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

“Weird way to do anybody in,” suggested Mutt.

“Inefficient,” agreed Jeff.

“And not even original,” I finished.

Jeff’s eyes were unfriendly. “Elucidate, lady.”

Hal was scowling at the table and gave me no encouragement “At the club last night Deenie Durham told me a computer programmer from her husband’s lab hanged himself at their mountain cabin,” I finally said, watching the odd twosome and wondering where they fit in. “It reminded me of a story I read awhile back about a number of British scientists who’d committed suicide or died in questionable accidents.”

“Go on.” He leaned tanned knuckles against the table.

I shrugged. “That setup in the shed, plugging Hal into the electrical circuit — it was exactly like one of those so-called suicides.”

Hal’s face looked like unleavened dough, destined never to rise. While Jeff turned to confer with his colleague, he rounded the table and leaned against the wall beside my chair.

“You always were the nosiest kid,” he muttered. Which ungrateful comment left me, finally, speechless.

For their own reasons, Hal and his two “guests” refused to report the attack. Admittedly, Zeke Beebe, our lone policeman, is stretched to handle fender benders; he’d probably have had apoplexy if he heard our story. Besides, the sailboat in which the bull escaped wasn’t local; ditto the bull himself. Not really worth the energy it would take to pursue, Mutt decided. Jeff looked grave, and Hal took another drink. I was not consulted.

Mutt and Jeff eventually retired to the boathouse, leaving Hal and me staring at each other.

“Are you expecting any further visitations?” I finally asked. “Can I work in my garden unarmed?”

Hal grimaced and shoved the hair back from his forehead. “I can’t say—”

“—what’s going on,” I finished in disgust. “Well, my analysis,” I said, standing and stretching, “is that either you are under suspicion of something heinous, or you’ve been staked out as a Judas goat by those two morons. As the goat’s next door neighbor, I’d like to register a protest. You might make that dog a mastiff.”

I banged the screen door hard and stomped back to my immovable rocks. They reminded me of my neighbor.

All was quiet on the western front of the Cape for the next two days. I puttered around the house making notes of jobs Uncle Ernando could repair at special family rates. Carly called once, asking what had sent Deenie to the bottle — which was news to me. I put her off, then thought it over and gave Deenie a ring.

“Oh, Tess, I can’t stop now.” Deenie sounded breathless. “Look, come by on the way to the clambake. We’ll talk.” And she was gone. Seemed perfectly normal to me.

I kept one wary eye cocked toward the Benson property, but Hal never left the house. His guests were equally discreet.

I donned a sweatshirt and shorts for the Friday afternoon clambake at the Yacht Club and hiked over to the Durhams’. The curtains were drawn, and there was no response to my repeated knocks, although Deenie’s car was in the drive. But knowing her, she might have forgotten me and walked the short distance to the club. I had given up and was retrieving my bicycle when a front curtain twitched. I paused, waiting for Deenie to come bustling out in her usual attempt to catch up with time, but the fabric stilled and the door remained unopened. After a minute’s frowning hesitation, I pushed off for the club.

Carly, in painter’s pants and shocking pink sweatshirt, was seated crosslegged on the club’s lawn milking advice from Reg Dooley, our local veterinarian. Her cats were absent, a club rule since the day one of them seized Mrs. Farmington’s lobster from under her shrieking nose and made itself sick on the subsequent feast. Carly now locked them in the Members’ Library when she attended club functions. I plopped myself down on the grass and asked if she had seen Deenie yet.

“Not a sign,” she said, and paused for a pull at her cold beer, “but she’s never on time. Why?” Reg excused himself, sensing one of those female conversations that real men avoid. “Man can only discuss one subject,” Carly said speculatively, staring after his retreating back.

“Carly,” I insisted, “I stopped by Deenie’s. Someone peeked through the curtain, but nobody answered the door. Is something bothering her?”

Carly pulled an earlobe. “You heard her. She’s been wailing at the top of her lungs for Sandy to come and pay attention to poor little her. Maybe she’s—”

“But she planned to come to the clambake.” I accepted a beer from Raoul as he made the rounds.

“Far as I know, she was looking forward to it,” Carly said idly, eyes on the harbor, then glanced at me sharply. “For pity’s sake, Tess, you’re as jumpy as a cat on a hot griddle. She probably decided to stay home with—”

Carly’s mouth fell open in mid-thought. I swung around, beer slopping, to see Hal strolling across the club’s terrace like Lazarus on parade. He came down the steps with a wave for the staring commodore and made a beeline for us.