Trash Day
I knew I shouldn't have done it. Mom always told me, "Don't be nosy son; if it's not yours, leave it alone." However, there was the temptation, on the shelf between the corn chips and pretzels, one of those yellow stick-it notes about the size of an index card. I gazed up and down the aisle to make sure nobody was watching and casually picked it up.
The drawing on the backside of the note captured my attention. Someone with some real artistic talent sketched a pretty lady's face, with one lone tear running down her cheek. I should have returned the note to the shelf and walked way; instead, I turned it over and read a shopping list.
In bold, hand-printed block letters, centered perfectly on each line, I read the words that still haunt me to this day.
LOAF OF RYE BREAD
CARROTS
KILL ROBIN
BEER
GROUND CHUCK
KILL ROBIN
PRETZELS
KILL ROBIN TODAY!
I read the list one more time, turned it over, and looked at the sketch again. Fighting the impulse to wad it up and toss it in the nearest wastebasket, I folded the note and shoved it into my shirt pocket - out of sight, but not out of mind. Trying to remember what I came to the store to buy, I pushed the basket to the next aisle, wishing I had made a shopping list of my own. Skimming over the items I gathered in the cart, I recalled that I needed milk. At the last aisle, I grabbed a carton of 2% and hurried to the checkout register, hoping I had all that my wife sent me to purchase.
In the parking lot, I loaded the two bags of groceries and hopped into my car, accidentally banging the door against the pickup truck parked next to me. Nobody noticed, so I proceeded out of the parking lot. I pulled out onto Grimes Boulevard into a long line of traffic and waited for the light to turn green.
At the red light, I removed the note from my pocket and reread it, turned it over, and looked at the sketch. Reaching into the console, I found my cell phone, scrolled to the directory, found Bill's number, and pushed the send button; but I canceled the call before it went through.
What was I going to say to him if he answered? "Hey Bill, I just wanted to know if you are still seeing Robin? I found this shopping list at Winkler's Market and wondered if you may be planning on killing her today?"
I lectured myself for picking the note up. Maybe it wasn't Bill who wrote the note. I hoped I was right, but my heart told me a different story. Geez, why didn't I just leave the note alone? All the signs pointed to what I prayed would not be the truth.
Bill was one of the finest artists I knew; a couple of the downtown art shops displayed his charcoal sketches. The profile on the back of the stick-it note looked very much like Robin - the wife of Bill's employer. I tried to discourage him from that relationship when I first found out about it. He promised me he would end the unhealthy liaison, but I knew that he didn't really want to. It began shortly after Bill's wife filed for divorce and left him. Bill met Robin in the office one night when he was working late, and Robin, on her way home from an office party, stopped by to see her husband, Bill's boss. The boss had left earlier. Bill and a tipsy Robin talked for a while and one thing led to another.
I read the list again. It was just too much to be a coincidence. My wife and I attended several cookouts at Bill's house, and he always used rye bread, instead of the normal buns, for hamburgers. Unlike at most cookouts, Bill served raw vegetables, opposed to French fries or potato chips, declaring the latter as too greasy and fattening. He only bought choice cuts of meat, including ground chuck over regular ground beef. At the cookouts, while waiting for the meat to cook, he served beer and pretzels to his guests.
I shoved the stick-it note back into my pocket, resisting the desire to let it fly out the window of the car.
When I arrived home, I unloaded the groceries and put them away before going outside to mow the grass. Being the middle of August, it was a hot, sunny day; as normal, I perspired profusely, soaking my shirt. When I finished the chore, I returned the lawn mover to the shed and sat down with a large glass of tea. At that time, I remembered the note and lifted it from my pocket. It hung limp, soggy from sweat, and the ink ran in blotches from the blocked lettering. The sketch on the back was ruined. I walked across the yard and dropped it into the garbage can, glad to be rid of it.
What was I thinking anyway? It was all just an exaggeration on my part. Bill was one of the nicest people I knew. Getting involved with Robin was the only thing I had known him to do wrong for all the years I associated with him. He was thoughtful enough that he didn't bring out the beer when he invited my wife and me to cookouts; he knew I was a recovering alcoholic. He was one of the closest friends I ever had. He wouldn't even go hunting with the guys because he didn't like the idea of killing a deer or a "bambi" as he called it.
Later that evening, I called Bill and invited him to go golfing the next Saturday. After the usual chitchat, we hung up and I felt much better, even chuckling at my silly suspicions. I thought of telling my wife about the note, but felt I would be too embarrassed at my imaginings. I never told anyone about the note.
Tuesday morning, I sat down at the table with a cup of coffee and opened the local newspaper. Above a photograph of a nice home on the south side of town was the headline: "Local Entrepreneur a Suspect in Wife's Death."
The article stated that Andrew Tillington, Jr. was the prime suspect in the death of his wife Robin Tillingon. The probable cause of death was determined to be poisoning from a chemical substance found in her stomach, probably mixed into a food similar to ground beef. I once met Andrew Tillington, Bill's boss, at one of Bill's cookouts.
I looked out my back window at the empty garbage can; Monday was the day the city workers picked up the trash. I was scheduled to play sixteen holes with Bill next Saturday.