Small Plates

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page
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with a new hobby. Two people who might get into trouble in the mountains.
    When the day came, it was perfect. At breakfast some of the other guests remarked on the weather and hastened away to prepare for their own outings. It would seem that the paths would be crowded; not a moment of privacy, but Mr. Carter wasn’t worried. He’d checked the conditions carefully. The ski season, which continued well into the spring at this elevation, had ended. School was still in session, so no intrepid Von Trapp–type families to get in the way. And he’d avoided the weekend, which would bring more people to the popular trail. A moment was all he needed, and he was sure he would get it.
    â€œShall we, my dear?” he asked playfully as his wife finished her stewed prunes.
    Soon they were on the trail, a more difficult one than they had attempted before. A challenge. He was positively giddy with joy. The sky was blue. Not a single cloud. The hours passed swiftly and then, unless he was wrong, five more minutes would bring them to the spot he’d selected. A fabulous view. He owed her that at least. They were above the timberline. No trees to grab on the way down.
    And it all went according to plan.
    â€œWhy don’t we stop a moment? The footing’s a little tricky here and I want to rest,” he told her. “Besides, it’s spectacular.” He swept his arm out, encompassing the surrounding peaks—the Wildcat Range opposite—and the valley, far, far below. Then swept his arm back, neatly knocking her off her small feet and sending her hurtling over the edge, crying, “Watch out!” at the same time for her sake—and the sake of others on the trail out of sight but not earshot.
    It was done. He was free.
    He was falling.
    She had grabbed him by the ankle. She was taking him with her. His fury knew no bounds. Then, nothing.
    The next thing he knew he was strapped to a stretcher and a ranger was telling him to lie still, that he’d be all right. “Looks like you broke a leg, but you’re a very lucky man.”
    â€œMy wife, what about my wife?” Mr. Carter asked.
    â€œShe’s fine, a bit bruised and shaken up of course. You landed on a small projection thirty feet down. It’s a miracle. We lost a hiker from that very spot a year ago. Your wife’s just ahead of us. Didn’t hit her head the way you did; still, they’ll want to check her out at the hospital.”
    A second ranger broke in, admonishing him, “I hope you understand you folks could have been killed. Your wife mentioned you’ve just started climbing. It’s treacherous up here, especially with all the loose rock after the snow’s melted.” She repeated the other ranger’s words: “You’re a very lucky man.”
    Mr. Carter groaned and let himself slip back into unconsciousness.
    He hadn’t broken a leg. Just his ankle. His recovery gave him plenty of time to think. Maybe simple hadn’t been such a good idea. He’d have to come up with something a bit more complicated than a shove—something a bit more sure. His wife was busy in the garden from morning to night, so there was that to be thankful for. While she was out at the nursery getting more manure, he hobbled to the shed in the backyard and looked at the assortment of things she used to keep weeds and garden pests away. Virtually every preparation carried the skull-and-crossbones logo he’d been conjuring up as he sat indoors reading. Then there was the chipper. It was tucked in a corner with her small rototiller. The good old chipper.
    He gazed longingly at the poisons again. LAST MEAL FOR SLUGS read one. Last meal for Mabel. But unless he could convince the police she was suicidal, the use of any of these goodies would immediately be traced back to him. He felt like a kid in a candy store with empty pockets. He turned and went back to the house. His ankle was throbbing.
    The

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