Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

I parked across from the church and lowered a mental shade over the sunlight to imagine what the street was like at night. The old pole-mounted street light at the corner would keep the Lutherans from stumbling on the steps of the church, but the budding curbside trees would kill the yellow light before it went very far. Someone running into that light would become clearer with every step, but the night deficiencies of Mrs. Guidron’s ancient eyes would have required the assistance of a battery of floodlights. Lack of detail in her description of the figure was only to be expected.

I’d asked Woody why someone would wait for Alfie. Wouldn’t it be likely he’d spend the night? Anyone who took the trouble to look into it would know he never did, Woody had said. While she might tolerate his infidelity, Peggie still demanded an appearance of propriety.

Some marriage arrangements puzzled me.

I followed the route the figure had taken. To my left, a head-high hedge above a low stone wall kept the people in the house next door from seeing what the Lutherans were up to. Woody’s men had examined every leaf and probed every inch of the soil beneath it, in addition to scouring the entire neighborhood and searching every corner sewer inlet to be certain the gun hadn’t been thrown away as the killer fled. The heavy granite of the church sat on my right.

At the rear, a sharp-spiked ornamental wrought-iron fence separated the church from a narrow alley that had once served for trash and garbage collection until the trucks had become too big to fit. Running into it at full speed in the dark would have turned an unaware perpetrator into instant human shish kebab. Woody believed the killer had turned right, his car parked on the street only fifty or sixty feet from the gate in the fence. I turned left.

High fences, low fences, small lawns, others with garden plots showing the signs of early spring attention, walks leading to flights of wood steps and small back porches. Marji’s house was no different. Utility was the architectural watchword for the rear of the homes of that era.

I came out onto a strictly residential cross street and returned to my car, looking at the church and wondering if I’d overlooked something.

“Hey!”

A small white-haired woman wearing gray sweats and white walkers glared down at me from the wide verandah of the big brick house. Even at that distance, the glare was enough to quick-freeze a large steer.

“Looking for something?”

I ambled up the walk and beamed my most charming smile up at her.

“Don’t stand there grinning like an imbecile! I asked you a question.”

The white hair was thinning, but it still maintained its natural waviness and she kept it cut short to highlight a face with very few wrinkles, the skin stretched over fine bones. The hazel eyes were certainly not cataract-dimmed and were still sharp enough to get into a man and look around.

“Mrs. Guidron? I’m working with Sheriff Barr. I’d like to talk to you about the murder.”

“I know you. You’re no cop. You’re a realtor.”

“I’m undercover today. Out for your two mile run?”

“Hell, no. I’m undercover, too. As an active person. What are you really up to? Looking for bargains?”

“Looking into the murder, as I told you. I help Woody out once in a while as a civic duty. Sort of a two heads are better than one deal.”

“As a politician’s daughter, I’m always suspicious of people who talk about civic duty. What’s in it for you? The town has to rehab one of your termite infested houses?”

“You’re talking to The Last Remaining Patriot. My services are absolutely free. I understand you saw the killer running away.”

“Hey, in detective novels private eyes have to pay for information.”

“You got it, babe. Do I slip you a Hamilton or a Jackson?”

She hooted. “If I wanted money, you’d need a Cleveland. Follow me.”

She led me up the driveway to the rear of the house. No maintenance problem here. The lawn was clipped, shrubbery trimmed, flowerbeds mulched, wood trim painted. She pointed at a large black plastic trash container at the head of the porch steps.

“Drag that to the curb for me. Tomorrow is trash day.”

I bumped the heavy container down the stairs, hoping I didn’t acquire a slipped disc or double hernia. “What’s in here? A discarded lover?”

“I ran out of those years ago. It’s a bit heavy because I decided I no longer needed my utility bills from 1950 to 1970.”

I dug my heels in and pulled the container after me. “Seems to me you’d hire someone for these little chores.”