Our MINUTE MYSTERY Contest 2005 1st Place Winner:

AN INTERSTATE BUSINESS VENTURE
by Bob Rich

I collect English. My favorite example is the sign they had, years ago, in Toorak Road:

SLOW
ROADWORKS IN PROGRESS

They weren't kidding. It stood there for six months.

Then there's that one capsule to take three times a day. Disgusting. I insist on taking a different capsule each time.

I could go on -- "You usually do," my husband would have said.

But that's not why I killed him.

Nor was it because of the truck, though that was close. For fifteen years, Tom drove for a boss, and we were OK. Then he got delusions of grandeur, and became an Owner Driver. You could hear the capital letters when he said it.

There was capital in the truck too, more than in our house. And what with fuel, oil, tires and maintenance, Betsy the Behemoth was a costlier pet than the three kids combined. Naturally, months before the last payment, Betsy's gearbox self-destructed. It proved cheaper to start again with Betsy Mark II. So, we got a second mortgage on the house after Tom almost got down on his knees to me, and even managed to break down and cry. I earned my semi-license, and acted as relief driver. Then Tom changed to interstate contracts, which paid far better. I started work as a checkout chick at Coles.

For five years, I'd spent eight hours, four days a week, converting my feet into volcanoes of pain. It would cost too much for Coles to equip every cash register with a stool. For five years, I'd desisted from throwing the cash register at Rhonda Rigger, the all-so-mighty supervisor. And for the same length of time, I'd managed to smile at idiot customers, lightning- fingered two-foot high terrors and teenagers with an attitude.

And why? So that the current Betsy's loan could be kept in the luxury to which it has become accustomed.

But that's not why I killed Tom.

It wasn't even the brunette in Sydney. Actually, I reckon I'm prettier than her, judging from the photo I found in Tom's wallet when he'd left it in the pocket of his coveralls. I'd nearly put it in the washing machine when I felt the weight, and as I pulled the wallet from the pocket it slipped from my wet hands and fell open on the ground. There she was, with a shy smile on the front and 'To my Tom, with love' written on the back.

Her Tom indeed! To tell the truth, I liked her looks, if she lived nearby we could have been friends. I'm betting that Tom told her he was single, divorced, widowed or tied to a wife in a mental institution.

I had the photo on the mantelpiece when he came home. His face turned an interesting colour, I'd call it pastel beetroot. Then he went on the attack.

"You been pawing through my things?"

"My Tom! No I haven't. You left it in your coveralls, and I didn't think the lady needed a wash. Your conscience might though."

"Look, Eve, it's not what you think."

"Tom, I believe you. How could a decent, hardworking Owner Driver ever cheat on his wife?"

"I haven't, I'm telling you. Shirl is the receptionist in Rigby's Sydney office, and we have an ongoing joke. She gave me the photo with the message just to tease me." Rigby's is one of the big companies who use him.

"Yeah, that's why you carried her around right next to your you-know- what."

"Evie, you know I'd never risk our marriage!"

"Certainly not, not while my aching feet subsidize Betsy." So I gave him the benefit of the doubt, at least in public.

Nevertheless, exactly two years ago today, on our twentieth wedding anniversary, I got rid of my two liabilities, and collected both comprehensive and life insurance, keeping half. Oh, I can be cool about it now, but, let's just say it wasn't pleasant.

When Tom came in I surprised him with his favourite whisky. He tossed down the first one, not noticing the valium dissolved in it. So I gave him another. By the fourth, he was still conscious, but off the planet, so I said, "Darling, let's go for a drive to clear your head. I haven't driven Betsy in years."

He was in no state to argue. Somehow, he crawled up, with me pushing on his bum. Off we went to Healesville.

An hour later, we were at this lookout, facing an already dark mountain as the sun set to our left. "Here mate, have a swig," I offered, not telling him that the rest of the bottle of valium was in the whisky. Soon he was unconscious. I managed to drag him over into the driver's seat, buckled him in. Then I fired up the engine, stood on the step, and leaning over him, flicked the lever into Drive.

Betsy inched forward as I jumped off, then gravity took charge.

I vomited into a bush, but there was no-one to see.

By no coincidence, I wore black. It took me hours to walk off the mountain, into Healesville, where I melted into the small crowd at a hotel. At closing time I took a taxi to Lilydale, raising no eyebrows.

But why?

Well, three days before, I received a phone call, from Perth. Her name was Viviane. She said, "I believe you're the original Mrs. Driscoll?"

"Twenty years this week. What do you mean, original?"

"Until today, I thought I was the only one."

"The bastard!"

"I've been contributing $200 a week toward payments on the truck. What about you?"

We had a good talk, then I phoned Rigby's in Sydney. The girl chattily explained that Shirl only worked three days a week now that the baby was nearly due.

"Oh, who's the father?"

"One of our regular contract drivers."

"Tom Driscoll?"

"Yes, that's him."

"Why does she keep working?"

"Oh she's so good. She's helping him to pay off the truck."

Dr Bob Rich is a multiple award-winning Australian writer and professional editor. Don't visit his web site http://bobswriting.com unless you have a lot of time. People have been known to lose a night's sleep there.