Deadly Decision by Regina Smeltzer

like to show Barbara some of the historic neighborhoods. She’ll love the houses.” Trina stacked our plates and headed to the sink. “Then take her to Williamson Park. And go to the Farmer’s Market. You can pick up a few things for me while you’re there.”
    Barbara collected our cups and carried them to the sink. “Won’t you and Ted be joining us?”
    “No, we’ve already seen the town,” she said with a laugh.
    From under the sink, Trina removed a jelly jar with telltale holes poked in the lid. My daughter never killed anything. Seeing the bug jar brought back memories of her childhood, and the dozens of spiders she had trapped and taken outside to release. The sensation of tiny arachnid feet marching up my legs distracted me. I brushed off the phantom menaces.
    Bill, is something wrong?” Barbara asked.
    “Sorry Dad. I should have waited to get out the bug jar.”
    “Is there a story here?” Barbara asked.
    “I just have this issue with spiders. Traumatized as a kid,” I said.
    “More than traumatized. Poor Dad. When he was a little boy, some kid had a black widow in a jar and chased Dad, telling him the spider would eat his face off.”
    “I was a little guy then, believe it or not.”
    “And you have been afraid of spiders even since?” Barbara asked.
    “He’s not afraid, he just doesn’t like them,” Trina added.
    I listened as the conversation evolved as though I wasn’t in the room.
    “When I was a kid, he would not only kill a spider, he would smash it into a puddle of goo. It was awful.”
    “I wanted to make sure it was dead,” I said.
    “Oh, it was dead.” Trina looked like she could hardly hold back her laughter.
    “No, really, I have seen those suckers look like they were dead, and you take your foot off them and they jump up at you.”
    “Oh Dad.”
    “Seriously. The only dead spider is a smashed spider.”
    Trina held up the glass jar. “Thus the bug jar. When I got older, I asked permission to be the bug catcher in our house. I would catch them and take them outside to the back yard and let them go.”
    “So why the jar now?” Barbara asked.
    “You won’t believe this,” Trina said. “I came down for some water last night and saw this huge bug in the kitchen.” Her arms flew into a wide arc: we were in for a story.
    “It looked like a giant cockroach. I’ve seen them before. The locals call them Palmetto bugs. I don’t care what you call them, this one has to go.” She peered around the kitchen with squinted eyes. “It’s hiding somewhere. And that explains the dirt.”
    Barbara looked at me, appearing confused.
    “Trina’s kitchen floor is getting dirty,” I mouthed.
    “A pile of dirt shows up every few days, right here.” Trina said, looking at Barbara and pointing to the back of the kitchen in front of the built-in hutch.
    “How much mess can a bug make?” Barbara asked. I knew her well enough to be able to see the laughter she was struggling to hold in.
    “It leaves giant doo droppings,” I replied.
    “Daaad.”
    “Haven’t you taught Ted to take his shoes off?” Barbara joked, still biting her lip.
    “There has to be a whole army of bugs to make this much mess,” Trina replied, “and they have to go.”
    “We’ll help,” I offered.
    “I don’t want any help, Dad. I feel a personal need to vindicate myself. Ted tells me I’m imagining things, and sand always gets tracked into the house. I don’t think so. Besides, what does he know about dirt?”
    “If you’re sure you don’t want my help…”
    “Go.” Trina waved us off as she headed to the back of the kitchen, bug jar in hand.
    Swallowing hard, I gathered my car keys.
     
    
     
    I sidestepped personal conversation while Barbara and I toured the downtown of Darlington, and drove around the historic districts, gazing at what Ted and Trina’s house must have looked like at one time. Next we walked from booth to booth at the Farmer’s Market, sniffing and fingering local