I was prone to writing my stories with an eye to the absurdities of life. I made sense that at some point I would write a murder mystery, because what was more absurd than taking a human life? People had motivations, but none of them made sense to me. So, as a lover of absurdity, I decided to plunge into the horrible deep end of murder.

We have all thought about it, though; we have all met someone we would like dead. That bitch who picked on you in school because it made her feel better about her own stupidity, that insecure little whistle-blower at work who blamed you for his failures—these are the people we have secretly murdered in our brains. Over lunch we have devised hideous plots so ghoulish that even the most hard-core science-fiction fan would turn and run in terror. Or maybe that was just me.

Murder mysteries are not really tales of truth, though; in fact, their intertwining roads laced with clues and scandal could never happen because no one actually plans murder with that much detail except a writer. The classic Agatha Christie tales of murder could never happen because murder is not that dispassionate an undertaking. If you really hate someone so much or have a reason so intense that you are willing to risk it all by taking the person's life, that is a feeling born of passion. Murder is not planned; it happens. And then the fun is hatched in trying to cover up the act of passion.

So I placed my hands on my computer keys and wondered about the classic tale of murder and deception. Should I go for the truth or the planned road of Miss Marple? I asked these questions as my cat, Winston, landed on the keyboard and in some ways answered them for me. He always found the most ridiculous moments to want me to hold him. He did not fit into the mold of tabby cats. Whenever I told people I owned a ten-year-old tabby, they immediately thought of a fat, lazy, big, rude feline. Actually, the image they conceived was Garfield. But my Winston could not have been further from that image if he'd tried. He was very small—weighing about five pounds—and quite playful, was a keen mouser, and loved to cuddle.

He took his usual seat on my shoulder and stared at the cursor on the screen, waiting for me to tell him what story I was devising this morning. He always wanted to be in the way and in my life, so today I decided to make him a part of the tale—a murder mystery of the old school, an old lady with dozens of relatives vying for her money and trying to make certain that when she changes her will in their favor, she does them a favor and dies quickly. It sounded like something right out of Hercule Poirot. The cat purred, and I knew that I was on the right track once more. I could always tell when he thought it was going well; the sounds from his belly were pleasant against my neck.

Mrs. Helen Patterson lay on her bed waiting for the alarm clock to start the day. She never was actually awakened by the shrill bell; she was always awake, waiting for it to go off. She had trained her body that way, and at the ripe old age of eighty-eight, why change that pattern now? Her niece Claire had, at one point, asked her, "Why do you bother setting that clock so early? You really have nothing to get up for."

It was a point well taken, even though it had been a rather mean thing to say, but after so long these patterns of life were hard to change. "My dear," she had replied, "I will be setting that clock when I am one hundred."

It was exactly 6:45 a.m. when the bell sounded and she reached over to turn it off. She turned the knob to the radio dial and lay there for another fifteen minutes, waiting for the news. She listened to the news every morning, which was odd because, truth be told, she had given up on the world years ago. There was so much death, so much pain, and so many lies being told that she could barely stand to listen to it. Still, it was the pattern of life she was used to, so each morning she listened to the news. Besides, after the news and the sports, which she hated more than she did the news, they did give the daily weather report, and that was actually something she could use.

"Sunny with a 20 percent chance of rain later in the afternoon." Well, that was not too bad, she thought; she might actually be able to get some gardening in before the heat of the day and the rainy afternoon. She didn't have a large garden, just some roses and a flower bed that she hated royally. But the flowers did give her something to do with her days. Otherwise, she would have pulled them all up fourteen years ago when her beloved Charlie had passed away. Roses were his thing, not hers.

Maybe he was the real reason she tended those damn weeds. Maybe being out there with those red blooms was a way to be close to him again. She stepped into the shower, and as the water cascaded over her wrinkled body, she wondered why God was so lousy with the numbers. Fourteen years as a widow was just too damn lonely for anyone. She still missed the old bastard, and on sunny, warm afternoons when it should have been him tending those stupid flowers, she missed him even more.

She made some coffee, took her three pills, and then headed outside, wondering whether there was anything out there to do. She knew there might not be, and that bothered her. Life was getting to that point and she hated it, not having anything to do. When Charlie was alive, she would make him the cakes and cookies that he loved so much, but after his funeral she had put all her baking pans in a box and donated them to the church. She could have joined the other little old ladies down at the church playing bingo and boxing up little sweaters for the overseas orphans, but the gossip made her head ache, so she never went down there.

She stood in the sunshine, blinking at the morning rays. It was a lovely day, and although it was nice to see the sun winking on the leaves of the maple tree, all she could think was that it was about time. It had rained for four straight days, which had made her sick inside. Helen hated the rain and always had. No matter how often Charlie had asked her to go for a walk in some lovely spring shower, she had always refused. He had loved that sound, and often he would go out by himself, walking and listening to the rain slap the sidewalk and bounce off the grass. She preferred to sit in the house watching television and waiting for the sun to come out. Considering how different they were, it was a wonder that they had remained husband and wife for fifty-three years, but he had become her old shoes, comfortable and well-worn in. She hadn't wanted to give them up, but death had had other ideas.

She had cursed her husband when he died. She had cursed God and death too, which was another reason she never went to the church to play bingo with the other old hens. She and God were not exactly on speaking terms. The minister had given her the usual ramble about God's infinite plan, and she had cursed that too. If her being lonely was a part of his infinite plan, then he needed to find a new one because it was not one that she was enjoying.

"Morning, Helen!" a voice called out from the sidewalk.

"Morning, McCrea," she called back to the spindly gray-haired old man. All those years she had known him, she had never called him Thomas or Mr. McCrea; it was just McCrea. "You heading to the Legion Hall?" It was a stupid question since that was where McCrea was always...