Caveat Emptor and Other Stories Read Online Free

she were judging kindergarten finger paintings for potential van Goghs.
    â€œDo you want to meet the men?” the emcee howled. The crowd howled that they most definitely did. The emcee mopped his forehead, assured them that they would in one teeny minute, but first they were going to have the opportunity to order one more round of drinks. Waving good-bye, he bounded off the stage and the music rose to fill the void.
    Sylvia began to dig through her purse. “Damn it, I just had that prescription refilled last week,” she said as she piled the contents on the table. “Tranquilizers aren’t cheap.”
    But the gaunt blonde divorcée was, Anne thought. Too bad she couldn’t find her pills, but they had been removed earlier in the week, when Sylvia had negligently left her purse in the lounge. They were a part of the plan, a major part of the plan that would end with a wonderfully melodramatic climax. The other climaxes would occur earlier—in the bed, under the kitchen table, wherever the two opted to indulge their carnal drives.
    She really didn’t care anymore. Her marriage was a farce, as silly and shallow as the night’s entertainment. It would be over by Sunday, and she would be free from Paul’s overbearing hypocrisy and Sylvia’s treacherous avowals of friendship. A colleague had told her about seeing the two of them at a restaurant. Although the news had initially paralyzed her, she had begun within a matter of days to devise the plan. It had taken several weeks to perfect it; the invitation from Sylvia to the male revue had seemed such a lovely, ironic time for the countdown to begin.
    â€œYou really shouldn’t mix barbiturates with alcohol. The combination can be lethal,” she said, hoping she sounded properly concerned. The advice was based on many hours of research, after all, done while sipping coffee from her thermos. An elementary school library held so many fascinating books and magazines. From both sides of the table, Bitsy and Marjorie nodded their agreement.
    Sylvia shrugged and began to cram things back in her purse. “It’d take a handful of the things to do any damage. I must have left them in the bathroom at home, or in another purse. Damnation, I feel a really ghastly tension headache coming on; I’ll have to drown it in beer.”
    Just wait, Anne added under her breath. By Sunday night, Sylvia and Paul were going to be far past the point of feeling anything. The bottle was in the liquor cabinet at the cabin, a brand she knew Paul always kept well stocked. The drifting sediment at the bottom would not prevent the contents from being savored, and the effects would take several hours to be felt. By then, it would be much too late.
    Sunday night, or perhaps Monday morning, she would telephone the sheriff’s department and in a worried, wifely voice ask them to check the cabin. The suicide note she had typed on Paul’s typewriter would be found in her bedside drawer, his illegible signature scrawled across the bottom. It was really quite nicely written, with pained admissions that he could no longer bear a life without Sylvia, that he had taken her pills earlier in the week so they could gently pass away in each other’s arms. A bittersweet postscript to his wife, begging her forgiveness. She suspected she would shed a few tears when the police showed it to her. Her friends would all assure her that he had had a nervous breakdown, that he hadn’t known what he was writing. They would be right, but she wouldn’t tell them that.
    â€œOh, my lord,” whispered Marjorie. “Hank really is going to kill me if I have to call him for bail.”
    Anne yanked her thoughts to the present moment and turned to the stage. A young man had appeared, dressed in a police uniform. His face was stern as he slapped a billy club across his palm. She felt as if it were slamming against her abdomen. Had Paul found the note and