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

A banker friend told her Alfie was using Marji. Cars hadn’t been selling, and the banks were threatening to take over his dealerships. He was talking Marji out of enough money to hold them off. Fine. It was her money, but he was bragging he’d found an enjoyable way to stay out of bankruptcy at the cost of a little time. Once he’d drained her dry, he’d leave. No point in talking to Marji. She wouldn’t have believed her. So when she saw the weasel leave the house, she went down and talked to him. She told him that if Marji’s father was alive, he’d shoot him. He laughed. Her father is dead, he said. I’m not, she said. And shot him with the Luger her husband had brought back from the war in Europe. She went back to the house and came out again when Marji began to scream.

She shrugged. “What can the justice system do to me? Send me to a women’s prison? At least I’ll have someone to talk to during the day.” She waved at the room. “Holding conversations with memories puts you in a white coat eventually, sheriff.”

Woody turned off his tape recorder and sighed. Women committing crimes made him uncomfortable. He preferred his perpetrators to be men.

“I’ll have this typed up for your signature,” he said.

“Don’t waste your time,” I said. “It’s a good story, Mrs. Guidron, but let’s start again. To the sheriff, you’re the dignified descendant of one of our old families, whose father was once mayor. Too honorable to lie. But I know what you’re trying to do and why.”

She frowned at me. Woody leaned forward, looking stunned.

“I hate to do this, but in loco parentis has its limits. If you’d killed Alfie, you’d have no reason to mention a running figure at all, much less one that disappeared alongside the church. Which means there was a figure. Unfortunately, you told Woody before you figured it out. You knew that eventually he’d ask himself, as I did, why the killer ran under the light of the street lamp with a dark neighborhood to choose from. Answer — only that route would take him where he wanted to go. Not to a car. No point in parking around the corner when it could have been parked in the darkness down the street. So he didn’t turn right. He turned left. Why? To get to the back door of Marji’s house and then out the front. I thought of it, but dismissed it because of the people who saw her emerge robed and barefooted. Very clever of her. She gave them what they expected. But no one is equipped with X-ray eyes. What was under the robe? Sexy nightgown? Nothing?”

Her glare could have brought on another ice age.

“Marji might have been naive, but she isn’t stupid. When she decided to shoot Alfie for making a fool of her, she certainly didn’t want attention focused on her. She knew he’d leave at about eleven whether she was there or not. So she waited and walked up to him. If she sensed things weren’t quite right, Alfie would get an apology and a goodnight kiss instead of a bullet. But afterward? The shot could wake someone up, so she needed a little misdirection. She zipped past the church, through her back door, stripped off shoes, stockings, and skirt, messed up her hair, and threw on a robe. Two or three minutes later she was screaming over the body. Barefoot woman in a robe. How else would one be dressed after entertaining her lover? Who would think for a moment she hadn’t been inside? Or connect her with the running figure? I’m sure you didn’t. At the time.”

Her silence was enough.

“Neither would a cop. And even if he did, he’d never have the nerve to peek under the robe of a screaming, weeping woman. I know I wouldn’t. But Marji said or did something that gave her away. You picked it up.”

Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. I smiled.

“That was it, wasn’t it? When you helped her into the house, you noticed she was half dressed. When she told you how she planned to dispose of the clothes and gun, your experience in the D.A.’s office told you it was risky. You had a better idea. Why not put them in your trash? If the container had been at the curb that night, it would have been searched, but a week later? Not likely. And if someone did, your story was ready. Better your life, almost over, than hers, just beginning. No prints on the gun? You’d know enough to wipe them off. The clothes? Perhaps not your exact size, but close enough.”

I waited again. “No protest? Good. Determining who bought and wore the clothes should be no trouble at all.”

The glare had subsided into resignation.

“Don’t hold it against me,” I said. “If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t have said a word.”

She almost smiled. “No need to become maudlin just because I allowed you to put out my trash.”