T he police dropped off Mildred Martin at her house and then left. Down the street, at the end of the block, a black sedan melded into the darkness, a pair of alert FBI agents inside.

The old woman staggered into the house and locked the door behind her. She needed a drink so badly. Why had she done what she'd done? It was all so perfect, and she'd gone and messed it up, but then she'd recovered. Yes, she had. Everything was okay. She reached for the gin and filled her tumbler, using barely any tonic.

She drank down half the glass; her nerves began to steady. It would be okay; everything was fine. She was old, what could the FBI really do to her? They had nothing really; she was going to be okay.

"Mildred, how are you?"

She dropped her tumbler and let out a shriek.

"Who's there?" She backed up against the liquor cabinet.

The man came forward a little but remained in the shadows.

"It's your old friend."

She squinted at him. "I don't know you."

"Of course you do. I'm the man who helped you kill your husband."

She lifted up her chin. "I did not kill Bill."

"Well, Mildred, the methanol you put in his body certainly did. And you made the phone call to Bruno, just like I asked you to."

She looked more closely. "That… that was you?"

He moved forward some more. "I let you get your revenge on John Bruno and become rich with life insurance in the bargain, and found a way for you to put your poor, sick husband out of his misery. And all I asked was for you to play by the rules. That was all I demanded and you've disappointed me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said in a quivering voice.

"The rules, Mildred. My rules. And those rules didn't include another trip to the police station and further interrogation by the FBI."

"It was those people who came here asking questions."

"Yes, King and Dillinger, I know. Go on," he said pleasantly.

"I… I was just talking to them. I told them what you said to say. About Bruno, I mean. Just like you said."

"You were obviously more than candid. Come now, Mildred, tell me everything."

The woman was shaking badly.

He said soothingly, "Calm down, pour yourself another drink."

She did so and downed it. "I… we were talking about Scotch. I told him Bill liked his Scotch, that's all. I swear."

"And you put the methanol in the bottle of Scotch?"

"Yes, in Bill's special Scotch. The Macallan's."

"Why did you do that, Mildred? We gave you the methanol. You were supposed to just put it in a syringe and shoot it into his feeding tube. Nice and simple. All you had to do was follow instructions."

"I know, but… I just couldn't do it that way. I couldn't. I wanted it to seem like I was just giving him his Scotch, just like regular. See? So I mixed it in the bottle and then put that into him."

"Fine, so afterwards why didn't you pour the Scotch down the sink, or throw out the bottle?"

"I was going to, but I was afraid somebody might see me. I throw out lots of empty bottles of booze, but I also know some of my neighbors thought I'd killed Bill for the insurance money. They might go through my trash. And even if I washed out the bottle andeven broke it into pieces the police can still find things from little bits of glass. I watch those TV forensic shows-I know! I figured it'd be better if I just left it where it was. And then I just didn't want to go near it. I… I was feeling guilty, about Bill." She started to quietly sob.

"But you mentioned it, and King and Dillinger put two and two together. Now, why couldn't you have just shown them the Scotch you have in that liquor cabinet there?"

"It wasn't Macallan's. I told that young man that Bill only drank Macallan's. I… I was scared. I told him I still had the bottle. It just slipped out. I mean, everything was going great and then he just yelled out, to show him the Scotch. I thought if I didn't show him the bottle, he might get suspicious."

"Undoubtedly they would have. My goodness, how very thorough you were in spilling everything to complete strangers."

"He was a real gentleman," she said defensively.

"I'm sure he was. So they took the bottle, and they analyzed it and found it was poisoned. What did you tell the police?"

Mildred looked pleased with herself. "I told them a woman, a nurse, came to the house, and I hired her to look after Bill. And that she was the one who put the poison in there. I even told them her name." She paused and added with a flourish, "Elizabeth Borden. Get it? Lizzie Borden." She cackled. "Smart, huh?"

"Amazing, and you thought of all this on the way to the police station?"

She gulped her drink, lit a cigarette and blew smoke out. "I've always been quick that way. I think I would have made a better lawyer than my husband."

"How did you say you paid for this woman's services?"

"Pay?"

"Yes, pay. You didn't tell them she worked for free, did you? One rarely finds such an accommodating soul in real life."

"Pay, oh, well, I told them… I mean, I was sort of vague on that."

"Really, and they didn't press the point?"

She flicked her ash onto the floor and shrugged. "No, they didn't. They believed what I said. I'm the old, grieving widow. So everything's just fine."

"Mildred, let me tell you what they're undoubtedly doing right now. They're accessing your bank records to determine how you paid ‘Lizzie.' Your records won't reflect any such payments. Next they'll question your ‘nosy' neighbors about this woman, and they'll say they never saw her, because she doesn't exist. And finally the FBI will be back to see you, and you can be certain that visit will be very unpleasant."

She looked worried. "You really think they'd check all that?"

"They're the FBI, Mildred. They're not stupid. Not stupid like you."

He stepped closer to her. She now saw what he was carrying: a metal pole.

She started to scream, but he lunged forward and stuffed a wad of cloth down her throat and wound duct tape around her mouth and hands. Gripping her by the hair, he pulled her down the hallway and pushed open a door. "I've taken the liberty of drawing a bath for you, Mildred. I want you nice and clean when you're found."

He dumped her in the full bathtub, and the water sloshed over the sides. She tried to pull herself out, but he pushed her back under with the pole. With the duct tape across her mouth, and her smoke-packed lungs, she lasted less than half the time Loretta Baldwin had. He grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet, poured the contents into the bath and then smashed it against her head. Lastly he ripped the tape off her mouth, opened it and stuffed it full of dollar bills he'd pulled from her purse.

Where does one have to go to get reliable help these days? Where!

He looked down at her and said, "Just be glad you're dead, Mildred. Just be glad you don't have to feel my rage right now, because it's right off thescale !"

When he made his plans, he had contemplated killing Mildred too but concluded it would have raised too much suspicion. That decision had come back to haunt him. Still, there was no way to track her culpability back to him. It would be clear, though, that the same hand had struck down both Loretta Baldwin and Mildred Martin. That would probably confuse the authorities more than it would assist them. He didn't like it yet it couldn't be helped now. He scornfully looked down at her.Idiot woman!

He left by the back door and looked toward the end of the street, where he knew the FBI was lurking. "Go get her, boys," he muttered. "She's all yours."

A few minutes later the old Buick started up and drifted down the road.