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

“Mrs. Elias.” Though she didn’t raise her voice, the element of command was so strong that Mrs. Elias heard her clearly and hastened to pay attention.

“Yes?”

“Does your husband like yogurt?”

“What... why—”

“I noticed you two seem to consume a great many dairy products for a childless couple,” the witch said dryly.

Mrs. Elias stiffened.

“I feel impelled to repay in a small way the generosity you and your husband display toward my pet. Jezebel has become quite pampered with his attentions, and I adore my Jezebel.” She touched the small basket hanging from her lean arm briefly, but the object of her affection remained hidden and silent. “A yogurt pie, perhaps. A sweet dessert, but still healthy. Good for Ike and good for his waistline, too. I’ve noticed it isn’t getting any smaller,” she said. “Yes, or—” She laid a finger to her lips. “I shall think on it.”

“No, please, don’t both—”

But it was too late. The witch had continued her poised stroll down the exact center of the boardwalk and was now gone. After a puzzled moment, Mrs. Elias turned away and faded back inside like the shadows before the morning’s sun.

A few days later the witch appeared again before Mrs. Elias, this time in the shop, late in the morning, when business was hectic. Mr. Elias sold not only fresh fish but also deli salads and cooked fish to the locals and the tourist trade. A huge cooler inside the door kept bottled and canned drinks icy. Ike’s Fishmarket was a popular place around noon.

The bustle in the small market was dampened somewhat by the witch’s appearance. After she slipped inside the door of the refreshingly cool room, she stood watching for a while, a pleasant smile on her face. After the first nervous moments, people resumed shouting their orders to Ike and reaching across each other to grab napkins and other items.

Mrs. Elias appeared wan and tired, but that was to be expected with the hours she kept. Often she would disappear into the back of the market, to reappear soon after with new salads to replenish the depleted bowls in the display case, or new buckets of ice. The customers soon learned to ignore the witch, merely nodding politely as they moved about or went out. Jezebel contentedly patrolled the floor in front of the fish cases, yowling with relish at the delicious odors, anticipating her treat at Ike’s hands when the crowds slackened.

As two o’clock approached, Ike gave a great sigh, wiped his ham-sized fists on a clean paper towel, and took a large covered plastic container from the cooler behind him. This he handed to his wife, who appeared not to want it, but he insisted, kissing her on the forehead. “Yes, you’re getting too thin. You waste away before my eyes, and I want you healthy and strong.” He patted her behind to hasten her away to the back room of the market. With a sigh she yielded, and as she went he added, “To please your Ike, okay, sweetheart? Just for me, eat it all.”

Wiping his hands again, he turned, beaming, to confront Jezebel. Lifting three small silvery fish from the ice, he laid them on a china plate with a flourish possibly inspired by the witch’s close scrutiny. “Sweet and fresh, just for you,” he remarked. Jezebel greedily pounced, then began nipping at the fish with finesse. Glancing at the witch, Ike grinned. “She loves me only for my fish. If I stopped giving them to her, she’d never visit again and would break my heart without a second thought.”

The witch began a leisurely approach to the counter. “That was very touching, just now.”

“What, feeding the cat?”

“Feeding your wife. What was it? Is she ill, and is it medicine?”

The fishmonger waved away such suggestions. “No, no. She’s just so pale these days, with the heat. I fix her lunch every day, just like she fixes my breakfast. It’s only fish and pasta, with chopped potatoes, peppers, and vegetables. Things that’re good for her. She’s not as strong as me, and it’s a lot of work, running this business every day, even with help. I take care of my wife.”

“She’s always seemed quite robust to me.”

“It’s just the heat, just the heat.” Ike pulled his apron from around his immense middle and with the clean side of it wiped his face, which was red from exertion and sweaty despite the extreme coolness of the air in the shop. “Affects me, too. I try to keep her from working so hard, but she won’t listen.”

“I noticed how she tries to wait on customers, but you won’t let her...”

Ike shrugged. “The men’re rude, half of ’em. I won’t have them talking to my wife that way.”

The witch’s eyebrows rose. “Asking for fish?”

“Yeah. They don’t have any manners, those guys. Grinning at her. And the women are worse, they don’t know what they want, most the time. Keep the rest waiting while they ‘think.’ She’s got better things to do.” He threw up his hands in disgust.