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

For a week this continued, Mrs. Elias meekly handing over the contents of her large plastic container and the witch depositing it inelegantly into her basket, the whole process taking seconds. The witch would return to the boardwalk and continue on her way before anyone had a chance to notice that she’d been standing at the back window of the fish market. And daily, in the early hours, the witch would glance up at the roof of the fishmonger’s house to observe the color gradually returning to Mrs. Elias’s cheeks, and a lessening of the circles beneath her eyes. Always, before passing on, the witch would inquire pointedly about Ike’s blood pressure and how well he was taking his medicine.

One day, as the witch disposed of Ike’s well-intentioned lunch for his wife, Mrs. Elias, after hesitating for a moment, leaned close to the screen and whispered faintly, “I feel I owe you... Ike feeds your cat only because when you come into the shop, it makes him important in the eyes of the other villagers and brings him business. It isn’t... it isn’t...”

“It isn’t because he just loves cats? I know, dear. But don’t you think your loyalty should be to your husband? Like these horrendous lunches, he means well. I know it’s difficult to be a wife, dear.”

Flushing at the rebuke, Mrs. Elias drew away from the window and took her empty container back from the witch with only a faint “thank you.”

Another week passed. Mrs. Elias’s garden bloomed as if in sympathetic delight with the increasing wellbeing of its caretaker. The witch had gone home and consulted a manual of herbal lore the day she’d first disposed of Mrs. Elias’s lunch, and never failed to consider the garden thoughtfully thereafter as she passed it on her walks. As Mrs. Elias’s color, health, and garden continued to flourish, so did the worried look in the witch’s eyes when she was home and unobserved by anybody but Jezebel.

After yet another week had gone by, as the witch observed the milkman again sneaking furtively back to his truck from Mrs. Elias’s house, she signaled to him that she wanted to see him. After making an appointment with him at her home at dusk of that same day, she went on about her business.

That evening the milkman parked in a lane that stopped about a hundred yards from the witch’s house. The air was much more comfortable hero than in the village because of all the surrounding trees He waited as he’d been instructed.

“Hello, Charlie.”

He jumped, nearly falling because of the foot he’d left propped on the running board of his ancient panel truck. “Oh, hi, there, uh, Mrs. Risk. I came like you asked me to.”

She smiled, eyes widening in surprised appreciation. “You remember my name. Few do.” She studied him as he stood there in front of her, and while she did so, he leaned lightly against his truck. He had thick auburn hair and light hazel eyes that crinkled pleasantly in the corners, giving him a good-natured look. His mouth widened into a broad smile now, and his eyes twinkled intelligently at her as he watched her look him over. She admired the restraint he kept on the curiosity he must have felt.

“Well. At least it’s understandable,” the witch finally said. “What is?”

“This attraction you seem to hold for half the village housewives.”

He relaxed a little more. “That might be a compliment. It depends. Unless you mean what I think you mean.”

“Oh, really?” Mrs. Risk studied him with increased interest. “And what do you think that is?”

“Oh, the old cliche. I’ll bet that you, like most of the husbands in this place, think that just because I see their precious better halves in their nighties at the crack of dawn I’m itching to jump their bones while hubby’s at work. How’m I doin’, as a certain ex-mayor used to ask?” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Not bad. Are you implying that the truth of the situation is something different?”

“Truth is, most women look like coyote bait at that hour of the morning. Their husbands are welcome to ’em, with my heartfelt sympathy. Only about two women in this whole burg hold any attraction for me whatsoever, and they both have husbands who could chew new artwork out of Mount Rushmore for breakfast.”

“So I take it you resist temptation.”

“And will continue to do so until I feel suicidal.”

She studied him thoughtfully for some more minutes while he waited patiently. His face betrayed his bafflement, but he seemed in no hurry to push for explanations.

“So all this running from the back door of Mrs. Elias’s house each morning is merely to avoid personal injury at the hands of a husband who really has no reason to worry?”

He whistled softly. “In that one case, I’m in danger just for daring to sell her milk. When it comes to his wife, that is one mean ba — person.”

“Have you had any actual confrontations with Mr. Elias over... Mrs. Elias?”