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

“Ohhh yes. I certainly have. Please. You don’t want descriptions. I’m the only milkman in the area, and he insists on having everything delivered — from me, the grocer, the druggist... Otherwise, I’d never be allowed within blocks of that back door. Neither would the others. Just ask them. He tells us to come around, but he doesn’t like it, so I’m in and out like a bolt of lightning. I never saw a guy go so nuts for absolutely no reason. Unless he could read my mind.”

“Your mind in this case is not exactly classifying Mrs. Elias as... coyote bait?”

“Not even at ninety could that female be anything other than a wow. But besides being gorgeous, she’s married.” He shrugged. “I admire, maybe, but she’s not available, to my mind.”

“Scruples? Or self-preservation?”

He grinned. “Possibly a healthy dose of both.”

“Well.” She considered him thoughtfully. “I hope you’ll consider a favor I’m about to ask you. It’s going to involve your compromising your survival tactics a bit, I regret to say.”

“And what’s that?”

“Someone is in imminent danger of being murdered, and as distasteful as it is to me to get involved in others’ difficulties, someone very dear to me will suffer if I don’t. I thought of you immediately as a person who is in a unique position to help. You finish your work early, and so you’re available. You’re young, and you seem ablebodied. Your passable appearance is a bonus, but not necessary.”

“Oh yeah?” His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. He waited, but she added nothing to her request. “And you’re not telling why, wherefore, or whereas?”

She laughed softly. He rubbed his forehead where for the first time she noticed faint freckles. “You’ve got a certain reputation, you know,” he said. His frown contained a small element of alarm.

She shrugged.

He sighed. “I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty woman.”

“Oh my word,” she said with a snort, but she’d plainly enjoyed the compliment.

“Okay,” he said. “Dare I mention that you will then owe me one?”

“I owe nothing. I ask for this favor with no strings, depending merely on the measure of altruism present in most human beings. But I will take care of any necessary hospitalization.”

He paled slightly. “Heh, heh. Funny you should mention that, but that’s not funny.”

She laid her long, graceful fingers across his wrist. “It isn’t meant to be funny. And you’re a fine man. A trifle shallow, but good-hearted.”

“Never mind that stuff, just tell me the details before I chicken out.”

“Well, to begin with, did you know that henbane, foxglove, lily-of-the-valley, and monkshood are all deadly poisons?”

He didn’t, so she explained.

Two days later, the witch, bearing a napkin-covered tray before her like jewels of state, entered Ike’s Fishmarket at the exact moment that the lunchtime crowd was at its peak. In triumph, she sailed across the damp floor, and as she presented him with the dish, she lifted the napkin away with a flourish. Revealed was a wide bowl filled with the stew that contains — with several varieties of fish and shellfish — chicken, sausage, spices, and a sauce on rice. A paella. And such a paella that filled the already odoriferous air with a rich, mouth-watering aroma.

The fishmonger, bursting with self-importance at this unheard-of attention paid him by the village’s most fearsome resident, was beside himself with pleasure and called to his customers and his wife to come see.

Mrs. Elias came running. When she saw what her husband held in his hands, she immediately understood that here at last was the witch’s gift she’d said she was bringing. So she added her thanks to his, although she was extremely relieved when the witch insisted that this dish was only for Ike, that no one else was to have so much as a taste. Ike’s chest swelled at this added attention. Mrs. Elias smiled graciously and modestly stepped away from her husband, allowing him to be the center of the commotion. His voice vibrated with excitement and pride.

At the witch’s urging, he took a serving spoon and shoveled a great mound of it into his mouth, swearing with his mouth full that it was his favorite dish.

The atmosphere in the shop became like a party, and Ike demanded that everyone join him, on the house, with various cold drinks from his cooler and things to eat from his deli case. The noise level rose and rose in the small market as Ike plowed his way through the bowl of paella to please the witch.