way. “What is going…..?” was all I could say.

“It’s almost over, darling. Jerry said it should only be agonizing for less than an hour before paralysis” she said, as sweet and seductively as ever. I forced myself to stand up and yell. “You poisoned me?” I began to chase her up the stairs. Halfway up she began floating up, feet not touching the steps. I was sick again all over the stairs, except the vomit dripped upwards, defying gravity. No, I realized, I’m falling upside-down.

I awoke in my bed unable to move. My wife stood over me; dabbing my head with a damp cloth. “White snakeroot, Travis” she spoke in a whisper, “a little white flower, like Queen Anne’s Lace. Gives the cows a slight headcold, but it makes their milk poisonous. They’re so common around these parts this will be seen as nothing but an accident. An unfortunate accident.”

My vision started going dark, my headache was gone. Bethany kissed me on the lips and said, “Jerry is really going to do great things to this farm.”

You were right, grandpa, after all, it’s all about the seeds……..