Dear Morgan

 

Dear Morgan,

Perhaps you will be surprised at receiving this letter from me. I can almost see the widening of your eyes upon seeing my return address as you flip through the day's mail. It has been a long time since we were sorority sisters and best friends. So much has changed, and never more so than now. 

It's a difficult time for you, I realize. You must be up to your neck in casseroles, but I'm certain that you found the ideal black dress to wear for the funeral and the somber gathering at the house afterward. Tears aren't your way, but the veil was a nice touch. Of course, I knew better than to attend but I know you, dear. 

Malcolm came to see me. Yes, even after your dramatic ultimatum. He stood right here, in front of the desk where I'm composing this letter.  I saw what your tender love had done to him. I saw it clearly on his face. Handsome, good-hearted Malcolm. It was a particular brand of sweetness that was your gift to him, yes?

Again, I can just picture the wrinkle that would be marring your brow right now had you not botoxed it into behaving. You're wondering what I'm getting at. You're such a careful woman, Morgan, a place for everything and everything in its place. A little rigid, dare I say brittle underneath the frosty calm. Malcolm told me how you scorned his baby, the restored Indian motorcycle he loved so much. You never did like sharing, even when we were little, did you? What did it matter that the machine made him happy if it had no benefit for you? Well, you could have taken at least one ride with him but lectures are closer to your heart. The things that might happen. 

In any event, that's all water under the bridge now, isn't it Morgan? As I mentioned, he came to me and stood right here. His face, oh his wonderful face. It is all fresh in my mind, as his visit occurred only this past Sunday. Now I would give anything to see your expression as you read those words. I always did know how to ruffle your cool. I think that's one reason why Malcolm liked me and always confided in me the things he felt he could not say to you. I know you resented that. The sharing again, you're just no good at it. 

Malcolm stood there holding his cracked motorcycle helmet in his hand and his face was awful. I will never forgive you for what you did, Morgan. That beloved face, all bloody and ruined. Even despite that, he wore such an expression of grief, and betrayal. It hurt my heart so badly to see him like that. I stood up to go to him, but he held up his free hand gesturing me not to. I just stood there trembling. He told me, Morgan. He told me about what you did, how you put sugar in his gas tank. Just a little. Just enough so that he would be able to start out on his Saturday night ride, build up some speed, and then... how his engine locked up and he was thrown over the front of the bike and onto the road where he was hit by oncoming traffic and killed. Your "sweetness", sugar. 

Oh, I've already called the police impound lot where Malcolm's motorcycle was taken. I've explained to them what to look for, though I had to be inventive about how I knew. I couldn't very well tell them that I got the information from a ghost. But I can tell you. The police should be arriving at that big house of yours presently. Keep your head, dear. Don't panic. Go quietly up to your bedroom and put on that nice black dress again. Then go downstairs, confident that you're looking your best and wait for them. Remember, appearances are everything! Even the appearance of a once-handsome, good-hearted dead man. 

_______

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