Taking Out the Trash. Tristi Inc. Pinkston

      Estelle Watkins stood at her kitchen window, looking north and south for any sign of the garbage truck. It was half an hour behind schedule and she didn’t know if she could stand the wait. What if someone found out? What if someone wandered past the trash can on the curb and glanced in…saw the body…

      She startled when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

      “Sweetheart, it’s okay,” the calm, mellow voice of her husband reassured her. “No one will suspect a thing.”

      She turned and fell into Sam’s arms. “But how do you know? How can you be sure?”

      “I just am.” He stroked her back, and she relished the warmth of his embrace.

      Thirty years of marriage, and he still made her feel like the most adored, beautiful woman in the world. He would do anything for her, as he’d proven that morning when the intruder broke into their kitchen. Now the body lay curled up in the trash, and if the truck would just come and carry it away, she could put the whole thing behind her. Except for the memories.

      “Maybe we should have called someone,” she said into Sam’s neck.

      “But then everyone would have known,” he said, taking a step back and looking into her eyes. “You said you didn’t want anyone to know, not a single soul.”

      Estelle thought for a minute, weighing the consequences of both courses of action. She nodded. “We did the right thing. But when is that stupid truck going to get here?”

      As if on cue, she heard the air brakes of the large city vehicle as it rounded the corner onto their street.

      Sam kissed her forehead. “I need to leave for work. Will you be all right, now that the truck’s here?”

      She nodded, wrapping her arms around her stomach to replace the warmth taken when Sam walked away. “I’ll be fine.”

      “Okay. I’ll call you at lunch.”

      He closed the door to the garage behind him.

      Estelle glanced at the calendar. Only three hundred and twelve more work days before his retirement. She wondered what it was going to be like to have him home all day, every day. She imagined they’d get tired of each other eventually, but for just right now, she couldn’t wait to have him home all the time. What if he’d been gone that morning? What would she have done all by herself? She couldn’t help the shudder that ran down her spine.

      “Hello? Estelle?” Vera from next door stuck her head into the kitchen. “Are you home?”

      “Yes, Vera, I’m right here.” Estelle tried not to meet the bright, inquisitive eyes of her meddling neighbor, who was also her best friend. “Just saying goodbye to Sam.”

      “The way you two go on, you’d think you were newlyweds.” Vera pulled up a stool and made herself comfortable, just as she had every morning since they’d moved into this neighborhood.

      Estelle had fallen in love with the area at once, while Sam took a little longer to get warmed up to certain aspects, including their new neighbors. Now they were so firmly entrenched in Ruebensville society, it would take a crowbar to fling them out. A crowbar, or a scandal…

      What was taking that truck so long?

      “Are you all right? You seem awfully edgy.” Vera helped herself to a banana from the bowl on the counter.

      “I’m fine.” The truck pulled up to the curb, its long mechanical arm reaching out for their bin, and Estelle took a long, deep breath of relief. It was over. She sat next to her friend and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Everything’s just fine.”

      “Good, because I need your help. The Ladies’ Aid asked me to choose some new patterns for the quilts we’re making.”

      Estelle must have looked as blank as she felt.

      “You know, for the raffle? To raise money for the orphanage?”

      Estelle blinked. “Oh, right. Quilts.”

      “Anyway, they want patterns that will be easy for every lady in the group to do, but they also want the quilts to be beautiful and special.”

      Estelle knew exactly who she was quoting. Mabel Hardy, the president of the Ladies’ Aid, and also someone with the tact of a Howitzer.

      Now that the sound of the garbage truck had receded in the distance, Estelle felt she could turn her attention to something else. She took the pattern book Vera offered and thumbed through the pages, stopping here and there to offer her opinion on certain designs. Vera jotted everything down in a notebook, and an hour passed before Estelle even realized it.

      A knock on her front door brought her out of a deep contemplation of cotton and thread.

      “Who’s that?” she asked aloud. “No one ever comes to the front door.”

      “Either a salesman or the police,” Vera said.

      Estelle hopped off her stool and walked through the living room, throwing the front door wide. On the porch stood two uniformed police officers.

      “You were right, Vera,” she called over her shoulder.

      “It’s a salesman?” Vera came up behind her. “Oh, it’s the police. Well, I told you it had to be one or the other.”

      “Ma’am, were you expecting us?”

      “No, not really. Vera just said…” Estelle’s voice trailed off at the serious expression on the man’s face. He wasn’t selling tickets to the policeman’s ball, that was for sure. “What’s going on?”

      “May we come in?”

      Estelle had heard about this. Police officers weren’t supposed to give you bad news unless you were sitting down. She wordlessly stepped to the side. What was it? Had Sam been in an accident?

      The