Gloves

Trigger warning - murder.

The embalming process is surprisingly pleasant when you’re on the receiving end. With the prerequisite that you are, actually, dead first. The cool fluid injected into my circulatory system flushed my cheeks and much improved my mood. It also reassured me that my loved ones would not be staring at a decomposing mess when they came to view me before the funeral, which I knew they would.

The serene voice that has been speaking to me on and off since I died has gone a long way to calm my nerves. It informs me that I have nothing to fear. Apparently death can be quite wonderful for some people.

The embalming was certainly less concerning than the post-mortem, but even that was carried out with care and respect. The commentary recorded by the pathologist was interesting. She concluded that I’d been poisoned by deadly nightshade berries, which were still in my stomach at the time, along with the apple and blackcurrant crumble I’d put away after dinner. I wondered how they’d got into my dessert in the first place. I’d made it fresh that afternoon with fruit from our own garden and had only left the ingredients unattended briefly when I wandered into the lounge to answer a call from my wife.

It started light and breezy as always. “Hi Sweetheart, I can smell that crumble from here.” But it quickly turned to practical life-business as it usually did. “Can we have a quick chat before I get to Mum’s? I want to be sure you and I are on the same page with these Christmas plans.”

“You’re not supposed to phone while you’re driving. I’d feel better if you pulled over to chat.” This request was never met with compliance, but I always made it.

If anything happened to Ellen, I would be devastated. I bought her some designer driving gloves for our third anniversary, leather - as tradition dictated, just two months ago. I’d hoped that wearing them would make it impossible for her to call people while at the wheel. They were black with silver stitching detail and a crisscross pattern of diamante at the wrist. She swore blind she always wore them, but the calls continued.

I collapsed onto the sofa and resigned myself to a dull fifteen-minute conversation about which dinner at whose house on what day, and the spend limits for various relatives’ gifts. Since I had won big on the lottery, my wife liked to be sure I wasn’t overspending. She didn’t want people taking advantage. I was sure we’d agreed all this already, but as Ellen said, her mother would step in and mess up the plans if we didn’t show a united front.

I remember the back door banging part way through the call, but I had left it open and there was a breeze that day. I thought it unlikely that anyone had accessed the kitchen, but clearly, and to my detriment, I was wrong. The crumble tasted fine. According to the pathologist, when she'd explained the situation to an interested police officer, the berries taste sweet and have a smell not unlike fresh tomatoes, so once they are mixed into food it is difficult to detect them. My crumble would have been the perfect cover.

There was some discussion about whether I might have done this intentionally to myself. Of course I hadn’t, but I had no way of communicating that. It had not gone unnoticed that I did have quite the collection of poisonous plants in my walled garden (including deadly nightshade), to which only Ellen and I had keys. The policeman said there was no sign of forced entry, either to the garden or the house. There was no DNA or fingerprint evidence that anyone unexpected had been in our home. If there had been foul play then either someone had worn very effective gloves and stolen the keys, or it had been at the hands of someone who had full, regular, access to the property. Ellen and I seemed to be the prime suspects.

Cremation, of course, was my own choice and written into my letter of wishes many years ago, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that this was all happening too soon. At the age of 45 I should surely be very much alive and enjoying my approach to a mid-life crisis, not very much dead and trying to make the most of my, admittedly luxurious, satin-lined oak coffin.

The angelic voice that has become my almost constant companion advises me that as I am destined for good things, we will start as we mean to go on. Between death and final rest, I will only have pleasant physical sensations. That’s why even the post-mortem was no big ordeal. Why the embalming was so pleasant, and why the prospect of cremation instils me with no fear.

Tomorrow is the big day. My final goodbye and send off. I’m assuming therefore that the coroner has reached a verdict and it sounds like Ellen is in the clear. I’m looking forward to the great adventure. If I’m honest, I am a bit disappointed I didn’t start my journey to the afterlife immediately on death. However, I’m using my time to glean any information I can about the wellbeing of my loved ones, but the funeral director and undertaker are very professional men and hardly speak about anything personal at all. It’s infuriating.

What I have gathered is that at 3pm today my wife and best friend will arrive to add a few precious possessions to my coffin. I have been removed from the fridge, dressed in my favourite suit, and placed on my satin cushions for the occasion. I wonder what they will have chosen to be burned with me. Of course I have no concept of what time it is. Being unable to move, even to open my eyes, I cannot check the clock on the wall, though it's tick is constant.

The door is opening.

“Thank you so much Mr. Rushworth, we really appreciate your kindness.” It’s Ellen, my beloved. Her words are catching in her throat, shes probably teary. That’s the worst thing about this, that I have to leave important people behind.

“Yes, you’ve been so kind.” It’s Marcus. Best man at our wedding over three years ago and still my closest friend.

“I’ll give you some time alone,” says Mr. Rushworth. “Remember that anything metal placed in the coffin will be damaged but can be retrieved after the cremation. Anything combustible, such as wood or paper will be entirely destroyed and included in the ashes returned to you.”

“Yes, we understand. Thank you.” Ellen’s voice is breaking with sobs.

The door closes and two sets of footsteps approach me.

“Are you ok, Ellen?” I’m so glad Marcus is there to support her. “I know this isn’t easy, in spite of everything.”

In spite of what?

“I didn’t expect to be so upset,” she said. “I thought I would just be relieved when the police checked my phone data and it gave me the perfect alibi, just like you said. But I’ve been so scared they would find the gloves.”

Hang on a Goddamn minute!

“I wish you would let me get rid of them. I wore them after all. It’s my DNA on them, and that will certainly look out of place inside a pair of women’s leather driving gloves with a sparkly trim.”

“I still can’t understand why you put them on. Your fingerprints and skin cells must be all over our house on any given day. Why did you think you needed gloves?”

“It’s like I say, I didn’t want to touch the garden keys or gates with my hands, I’ve never been near the garden before, my prints on the keyring or lock would have been a dead giveaway. And I don’t know if the berries are poisonous to the touch. Your gloves were just there, on the side.” He sighed. “And I think it’s cute that our hands are the same size.” I could imagine that grin on his face as he said it. He used that persuasive tone with women all the time.

“I suppose so, but I couldn’t just throw them out. They were an expensive anniversary gift.”

“Yeah, and now they’re covered in poisonous berry juice! Not to mention they were from the husband you couldn’t wait to get rid of. His life insurance will buy you several more pairs, I’m sure.”

“We’re both under a lot of stress, and I didn’t come here for an argument. Let’s put these things in his coffin and get out of here. I need some air.”

A hard object with sharp corners is nestled in beside my ribs. Must be a box of some sort. I can smell it, its camphor wood, I’d know that scent anywhere. My prized Victorian tabletop chest! It’s irreplaceable. Why is that coming in here?!

A stack of printed photographs is placed on my chest underneath my crossed hands. The shiny side of the top one is pleasing against my wrists. If I wasn’t so mad about the chest, I’d be curious about which pictures the murder twins have decided to include as part of their fake grieving.

I hear them kiss. How dare they? Kissing in front of me only adds insult to mortal injury. Then the door opens and they leave together, thanking Mr. Rushworth in the reception area before they close the door behind them.

Seething is not an accurate word for how I feel about this turn of events. Wrath or fury might come close, but they still aren’t strong enough. I thought my death was supposed to be pleasant. The angel-voice has lost its sparkle. It keeps telling me it’s sorry and that it can’t control external factors. It advises that I should try to forgive and forget and not get wrapped up in thoughts of revenge or retribution. Apparently that’s how ghosts are created and I certainly don’t want to spend eternity growing bitter watching Ellen and Marcus spend my fortune on themselves.

***

My funeral would have been more touching if I hadn’t known that every word spoken by my wife and best man was a lie. I spent most of it recalling ghost stories and wondering if I would be destined to spend my afterlife traipsing around the house and garden looking for evidence and trying to persuade dim witted sceptics to listen to cryptic clues I left by way of haunting them.

My parents would never believe that my spirit had risen to try to prove the guilt of the two people I loved most. But somehow, they must have believed that I died by suicide, which to me seems equally ridiculous. If only someone would find the missing gloves, the missing berry-stained, Marcus-contaminated gloves. If I had had the ability to spit out his name I would.

But the event is over, the music has played, the tears (some real, some not) have fallen and everyone but me has retired to the Bulls Head for a buffet. I am somewhat dreading what happens to me next, but trying to keep an open mind. Perhaps it will be less terrifying than it sounds. It has to be better than hanging around and hoping for justice that may never come.

***

The coffin is heating up. Like the embalming, it’s more pleasant than I expected. There’s no pain, only a relaxing warmth spreading through me. My senses are heightened and as the objects placed inside with me begin to burn, I am surrounded by their essences. Images of treasured photos pass through my mind, family holidays, my first car, my wedding picture. Ellen. The well-worn fur of my childhood teddy bear gently brushes my cheeks reminding me of happy times. The velvety petals of the single red rose placed across my stomach add to the luxurious softness of my satin bed and the exquisite floral fragrance briefly envelopes me.

I turn the mystery over in my head one last time. I’ll never solve the case of the missing gloves, but maybe it’s time to let go. Maybe they’ll be found and my murder solved after I leave this world.

What are the other faint smells? Scents of something from inside the camphor chest? Burning leather and fresh tomato! 

Definitely no point me hanging about trying to find the evidence then.

Still, if good people get nothing but niceties after they die what do double-crossing murderers get? Maybe there will be justice.

Eventually.