“I’ll do that.”
He left Poplar Bluff and returned to his cabin. Fifty-one minutes, no traffic at all. He was trying to anticipate trouble. The EMTs had left a sticker on the cabin door giving the times of their arrival and departure. Bolton tiptoed through the house, holding a broom as a weapon, searching high and low for the damned snake. It was quite possible he had returned home and slithered up through the walls to the attic, but Bolton wasn’t about to poke around up there. He closed the doors and turned off most of the lights. He gathered all of Tillie’s shoes and clothing and packed them into her suitcase. Her other stuff—old pajamas, a bathrobe, underwear, toiletries, hiking boots she’d never worn—he loaded into a cardboard box and placed next to the suitcase in the trunk of his car. He wanted no sign of her left in his cabin.
Though he was calm and in no hurry, he felt a bit on edge and needed a strong shot of bourbon. He stretched out on the sofa in the den, sipped for a while, got sleepy and almost nodded off, then remembered it was the snake’s first stop when he was fleeing the scene. He jumped up and walked around the cabin and finally eased onto the bed, but he smelled something odd and was certain it was an oil or some other bodily fluid left behind by the slimy reptile. Convinced the house was uninhabitable, he got a quilt and retired to a wicker rocker on the porch where he, with the help of a second bourbon, fell asleep in the chilly air.
Promptly at six a coyote howled from somewhere close and Bolton jumped out of his skin. He showered, changed clothes, loaded the car, and left at seven. It was early Sunday morning and no one else was awake. Near a country store, he stopped at a county dumpster and threw away all evidence of Tillie, as well as the crate the snake had lived in for the past four months. Lighter now, he hurried back to Poplar Bluff. Fifty minutes even.
At the hospital, he met with the same doctor and nurse, along with the funeral home director. He showed them his driver’s license and swore he was the husband of the deceased. He even produced their current passports that he had packed just in case his scheme got this far. Once they were convinced he was indeed the husband, they asked him about her medical history. Without a doubt, in his opinion, the cause of death was cardiac arrest. In great detail, he listed Tillie’s health problems: the coronary disease, the two heart attacks, the long list of doctors who had treated her, the hospitalizations, the avalanche of meds. His recall was impressive and he proved his case. His only embellishment was a fictional account of their last hours together when she complained of chest pains and he insisted on rushing her to the doctor. But she wouldn’t go. At the end, at the most crucial moment, she had gasped and flung both hands over her chest as she fell to the floor. He tried mouth-to-mouth but it didn’t work.
Of course, the snake was never mentioned.
The doctor, nurse, and funeral home director unanimously agreed. The cause of death written onto the certificate was cardiac arrest.
They loaded her into a simple metal casket, one used for such occasions, and rolled her into the back of the hearse. Bolton followed it to the funeral home across town where she was put on ice while time passed. Bolton’s idea of a productive day was not one wasted hanging around a funeral home.
The director had a busy afternoon planned because there were three “clients” waiting to be viewed that afternoon, after church let out. All three had been properly embalmed and two of the wakes would involve open caskets. Bolton managed to ease into the visitation rooms and take a peek at the corpses. He was not impressed with the mortician’s talents. After killing an hour, he managed to catch the director in his office and said, “Look, I know the law requires you to wait twenty-four hours before cremating someone, but I’m in a hurry. I need to get back to St. Louis and start planning a funeral. My family is waiting for me now and everyone is terribly upset. It’s sort of cruel to make us wait. Why can’t we do the cremation now and I’ll be gone?”
“The law says twenty-four hours, Mr. Malloy.”
“I’m sure there’s a loophole somewhere that allows for an expedited procedure for the health and safety of those involved. Something like that.”
“I’m not aware of such a loophole.”
“Look, who’ll ever know the difference? Go about it quietly now and I’ll be on the road. No one from the State of Missouri will come around checking your records. I’m in a real bind here and need to get home and see my family. They are distraught.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Malloy.”