Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

Denbow didn’t point out that had been clear to anyone with any sense three months ago. He reached for the starter.

“I’ll finish it,” said Randy.

“That verges on stupidity. I’ll be done in half an hour. Go do whatever you have to do.”

Voice flat, Randy looked up at the house. “Stay on your own side from now on, Denbow. Nothing personal. Something between me and my father.” Denbow smiled. “Count on it. I never mow where I’m not wanted.”

If Randy said anything, the roar of the engine drowned him out. His rudeness didn’t surprise Denbow. Growing up as Zeigler’s son couldn’t have been easy, and Randy sometimes let a buried, perpetual anger show. What eluded him was who Randy was angry with — Zeigler, himself, or the world.

Halfway down the screen of his word processor the words ended, the cursor flashing accusingly. The report should have been finished an hour ago. The project was basic, the analysis simple, but even that required a concentration that escaped him.

One of the drawbacks of his business was that he formed no lasting relationships. One project finished, he moved on to another client who was sweating out bank loan payments.

Zeigler had been an exception and even then, once the business was on its feet, the agreement not to annoy each other had been respected, their contact limited to an occasional conversation, drink, or party invitation.

Zeigler brought his new wife down one day to introduce her and Denbow had waved at her a few times as she drove by, but that was all he knew of her, except that she obviously wasn’t making Zeigler happy. The man was more subdued, but facing a major mistake every morning had a way of doing that.

Denbow could neither affirm nor deny the rumor she was entertaining men in the house because there were many occasions when he had to be away, like the night she’d left. He hoped the rumor wasn’t true. Often overbearing and insistent, Zeigler was still one helluva man and deserved better.

When asked, Randy had said, “She packed her bags, told my father she was leaving, and took off.” He paused. “We had no idea she’d gone back to San Francisco until the police reported her car had been at the airport garage for two weeks. I don’t know why she’s waiting, but I suppose we’ll hear from her when she gets around to filing for divorce.”

“Why wait? Have your father do it.”

Randy leaned forward and spoke directly to the lamp on his desk. “Listen, Dad, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t divorce her.”

The lamp sat there.

“You’ve made your point,” said Denbow.

He’d walked up the hill several times to see if there was anything he could do. Robed, slippered, unshaved, uncombed, and red-eyed, Zeigler had ignored him. Maybe Zeigler hadn’t even known he was there.

“Severe depression,” the attendant had said. “All I can do is keep an eye on him. He might—”

“Kill himself?”

“They’ve been known to do that.”

He hadn’t gone again. It was, after all, none of his business. Like mowing the lawn.

The high-pitched whine of a four cylinder engine laboring up the slope made him frown. The day had gone fast. He stored what he’d written on a disk, turned off the processor, and met Amanda outside.

She handed him a bag of groceries. “I see you managed to get your lawn done. And Zeigler’s. I thought that wasn’t part of the agreement.”

“It isn’t, which Randy reminded me of in no uncertain terms.”

“Very rude of him. Did he say why he didn’t appreciate your labors?”

He placed the bag on the counter in the kitchen.

“Seems to be one of those father-son things. As a matter of curiosity, did the police ever get involved in the sudden departure of Mrs. Zeigler?”

She smiled as she slipped off her jacket. “Are you using an intimate relationship with an assistant county district attorney to elicit police information?”

“What other reason can there be for an intimate relationship?”

She kissed him and began to unpack the bag. “Okay. Since no missing persons report was filed, we knew nothing until the Philadelphia police notified us about the car at the airport parking garage. Randy told the officer who contacted him what had happened.”

“That was it?”

“Not entirely. One of the county detectives, who was born with a suspicious nature, checked the flights to San Francisco on the date of the parking stub and turned up a credit card slip for one way, first class passage, signed by the Zeigler woman, and a reservation clerk who recalled a very sexy, thirtyish blonde woman.” She held out a head of lettuce with loose green leaves. “Would you like to take care of the salad?”

“No. I’ll handle the wine bottle. Did you happen to know that Randy’s wife is also blonde, thirtyish, and very sexy?”