Murder is more practical in summer than in any other season. Take the untimely demise of my late wife Marsha for example. Had I killed her in winter, spring or fall, she would surely have been instantly missed, because those are the seasons during which her insufferable sisters will have been most likely to drop by our house unannounced, for tea or coffee, or gin or whatever the witches of her family brew prior to settling and cackling over a cauldron of gossip.

Ah, but summer now, that’s a different story, because in summer, they are all afoot and about, wreaking havok over water parks, and miniature golf courses, and ice cream parlors in company with their noisy, runny-nosed offspring and far too busy to keep track of each other.

Privacy! That’s what I like most about summer. I buried Marsha in broad daylight, in my backyard without so much as an “Oi! Whatcha doin there?” and then planted azalea bushes over the filled in hole.

Marsha always did love azaleas and annoying as she was, I always loved Marsha.