In The Chips by Scott MacLeod
Aunt Gertie was stronger than she looked. As we would learn. Surviving alone all those years after Uncle Dan just up and left.
Actually, she had buried Dan in the backyard herself long ago after his peccadillos devolved from tiresome to violent and she sprinkled something permanent on his nightly bowl of crunchy delights.
It was a blow to her ego but a boon to her alibi that the coppers viewed her as so eminently leavable.
Only when the in-ground sprinklers went on the fritz did she need to elevate the singular into the habitual.
When he insisted he would need to dig up the yard, the sprinkler guy joined Dan in perpetual subterranean repose. She switched to above ground sprinkling.
That too could have passed unnoticed were it not for the radon scare. Local politicos had a bee in their bonnet about dangerous underground gas, and mandated diagnostic digs throughout the neighborhood. Somebody on the council had a cousin in the excavation trade no doubt.
This posed a major complication for old Gert after she greeted and quickly dispatched the poor gas digger.
A wayward hubby was not news. One missing craftsman could be explained away. But not two.
The Inspector sat across the formica from the elderly maid and got right down to business.
“You’ve got me. I have nothing to hide at my age,” said Gertie, “but what kind of host am I being?”
She scooted off to the cupboard, returning with a large silver mixing bowl brimming with Idaho’s finest ridged potato chips.
He knew better than to drink from the cup, as it were, of a suspected mass killer, but salty snacks were a weakness.
“The missus always says that sodium will be the death of me,” he said.
“Smart woman,” she thought.
He reached across the table and dug in. He attributed the slight aftertaste to a possibly overextended stay in an old woman’s pantry.
“You know, I always think of chips as a metaphor for my life,” she said contemplatively.
“I get it,” said the Inspector, munching away. He fancied himself something of a philosopher. “Alluring and golden but ultimately brittle?”
“Not at all,” replied Gertie, as his eyes slowly closed, and his breathing ebbed away. “I was thinking this: I can’t stop after just one.”
Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Twin Bill, Punk Noir, Rmag, Micromance, Free Flash Fiction, Westwords, Microzine, Dead Mule, Close to the Bone, Roi Faineant, Urban Pigs, Every Day Fiction, Wrong Turn Lit, JAKE, Underbelly Press, Bristol Noir, Havok, Witcraft, NFFD Write-In, Coffin Bell, 10 By 10 Flash, Frontier Tales, The Yard: Crime Blog, Yellow Mama, Short-story.me and Gumshoe, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash newsletter can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com, on Instagram @scottmacleod478 and at http://www.facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334
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