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

Carly had control of her mouth by the time he reached us. I busied myself mopping beer off my legs with a napkin.

“Carly, Tess,” he said pleasantly, squatting down to our level with a nod for the closest group of members. They smiled uncertainly and turned away. “Is Deenie here?”

“What’s this sudden fascination with Deenie?” Carly demanded.

“We were supposed to meet at her place, but she didn’t answer the door,” I told him, ignoring Carly. “Why? What’s the matter?” His face had grown grave, and he stood abruptly. “Hal, wait!”

I scrambled to my feet, dropped the beer can, and sprinted after him. Carly called out, but I ignored her. Two peaceful days since my encounter in the tool shed had done nothing to calm my stripped nerves. Hal the Hermit arriving at a social occasion made my stomach lurch. Hal concerned for Deenie—

I caught him at the door of his silly car. We stared at each other, then he popped the passenger door open and ran around to the driver’s side.

The Durham house remained blank-eyed. Hal banged on the door, then reached up to the lintel to produce a key. His hand shook as he fitted it into the lock, twisted it savagely, and thrust the door open.

The smell of lemon polish enfolded us as we glanced into the living room. Sunlight poured through the open front curtains. A naval clock chimed the quarter hour.

“Those curtains were closed before,” I told Hal.

He hurried down the hallway, calling Deenie’s name. The house echoed as though it were deserted. I took a deep gulp of air and headed straight back through the house to the least likely place — the kitchen.

Deenie’s tousled head had fallen forward on the breakfast table. An empty bottle of gin teetered on the table’s edge. I felt under her delicate jaw for a pulse. It was so faint it took me a few panicky seconds to find it.

“Hal!” I called, easing Deenie back in the chair. Her face was talc-white and slack. “In the kitchen!”

He skidded around the doorway and hurried to my side. Gently raising one of the unconscious woman’s eyelids, he held her wrist and counted a full minute. “That’s not just booze,” he said grimly, reaching for the wall phone.

Deenie was so cold it frightened me. While Hal called the paramedics, I fetched a sweater from the hall closet. Hurrying into the kitchen with it, I discovered Mutt and Jeff entering the back door. Fast work — Hal must have signaled them somehow. I shot them a glare that should have brought on multiple coronaries and wrapped the sweater around Deenie. With all the subtle charm I was beginning to know and love, the two men barely gave her a glance before they began to nose around. Mutt lifted the gin bottle, using his shirttail, and sniffed before carefully replacing it on the table edge. Jeff retreated, and I heard the boards creak in the bedroom next door. Hal gave me a flat stare, then fetched an afghan for Deenie’s legs.

The charming twosome had plip-plopped away on their scooters by the time the medics arrived. They asked some quick questions, put the bottle into a bag for analysis, attached an I.V. to their patient’s arm, and trundled Deenie out the front door.

“She’ll have to be ’coptered to Boston,” the older of the two told me as they slid her into the ambulance. “Looks like a botched suicide — barbiturates. Zeke will be calling you.” They took off in a spurt of gravel.

“Suicide, my eye,” I said bitterly as Hal joined me. “Deenie Durham never had a suicidal thought in her selfish little life.”

He glanced down at me, startled.

“People like Deenie don’t kill themselves,” I said impatiently, turning back to his lemon. “If you were convinced you were the center of the universe, would you leave voluntarily?”

“I thought you were her friend,” Hal said, following me.

“I love Deenie like a sister,” I told him in surprise. “That doesn’t mean I don’t see her faults. And let her know about them, sometimes.” I slid onto the hot seat of the bug. “Personally, I’ve never felt like I was at the center of anything — except an occasional slanging match between Mama and Joe.”

“You were the center of your grandmother’s life. I’ve been meaning to—”

“We should call Sandy,” I changed the subject abruptly.

“Leave that to the medics.” Hal turned the ignition key. “I gave them his work number — for what it’s worth.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

Hal’s face was grim as he swung onto the road toward home. He flicked me a glance, but his set jaw gave forth no reply.

“Look, Hal,” I began, temper rising, “I’m getting pretty sick of wandering around inside your private funhouse without a script. I almost got shot the other morning, if you remember. Today one of my best friends may be dying. Isn’t it about time you let me in on the secret?”

“Can’t,” he stated. Discussion ended.

“Then I’ll have to call Zeke Beebe and tell him what’s been going on,” I replied.

“I’ll break your pretty neck,” Hal said, casual as how d’you do.

I could hear my teeth grinding. “I should have flicked that light switch,” I muttered.