In which a door-to-door salesman gets a lot more than he bargained for...

Rosemary slumped down in her armchair, her eyelids drooping slightly as she tried (and failed) to focus on the television screen in front of her. Saturday night programmes were rubbish until 8.30pm, when her favourite show, Search For A Star, began. It was the first semi-final tonight and the act that she was supporting – a singer by the name of Ted – was one of the underdogs for a place in the final.

Suddenly, she was startled awake by the doorbell. She looked over her shoulder towards the bay window to see if she could spot who was responsible, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t expecting guests, so she was already wary as she began to move from her position. Struck by cramp in her left foot, she rocked back and forth to build up the necessary momentum to stand.

The doorbell rang again.

Rosemary wasn’t impressed. “Alright!” she shouted at the top of her voice. “I’m coming!”

Just as she reached the living room door and began to pull on its handle to get into the hallway, the doorbell rang for the third time. The silhouette she could now see through the frosted glass had a death wish, she was sure.

She slipped the chain into its holder, making sure there was to be no unwelcome visitor inside her home. A second later, she turned the latch and pulled the door open, staring at the man responsible for the racket echoing through her house. He didn’t look like much. He was wiry and thin. And had a silly hat.

“What?” she asked, bluntly. She was in no mood to be anything other than short with the man who was ruining her already poor Saturday evening.

“Good evening, madam,” he said, launching straight into his rehearsed sales pitch. “Are you sick and tired of waking up in a morning with your legs, arms or back aching? Do you find yourself struggling to get into a comfortable position when you’re trying to sleep? If the answer’s yes, then we at Reid’s RelaxoBeds can provide the perfect solution for you! May I ask if you currently have an automatic, adjustable bed?”

Rosemary simply stared back and blinked. “What?”

The salesman, confused, didn’t seem to know from where he should continue. So he did the first thing that came to mind. “Good evening, madam,” he said, in an identical manner to his words a mere moment ago. “Are you sick and tired of waking up in a morning with your…”

“I heard you the first time,” Rosemary interrupted. “Now, tell me, young man, what exactly it is you’re trying to flog to me before I miss any of my programmes.”

She had no idea how it had happened, but just twenty-six minutes later, the young salesman had talked himself into her living room and was giving her a detailed run down of everything that his company had to offer. Rosemary had heard of these types of people. They smooth talk their way into your home with their promises of a better life and, before you know it, they’ve taken you for every penny you own, robbed anything of value you have lying around the house and left you for dead on the bathroom floor with a head wound sustained when you slipped and hit the sink. That’s what they tell the police, anyway – the truth is they bashed it in themselves using the antique horse you keep on top of the television.

Rosemary made a mental note to move the antique horse the next time she stood up.

She’d seen it on that TV show hosted by the tall man with the bushy beard. And Rosemary didn’t plan on becoming another one of those useless old ladies who had been taken for all their money by a man who pretended to sell some back-soothing beds as a means of getting into the house. No way.

Credit to this young chap, though. He’d gone some way to making his cover story look like the real deal: He’d come up with several price plans, various instalment options and even created his own business cards for this Reid’s RelaxoBeds company that was clearly made up. He was leafing through the brochure he’d had printed, pointing out what choices Rosemary had, while all of these thoughts were racing through the 77-year-old’s mind.

“Obviously,” he continued, “there’s no obligation to sign up today. We are very happy to give you some time if you would prefer to talk the idea over with your family. You can give me a call any time.” He placed a brochure down on the coffee table and wrote his mobile number on the top.

Rosemary nodded, knowing full well she wouldn’t be taking the man up on the offer. ‘Yes, that sounds like a very good idea, I’ll do exactly that,’ is what her smile was saying. Inside her head, she was thinking something more along the lines of: ‘Why don’t you just get out of my house, you piece of fraudulent filth?’

After they had concluded their miniature meeting, the salesman asked his potential customer if he may use her bathroom – he’d been working all afternoon and, by this stage in the evening, he simply wanted to freshen up.

Rosemary was convinced she knew what he was up to. It was the oldest trick in the book. He would ask where her bathroom was and, while her back was turned, he’d be in the bedroom raiding her jewellery box or in the spare room grabbing what valuables he could from her wardrobes. Not a chance. She had a surprise up her sleeve for this would-be thief.

She showed him back through the hall and pointed him to the top of the stairs. As he dashed up, she watched. When he had reached the top and locked the bathroom door, Rosemary followed him, as light-footed as she could to keep the noise down. It didn’t matter either way, as the sound of the taps running shielded the sounds of her feet on the squeaky floorboards. She was heading for the spare bedroom.

Her late husband Sid had, some thirty years earlier, been treated for a problem in one of the bones in his left foot. It had left him unable to walk without the aid of a crutch for several months and, despite the fact that he had died almost a decade ago, Rosemary still had that crutch somewhere. It didn’t take her long to grab it from the back of the wardrobe.

The metal glinted in the light as she held it out in front of her. She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the stick as a wry smile appeared on her face. She flicked the lamp off and edged back to the doorway, just in time to hear the toilet flush.

‘I have you now,’ she thought, as her eyes trained on the door handle. She didn’t blink as she waited to see the movement that would signal the start of the salesman’s attack. ‘You’re not going to get away with this.’

It took an age before anything happened. There was the sound of the taps in the sink spraying water far too powerfully for what the man needed – she was going to have to clean the floor tiles when she’d got rid of him, wasn’t she? – and then there was the pause while he dried his hands on her towels. He’d probably used to wrong one, meaning they’d have to all go in the wash and an entirely new set would have to come out of the drawer. This had been a disaster of an evening.

Eventually, the lock clicked and the door handle turned. Rosemary raised the crutch above her head and watched as the salesman flicked the light switch and turned back towards the stairs, blissfully unaware of the horror that he was about to face.

“You’ll never get away with this!” Rosemary squealed, before slamming the metal crutch into the salesman’s shoulder. He screamed as he was knocked to the floor, trying to work out in his head what was happening. And it was his head that took the next blow, as the old woman swung the crutch for a second time. He tried to shield himself, but he was failing miserably.

He began to stand as the third and fourth blows rained down upon him – one catching his back and the other slamming into his left shin. He could feel the blood pouring from the wound on his head, something he confirmed with a quick touch of his hand to his scalp. He tried to get down the stairs to get out, but the next smack in the kidneys knocked him off balance and he tumbled head first down the steps, landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

Just about conscious, the salesman tried to scramble to the door. Stumbling to his feet, he put his blood-covered hand onto the door handle and pushed, only to find that the mad old dame had locked the house. He was trapped.

He turned to face her, just in time to witness Rosemary reach the bottom of the stairs and swing the crutch for one final time. It connected to the front of the salesman’s head, knocking him backwards to the floor, his body dropping dead weight and in a gangly fashion. He didn’t move once he had landed, but Rosemary gave him another smash around the forehead for good measure.

“Steal from me,” she said to the lifeless mound of man, “and I’ll beat your bloody brains out.” She made one final noise of satisfaction, before dropping the crutch on the man’s body and heading to the kitchen to wash her hands. When she had, she fixed herself up with a cup of tea and a plate of digestive biscuits, before slumping back into her armchair, just in time for the second part of Search For A Star.

She’d have to deal with the salesman later.

In which only half of Rosemary’s windows are cleaned...

The sun had only just risen by the time Rosemary was out of bed and ready for her day’s work. That pesky salesman hadn’t just ruined her Saturday night, but he was taking up her Sunday now too. Had he ever taken care of a dead body? Did he have any idea how difficult it was? No, she didn’t think so.

By the time she had taken her first break – during which she ate a breakfast of bacon and beans with toast – Rosemary had cleaned the blood splatter from her wallpaper (white was always a bad choice for a room in which you would end up bludgeoning someone to death) and wiped down the handrail from where the salesman had bounced into it and deposited more of his bodily fluids. The stain on the carpet where he had laid overnight was going to be a little bit of an issue, but she may have to deal with that at a later date. Probably with a rug or something.

After finishing her breakfast, Rosemary decided that she had to get the body out of the way until she had time to get rid of it. Living alone and not expecting anybody to stay in the coming days, she chose to drag the salesman upstairs and into the spare bedroom. He’d have to wait in there until she could take him outside to where would be his final resting place.

She made her way back into the hallway and plucked the man up by his wrists. Beginning to pull, she groaned, as she nearly popped her shoulder out of place. He was much heavier than he seemed. She could barely move him, as his legs and torso dragged on the carpet behind him. She tried several times and with various techniques, each with the same amount of success: None.

After fifteen minutes of sweating, she had only just managed to get the body about a third of the way up the staircase. Suddenly, an idea popped into her head. She dragged the salesman up onto her shoulders and wrapped one of her arms around his back to support the weight. From there she was able to pull him to the top of the stairs much quicker and, within minutes, she had him flat on his back on the spare bed.

Shattered and breathless, she edged her way to the sideboard, pulled out a bottle of sherry and poured a small amount into one of the tumblers on the tray in front of her. It didn’t touch the sides as she swigged it back, replaced the glass and headed back downstairs and into the garden.

Part two of her plan was about to get underway: Operation Body Hide, she called it. She’d wanted a garden pond for years, but had never got around to digging it out. The way she saw it, this was killing two birds with one stone. She got her pond and she got rid of the Saturday evening pest.

After reaching the shed, she undid the padlock and rooted around for her spade. A horrible thought ran through her mind as, for a split second, she remembered lending it to her neighbour some time ago – the one she hasn’t spoken to in three years because of an unfortunate incident with her great-grandson, the left eye of next-door’s Yorkshire terrier called Arthur and an air rifle – but, as she pulled out the garden fork, it fell to the ground with a thud. She must have got it back before that fateful target practise afternoon. She picked it up, selected her spot and got to work, throwing the discarded earth, turf and soil into a heap beside her.

After several hours of work, she had her pond shape dug out. The base was just big enough to fit a man of, say, five feet nine inches tall, providing his limbs were sufficiently bent or mangled the right way. Or hacked off completely. But that was a decision for later – plus her son still had her Black and Decker.

For now, there was lunch to be eaten. Digging a grave-cum-pond isn’t easy work and Rosemary was famished. It was last night’s leftover chicken from the fridge with some pasta, she thought. That shouldn’t take too long to prepare and she should have it in time to settle down in front of that daytime quiz she liked.

Full up and ready for work, she picked up her car keys from the kitchen counter and headed for the front door. After setting the alarm to the house, she backed her Mini off the driveway and made the short trip to the local DIY store. She needed a plastic sheet for the base of the pond – preferably black, so that the body couldn’t be seen underneath. In the end she had to settle for green; she wasn’t overjoyed by the decision, but it was that or see-through and that would never have worked.

Just over half an hour had passed when she arrived home. Immediately, she spotted something was wrong, but she couldn’t tell what it was. The front garden looked the same. Her television was still on and could be seen through the window, but that wasn’t unusual when she made a quick jaunt out. She could sense a difference and, just when she put her key in the lock, she spotted it.

Her windows were clean.

She took a step backwards to see that the upstairs of her house had been done, too. Panic was rising through her body and her breathing became shallower and more rushed. There was a dead body on the bed in the back room just waiting to greet the window cleaner as he climbed his ladder. She had to get inside to check what was going on.

Running – and she hadn’t run that quickly in decades – she got to the back door to see Charlie wiping his squeegee along her kitchen window. There was his trademark inane whistling of a tuneless song as he did so. She looked up to see that he’d not done the upstairs yet and breathed a heavy sigh of relief, something that alerted him to her presence.

“Hiya Mrs. Hollis,” he said with that chirpy spring in his step voice that all window cleaners seemed to possess. “Lovely day for working outdoors, isn’t it? I see you’re finally doing up the garden like you always say you will.”

She had to keep him from climbing his ladder, which had been propped up against the wall and was aimed directly at the morgue-cum-bedroom. “Yes,” she said with a laugh. “I’ve said I’ll do it for years, but never got round to it. I saw it was a nice day and thought ‘sod it’ and started it.”

Rosemary eyed the window cleaner as he picked up his bucket, ready to take the first rung on the ladder. She had to think on her feet: “Say, Charlie,” she added, causing him to spin around and look in her direction. “I don’t suppose you could give me a hand moving this earth? I’ve got to get it in bags to get it to the tip.”

The window cleaner smiled, not really wanting to help out, but knowing that he couldn’t turn down an old woman. He had to earn his living, after all, and the longer windows stayed dirty on his round, the longer he wasn’t getting any cash.

“Sure Mrs. H,” he said, hiding his true feelings. “Let me just do your upstairs and then I’ll be right with you.”

There was a pang in the pit of Rosemary’s stomach as she watched him climb towards the window. She had to do something quickly. “Don’t bother with those,” she said. “There’s never any need for them to be sparkling – nobody ever stays.” That was the best she could do. She knew it wasn’t going to work before she’d even heard the response.

“Don’t be daft, Mrs. H,” Charlie replied. “It won’t take me two minutes to sort it out. And I’m halfway there now.”

There was no reply. He turned to see that the owner of the house had disappeared from the garden. He shouted her name as he scanned the ground quickly, but there was no sign of her. She must have dashed inside for a moment, he concluded, as he continued to climb the ladder.

As he reached the top, he dipped his cloth into the bucket of water he was carrying and then slammed it into the glass. There was a squeak as he rubbed away all of the dirt, dust and grime that had built up in the fortnight since he had last been on his round. The soapsuds covered the window by the time he pulled out his squeegee from its pouch on his belt.

It was only as he began to clear the glass of the white bubbles and froth that he took notice of what was inside the room. In all the times he’d cleaned her windows, he didn’t remember Mrs. Hollis having a husband, the dark horse. Mind you, he was considerably younger than her and he did appear to have a few injuries. As he stared at the body on the bed, he suddenly realised what he was looking at and he recoiled in horror.

He squeegeed the rest of the grime off the window to take a closer look. While he was focused on the body, he was suddenly aware of Mrs. Hollis having entered the back bedroom. She was rushing towards the window.

“What the hell...?!” Charlie shouted through the now gleaming double-glazed window. He did a good job, to be fair to him. “Is that what I think it is?”

Rosemary slid the window open before speaking quietly. “It’s a man,” she said. “He was trying to mug me last night. So I hit him with a crutch and he fell down the stairs. It’s not my fault.”

Charlie’s grip on the ladder became tighter as he stared at the dead body on the bed. He couldn’t take his eyes off it; the man’s eyes wide open, staring lifelessly at the ceiling. It was another moment before he realised what was happening.

“Now, you’re not going to tell anyone,” Rosemary added. “They’ll lock me up. They’ll lock me up for the rest of my life and I’ll never see any of my family again.” On top of that, she’d never find out who’d won Search For A Star. She couldn’t go to prison.

“I... No... I’m not...” Charlie’s words were flustered as he couldn’t work out what was going on. He was in a state of shock, frozen to the spot.

Rosemary wasn’t taking any chances. “No,” she said. “You’re not going to tell anyone. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.” And, with plenty of force, she put both hands onto the top of the ladder and pushed it away from the window. The window cleaner’s grip tightened, even though it was never going to do anything, and, as the balance of the ladder tipped past the centre point, he tumbled backwards towards the ground, smashing into the concrete paving slabs with a sickening thud. It was the back of his head that hit first and by the time Rosemary had got back downstairs and into the garden, her window cleaner was dead.

She’d gone almost eight decades without killing someone.

Now she’d bumped off two in two days.

In which Rosemary’s garden developments come on leaps and bounds...

After a while of having the hose left in the pond, Rosemary’s new garden feature was finished. The plant life she had bought to cover the edges was sitting neatly just below the water level and the plastic sheet had done more than an adequate job of disguising the window-cleaner shaped lump that was at the bottom. You’d have to be told that there was a dead body underneath it all to know and Rosemary was ever so proud of the job she’d done, though of course she couldn’t exactly boast about it.

While the hose was out, she had washed away the blood splatter from the impact of Charlie’s cranium on her pathway. She had spotted blobs of it on her shed, too, and that was at the other end of the garden, so she had to be very thorough with her clean up operation. The ladder – which could easily have aroused suspicion – had gone to the tip, along with the earth from the hole in her grass. It had been broken in half in its journey to the ground.

At the back of the garden, beside the shed, she had spent the remainder of her Sunday preparing the ground for the rockery that she had decided to install. If that pesky salesman wasn’t going beneath her pond, he was going under a pretty arrangement of various plants and stones. Nobody would suspect a thing.

She was going to attempt to build her new garden feature that evening, but, if truth were told, she was shattered from all the digging, murdering and body-moving she had done that day. Instead, she left the salesman in her back bedroom and, satisfied with the foundations having been laid, she went inside and had a spot of supper before bed. She whipped up a ham omelette – they had been her favourites when her husband was alive and she only very occasionally made them for fear of not cooking to his high standard. But today was a ham omelette kind of day.

Once the whiff of egg had filled her kitchen and she had a cup of tea in her trusted but chipped mug, she sat down in front of the television. She’d missed the Search For A Star results programme, but a quick flick through the digital text service told her that her Ted was into the next round. That was a bonus.

She didn’t make it to bed that night, falling asleep in her armchair in front of the TV. She woke up briefly in the early hours of the morning and managed to use the remote control to cut the power and end the 24-hour rolling news that had taken over the main channel for the night. Again, though, she fell back asleep where she was, too tired to get her legs moving upstairs.

As soon as she had eaten breakfast the next morning – two pieces of toast, cooked to a golden brown colour and covered in strawberry jam – Rosemary was back in the car and heading towards her trusted DIY store. She needed stone slabs and bags of soil, despite the amount she had thrown away the day before. She was beginning to regret lugging it all to the rubbish dump before thinking about how she was now going to dispose of a second body.

By her own admission, she’d make a pretty awful serial killer. She’d known from those detective programmes on the television that the art of a good murder was in the planning. Anybody who didn’t prepare for their crime was setting themselves up for a fall. And that’s exactly the position she found herself in. Nevertheless, she was in too deep to stop now.

Not long later, she was home and using her wheelbarrow to move the stone slabs from the boot of her car to the back garden, via the passage to the side of her house. It took her far longer than she had expected and she needed a sit down (and a cup of milky tea and a biscuit) afterwards. She felt mildly guilty that her thoughts didn’t turn to the fact that she’d killed two men, but rather that her garden was going to be one of the best on the row when she was finished.

When her little break was over, she began arranging the stones for the bottom part of the rockery, making sure they were all firmly in the ground. Having built it up to a sufficient height – just marginally taller than the height of, say, a bludgeoned salesman when he was splayed out on his back – she loaded the wheelbarrow with soil, ready to fill in the gap. However, she didn’t do that just yet.

Instead, Rosemary headed back inside and began to drag the body lying in her spare room back downstairs. Since she had last checked in on him, the salesman had been the subject of rigor mortis and he was as stiff as a board. It made moving him slightly more difficult, though she did, perversely, find that he could now stand up unaided once again. It took all her strength, but in just under ten minutes she had managed to get him lying flat on his back in her kitchen. The lino was fine and the walls and carpets weren’t taking any more stains, since the blood across his body and clothes had congealed.

Though the bedspread in her spare room was another matter. Nobody would be able to stay for a while.

She was just preparing herself for one more burst of exertion to get the salesman through her conservatory doors and into the rockery hole, when the doorbell rang. Instinctively, she made a move to go and answer it, but two thoughts suddenly occurred to her: One – it could have been someone wanting to come into the house and she’d have a hard time keeping them out of the kitchen; two – this was where the whole sorry situation she found herself in started. She might never answer the door again.

She moved back towards where the salesman’s body lay, making sure she couldn’t be seen from outside the house. After a brief pause, the doorbell rang again. Rosemary remained tense.

Suddenly she could hear the letterbox lifting up. She didn’t remember ordering a parcel, but it was obviously something the postman couldn’t fit through the opening. But instead of hearing the drop of mail hitting the new welcome mat in her hallway, she heard the voice of somebody she knew.

Mrs. Harmison from number 86.

“Hello?” she shouted through the letterbox. “Hello, Rosie? Are you ok?”

‘Not now,’ Rosemary thought to herself. She remained where she was in the kitchen. If she did indeed answer the door, then Mrs. Harmison would be there for the day. Whenever she called around, Rosemary could never get rid of her. ‘Please, not now. Just go away.’

No such luck. Briefly, Rosemary had thought the old widow from further up the road had gone home, but that idea was quickly quashed when she heard footsteps along the side passage. Rosemary was kicking herself for not closing and locking the gate.

Mrs. Harmison could still be heard: “Hello, Rosie? Are you alright? It’s me, Beatrice. Just coming to check you’re ok because I got no answer at the front and your car’s outside. I thought you might be in the garden.”

Rosemary had to act now. She stood and made her way as quickly as she could to the back door. She blocked one side of the opening by standing in the way, while she pulled down the conservatory’s sunblind to block the other. She just had to hope that the old woman didn’t force her head in for a nosey. As Rosemary turned back towards the garden following a brief look at the body lay out across her kitchen, she saw Beatrice rounding the corner.

“Here I am,” she said, her face beginning to show a paper-thin smile.

“Oh, I was getting worried!” Beatrice exclaimed, putting her hand to her brow in a manner that Rosemary thought only people in the movies did. “When there was no answer, but I saw your car on the front and the back gate open, I thought something might have happened to you. Then I thought you might have been enjoying the weather we’ve been having in the garden.”

Beatrice looked around and realised that’s exactly what was happening. She commented that Rosemary had obviously been enjoying the sun because she had built a pond and was in the process of adding a rockery since she had last visited. In Beatrice’s mind, they’d enjoyed a sandwich and a cup of tea at the picnic bench in the far corner. In Rosemary’s, she’d endured an afternoon of inane chatter.

“That’s exactly it,” Rosemary replied. “Now, I’ve got a lot to be getting on with if I’m going to get that rockery filled in before the sun starts to set.” That, she thought, might be taken as a hint that she wanted Beatrice to leave. Again, no such luck.

“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” Beatrice said, turning to face the garden. She took in the whole scene, before looking back to the doorway where her neighbour was standing. “I’ll give you a hand if you like.”

“I couldn’t possibly...”

“No, I insist!” Beatrice interrupted. “In fact, I always used to love seeing to my garden when my Bernard was alive. It’ll be just like the old times at our house, so I really don’t mind at all. I’ll just drop my bag and cardigan in your conservatory, if that’s ok.”

Rosemary didn’t move, blocking the way through. “No,” she said, this time more forcefully. “I couldn’t possibly accept your help. It’s not fair on you.”

Beatrice tried to push her way past, but Rosemary held her ground. Confused, her neighbour just looked at her with an expression of puzzlement across her face. Nevertheless, she continued to remove her cardigan and, gripping it in the same hand as her bag, she moved to drop them onto the path by the door. As she bent down, her eyes flitted to the kitchen floor and she understood fully why her old friend wouldn’t let her pass.

“Rosie,” she said, as calmly as she could muster. “There’s a dead body in your kitchen. What’s going on?”

She didn’t get an answer.

“I’ll... um... I’ll be heading off, now,” Beatrice stuttered, her eyes still fixed unblinking on the corpse on the lino. She reached down and grabbed her bag and cardigan once again, but, as she stood up, she felt a tight grip around her wrist. It was Rosemary grabbing onto her to make sure she couldn’t run off and tell the world what was inside her house.

“Rosie, you’re hurting me,” Beatrice moaned. “Please, let me go. I’m not going to tell anybody, I promise. Who would I tell? I don’t have any family and you’re my oldest friend.”

Rosemary still wasn’t to be moved. She shoved the old lady from down the road to the ground. Beatrice landed on her back and gave a wince of pain as she heard her left hip crack on impact with the concrete slabs. She was in a lot of pain and could barely move. She tried, however, to crawl away back to the gate at the end of the side passage, but she was making very little progress. Her screams for help weren’t loud enough, the wind being knocked from her lungs by the impact with the ground and the pain echoing around her body from her pelvis.

It gave Rosemary time to pick up the ornamental stone frog that she’d bought that very morning to decorate her rockery. Using its flat side, she swung the rock amphibian towards Beatrice’s head, cracking her skull on impact. The second blow sprayed yet more blood across the garden. The third was the fatal connection, beating the life out of the already critically injured pensioner.

While the adrenaline was pumping around her body, Rosemary dragged the still warm corpse of her late friend to the base of the rockery. There she flipped it over the small wall she had built and laid her out in a star shape. She then threw in the ornamental frog for good measure. It took her almost half an hour to cover Mrs. Harmison with soil and plants.

When she had, Rosemary took a short break while she cleaned the blood splatter from her face and changed her clothes, before she headed back outside to hose her path down once again. This was the cleanest it had been in years.

After all evidence of the latest killing had been removed, she continued to build the top three layers of her rockery, before standing back to admire it. Once again, her garden was looking spotless, now with two new features, both of which were completed to a very high standard. Though, she’d need to do something else to get rid of the salesman’s body.

And she did have an idea for that.