Read Online Small Plates by Katherine Hall Page - Free Book Online Page A

he could go into Boston at night and try to purchase one, but he might also get himself mugged or even killed, which would spoil everything.
    As for the garden tools, it was highly unlikely that Mabel could be induced to decapitate herself. She could, however, have an accident with her chipper, getting her hand stuck as she fed in leaves and branches, bleeding to death. He filed the notion away for further thought.
    After reviewing his options over some weeks, Mr. Carter came to the conclusion that the simpler the method the better. No weapons, poisons, lethal machinery. He’d take Mabel to the mountains and push her off a cliff. Hikers had accidents all the time. Especially novices, which they were. He’d have no trouble convincing her to go. She wanted him to exercise and she wanted him to have a hobby. Hiking would be his new love, and he wasted no time in preparing the groundwork.
    â€œMabel,” he told her at dinner, one of her more inspired efforts—scrod baked in canned cream of mushroom soup, the current crop of her own mushrooms still in a state of immaturity. “You’re right. I do need to get out more, but walking would bore me. I’d rather look at the beauty of nature than rows of houses and passing cars. I’m going to take up hiking.”
    He had expected an enthusiastic response, but this was Mabel.
    â€œIt’s not as easy as you think. You’ll need to get proper hiking boots, for a start.”
    â€œAlready in my closet. I went to Eastern Mountain Sports this afternoon. And I took out a membership in the Appalachian Mountain Club. I should be getting maps and guides soon. Meanwhile I’ll start with some of the little hills around here. If you’d care to join me, I’d be delighted.”
    â€œI’ll get some boots.”
    He took a large bite of the fish. Whatever firmness of flesh it had possessed in the wild had been destroyed in Mabel’s preparation and it was almost as liquid as the sauce. He smacked his lips. His heart was full and he gazed at his wife gratefully. “Wonderful,” he said. “Absolutely wonderful.”
    It had been a mild winter, hardly any snow. Global warming, Mr. Carter supposed, but it provided excellent hiking weather, and in the following weeks he and his spouse attempted ever-hardier climbs with frequent day trips to the mountains in New Hampshire. He was surprised to find himself enjoying the exercise, noting the first signs of spring, and gradually adopting Mabel’s hunter-gatherer habits. She was a firm disciple of Euell Gibbons, masticating sassafras leaves, pouncing on acorns to grind for bread and muffins, and scooping wintergreen leaves for tea into one of the Ziploc bags she always carried in her rucksack. Knowing she would soon be gone granted him tolerance and the odd moment of affection for his wife. It would all be put to good use when he played the part of the lonely, grieving widower.
    When spring began to give way to summer, they tackled the White Mountains. Mr. Carter had studied the AMC guides and maps until he knew every trail, every outcropping, every precipice with the precision of blind fingers over Braille. At last he decided they were ready—his goal: the top of the headwall on the Tuckerman Ravine Trail on Mount Washington. Ever since he’d read in the guide that Mount Washington had claimed more lives than any other peak in North America, the trail had beckoned like Shangri-la, its image a haunting melody during every hike, a coda to his footfalls. He booked a room, twin beds, at an inn in nearby Jackson for five days. It would be their anniversary gift to each other he told Mabel. A sentimental gesture.
    Their anniversary fell on Thursday and if luck was with him, so would Mabel. It wouldn’t do to arrive and kill her immediately. He would need to establish themselves as an affable—and devoted—couple. Two people enjoying retirement and each other. Two people