She came through my line with a glass of wine in her hand and looked at me through booze-bleary eyes. She grunted, then tossed back the dregs of her pinot noir. “Celebrating tonight,” she said as in way of an excuse of her poor wine-drinking etiquette. “My husband died today.” She looked forlornly at her empty glass. “Truth be told, I killed him.”
She plucked a crab cake off my proffered tray and stuffed it in her mouth while turning and heading for the bar.
I was so lost in my what-should-I-do thoughts I didn’t realize the commotion near the bar. Fearing my short-tempered (but always available in a pinch) bartender had poured a drink over a customer who had gotten fresh with her, I elbowed my way through the crowd. There I found, lying on the floor, the self-confessed murderer, in full anaphylaxis shock. “Call 9-1-1” I screamed.
Someone called, but it was too late.
We found out later that Glenda Vanlandingham Stewart hyphen Powers was deathly allergic to shellfish. Why she ate that crab cake, I’ll never know.