Cora rolled her eyes and directed his attention across the street. “Are the Crutchfields on vacation? That grass is as high as the cost of living, and it's been awfully quiet over there."
Brad Myrick wiped his moist face with a large handkerchief and shook his head. “It's Doreen's mom. Fell and broke her hip—close to eighty, you know. She took the little ones up to Ohio with her. Oughta be back sometime next week though."
With a weary sigh he shifted his bag and turned to go, pausing at the end of the walk. “How's my girl coming with that photography badge?” He laughed. “Must be hard up for subject matter. Even took a couple of me. Hope it didn't break her camera."
"She should finish the requirements on their camping trip over the weekend,” Marty told him. “Lynn's really worked hard on this one. She's only using black- and-white film and some of her photographs are impressive.” She shrugged. “Or at least they are to me, but I guess I'm a bit prejudiced."
The postman waved as he resumed his walk. “Well, you tell her I'll be dropping by that book I promised—the one on photography. Maybe it will help."
Cora turned away to make a face. “Silly old fool! It's obvious he has a crush on you, and him old enough to be your father."
Marty laughed. “Oh, he's harmless enough. Nosy, though. Probably knows everybody's secrets."
Cora watched the wiry figure make his way down the street. “I wouldn't be surprised,” she said.
He couldn't possibly know mine, Marty thought as she dropped her daughter off at the Scout Hut after school that day. The inquisitive Mr. Myrick thought she was a widow who, with her ten-year-old daughter, had moved into the house on his route the year before. Or at least that's what she hoped he thought.
Lynn gave her mother a parting kiss as they collected her belongings for the trip. “Is something the matter, Mom? Don't look so sad. I'm coming back, you know."
Marty returned her hug. “Are you kidding? I'm planning a wild party—can't wait! Here, don't forget your camera.” She helped load her daughter's bulky gear into the van and waved as they pulled away.
What was she going to do with herself? It was only four o'clock and she had the entire weekend to spend as she liked. Alone. Any other time Marty would have looked forward to the luxury, but not now. She felt threatened, vulnerable.
And she was even more intimidated when she saw the dead bird on her front steps.
* * * *
"A cat. Marty, calm down. It was only a cat. It's the nature of the beast, you know, and there are several in the neighborhood.” Her friend Pam O'Keefe put a cold glass of water in her hand. “Here. Now, drink it slowly and tell me what's going on."
Marty glanced out the window of Pam's small gift shop a block from her home. Nothing bad could happen to her here where the tree-shaded street seemed welcoming and friendly. Seemed. She took a sip of water and a deep breath. “It's Paul. I know it's Paul, Pam. It's just like something he would do!"
Pam was one of the few who knew about Marty's past and of her fear of Paul's returning. Now she looked at her watch and grabbed keys from a hook by the door, pausing only to put a Closed sign in the window. “Come on! Let's walk. The air will do you good."
The two women had become friends when Pam agreed to sell some of Marty's watercolors and often walked together in the afternoons after work. Pam was one of the few people she had trusted with her secret, but Marty could tell her friend thought she was overreacting.
Now Pam's voice was light. “Since Lynn's deserted you to rough it with the Scouts, I'm treating you to pizza tonight. We'll start with a glass of wine."
"But what about your family? Really, Pam, you don't have to—"
"Just hush! Scott can take the kids out for burgers.” Pam linked her arm through Marty's and picked up her pace. “After all, we deserve a break now and then, don't you think?” She lowered her voice as they walked past the Crutchfields'. “I don't like to sound like a prude, but Doreen shouldn't have left those kids alone like that even if they are in their teens. Their dad's gone all day, and that oldest one's a poor excuse for a sitter.” Pam covered her ears as rock music blasted from a room upstairs. “I'll bet it was that middle boy who put the bird on your steps. Didn't you tell me he and Lynn had an argument on the school bus last week? You know how vindictive kids can be."
Pam grinned. “Now, tell me, has the shutterbug earned her badge yet? When's my picture going to be in Vogue?"
Marty laughed. Maybe Pam was right. She needed to lighten up, forget about the broken bottle, the dead bird, and all the other trivial annoyances, and enjoy her brief respite from responsibility while her daughter was away.
Later, driving home that night, Marty thought of Lynn's excitement on receiving the small camera for her birthday. She had zoomed in on earning the photography badge with enthusiasm, recording outings, making photos that told a story, and had even photographed their street at different times of day to achieve variations in light and shadow. Marty smiled. Maybe Lynn would become a skilled photographer someday.
It had begun raining before they left the restaurant, but now it was coming down in earnest and the house was dark as Marty pulled into the driveway. Keys in hand, she dashed for the porch, wishing she'd thought to leave a light on, and barely noticed the bulky object propped against the front door. Marty paused to pick up the bookand hurried inside to switch on the light. She smiled when she saw the title, Plains, Prairies, and Pioneers: Photographs of the Old West, remembering the friendly postman's promise.
She knew something was wrong as soon as she stepped into the hallway. Nothing was out of place—at least nothing she could put her finger on. Everything seemed rigidly in order; even the comforter on Lynn's bed was folded neatly at the foot. Had Paul Rydell been in this house? She was certain someone had.
The police wouldn't believe her. What could she tell them? That she thought someone had been here. She had called them once before when shrieking winds sent branches bumping outside her bedroom and had been embarrassed when they found no intruder. Marty checked doors and windows, then turned on a late-night television talk show for company. She would get very little sleep that night.
* * * *
Yawning over coffee the next morning, Marty was watching Cora water her flowers next-door when Pam appeared, white-faced, at her kitchen door. “Thought I'd better tell you in person,” she began. “Your friend the postman was killed last night. They found him on a street near his home early this morning. Said it looked like a hit-and-run."
Marty put her head in her hands. Not poor, silly Mr. Myrick! Paul had always been jealous, but surely he hadn't been envious of the harmless, middle-aged postman! Then she remembered the book. Did Brad Myrick see who had been in her house the night before?
With unsteady fingers she phoned the police.
* * * *
"Have you heard anything yet?” Cora asked as they sat on Marty's porch in the waning twilight.
Marty shook her head. “The police are trying to get in touch with Paul's parole officer. They have no idea where he went, of course, but I know. He came here."
Cora had offered to stay the night and Marty accepted, glad of her neighbor's comfortable presence. Pam had been with her all day, but Pam had her shop as well as her own family responsibilities. Across the street, Ed Crutchfield yelled at one of his boys as the lawnmower struck an object in the grass. Earlier, when he heard about Paul, he had come over and offered to keep an eye on her house, and Marty was grateful for the suggestion. Just then she didn't care how unkempt his yard became.
"How did Lynn's pictures turn out?” Cora asked over after-dinner coffee. “Am I on display in the post office yet?"
Marty laughed as she put down her cup. “I'm not sure the ones of you have been developed yet. They might be still in her camera, but I know she has some in an album. It's in a box in her closet. I'll get it if you'd like to see them."
"Never mind! You've been through enough. I'll find it. You just sit there and rest."
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Cora had already started upstairs before Marty could protest and she heard her open the door to Lynn's room and close it behind her. How did Cora know which room belonged to Lynn when she had never been inside their house before? she wondered.
The telephone rang as her neighbor came downstairs, and she perched on the arm of the sofa thumbing through Lynn's photos as Marty talked.
"Not bad news, I hope.” Cora glanced up as Marty replaced the receiver. “Why, you're as white as a sheet, honey! What's wrong?"
"It's Paul.” Marty stared at the dark street outside. She mustn't break down. Not now. “He knows we're here alone."
"But how? Are you sure? Where is he?” Cora let the album slide to the floor.
"Somewhere nearby. Watching. Don't leave me, Cora. Please!"
"No, no, of course not.” The older woman patted her shoulder. “But what about Lynn? Isn't she in danger, too? One of us should warn her."
"You're right. I'm not thinking straight. Oh, Cora, would you?” Marty gripped her neighbor's plump, freckled hand. “I'll be fine—really. I'll call Ed Crutchfield—the police—just hurry!"
"Yes, yes, but where?” Cora quickly gathered her belongings as Marty rushed her to the door, spouting directions all the while.
She had the receiver in her hand as her neighbor's car pulled away. The same officer answered who had just telephoned her about Paul's death. Police had found him earlier in some distant fleabag hotel, dead of alcohol poisoning, he'd told her.
"Please send someone out to check on my daughter at Camp Daisy on Red Bridge Road,” Marty told him, “and I think you might want to look into the background of my neighbor, Cora Lundy, as well. If you'll take a good look at that dent in her bumper when she gets back from her wild-goose chase in the next county, I believe you'll learn who killed Brad Myrick last night."
* * * *
"How in the world did you know?” Pam asked after Cora was handcuffed and led away. “Sweet little gray-haired Cora! I never would've suspected."
"Sweet little Cora just about had apoplexy when she thought Lynn had taken her picture,” Marty said. “We teased her about it—said we were going to put it on the bulletin board in the post office."
"Come to think of it, I've never seen her photo in the newspaper, even with all the clubs she belongs to,” Pam mused.
"And then I said that about wanting to kill Paul,” Marty continued. “Honestly, I never guessed she'd done away with three husbands before coming here. They've been looking for her for years."
Pam sat on the living room floor sipping tea. “Then it was Cora who moved the fern and broke your lilac. But why?"
"By accident, I think. She must've been trying to see if we were at home so she could get inside and find that film."
Pam frowned. “But why the dead bird, the broken bottle?"
"When I started asking questions, she needed someone to blame,” Marty explained. “She knew I was terrified that Paul might find us, so he made a natural scapegoat. And I'd said something about Paul's fondness for sour mash earlier. Remember the neighborhood Christmas party? Somebody was drinking it and I mentioned to Cora that I couldn't stand the smell."
Pam stared into her cup. “And poor Mr. Myrick probably saw Cora prying about here last night when he came to leave Lynn the book."
Marty nodded. “I think so. And this morning when I thought she was watering her flowers, Cora was actually washing his blood from her car. I wondered why she'd be watering after that big rain we had last night."
Pam looked at her in silence for a minute. “But Marty, when did you really know?"
"Not until the police called to tell me they'd found Paul. Cora had gone up to Lynn's room, and it all came together. If it wasn't Paul, then who was it? It was obvious that Cora wanted that film.
"Lynn was in danger, and so was I, but I couldn't let her think I suspected a thing."
"So you made her think he was really out there watching.” Pam smiled. “Cora must've been scared to death."
"Not half as much as I was,” Marty admitted. “And if she only knew, it could all have been avoided."
Pam frowned. “Only knew what?"
"I should've mentioned it earlier, but she made such an issue of it, I was afraid I'd hurt her feelings, and I didn't want to disappoint her.” Marty began to laugh. “When Lynn took those photos of Cora, she forgot to put film in the camera."
Copyright © 2009 Mignon F. Ballard
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Poetry: TOO LATE by Nolen Harsh
* * * *
* * * *
His head is down; his spirits too.
He walks alone in gloom.
His heart is filled with deep despair
As one who nears his tomb.
—
Not always was his life this way.
He used to dance and sing.
His days were filled with happiness
As flowers in the spring.
—
He caught his Beth with his best friend
And shot them both quite dead.
His wife, his love she left this world
But would not leave his head.
—
If he could change that awful deed
he would not hesitate.
But, what is done cannot be changed;
Remorse has come too late.
Copyright © 2009 Nolen Harsh
* * * *
ELLERY QUEEN'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Vols. 134 & 135, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 817 & 818, September-October 2009. ISSN 0013-6328, USPS 523-610. Dell GST# R123054108. Published monthly except for combined March/ April and September/ October double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. 1-year subscription $55.90 in U.S. and possessions, in all other countries $65.90 (GST included in Canada), payable in advance in U.S. funds. Subscription orders and mail regarding subscriptions should be sent to Ellery Queen, 6 Prowitt St., Norwalk, CT 06855, or call 800-220-7443. Editorial Offices, 475 Park Ave. South, New York, NY 10016. Executive Office, 6 Prowitt St., Norwalk, CT 06855-1220. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. ©2009 Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. Protection secured under the Universal Copyright Convention and the Pan American Copyright convention. ELLERY QUEEN'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE(R) is the registered trademark of Ellery Queen. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, 6 Prowitt St., Norwalk, CT 06855. In Canada return to Quebecor St. Jean, 800 Blvd. Industrial, St. Jean, Quebec J3B 8G4. Printed in Canada.
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