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

“Ask Randy. If she’s getting money, it has to be from him. Zeigler doesn’t even remember what a check is, much less how to write one out.”

She lifted her hands. “Get me down, Denbow.”

“You don’t buy my magnificent analysis? People pay me good money to be so smart.”

“I buy it, all right, but this is Saturday and I’ve looked forward all day to spending the weekend with you. The Zeigler matter can wait until Monday, which won’t hurt at all since it’s already waited for three months.” She slapped the head of lettuce into his palm. “Now get started on the salad. I’m hungry.”

He woke suddenly, just as he had on the night he’d thought he heard Zeigler calling him. The red numerals in the radio alarm clock said it was a few minutes after two. Beside him, Amanda breathed softly.

Damn. This wasn’t one of those heavy-eyed wakeups triggered by who-knows-what that could be dismissed by rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. He was wide awake. Really wide awake. One of those might-as-well-get-up-and-make-the-coffee episodes.

He slid out of bed carefully. No point in punishing Amanda.

Listening to the gurgle of the coffee maker, as alert and wide awake as he’d ever been in his life, he knew that his eyes would begin to close about mid-afternoon, when he’d be in the middle of finishing his report. One way or another, his body always extracted eight hours of sleep.

Perhaps something in his subconscious had bypassed the block he’d run into this afternoon and was telling him to get it done now.

Taking his coffee with him, he turned on the processor and stared at the flashing cursor on screen. The words still eluded him. Whatever his mind was trying to tell him, it had nothing to do with the report.

He returned to the bedroom and stared out the window, sipping his coffee. A full moon, as on the night he’d seen Zeigler; the hilltop and the lane silver. The warm afternoon sun long gone, the night air now carrying the chill of fall. It was the time of harvest and frost on the pumpkin and Halloween — and the last time he’d seen Zeigler laugh.

Zeigler had given a Halloween costume party to introduce his new wife, and the lane had been edged with luminescent figures of ghosts and witches and black cats leading up to the house. Feeling no pain as the convivial host, Zeigler had climbed on a table and recited a children’s poem about ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night.

“Paul?”

Amanda’s white form had raised itself on an elbow.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking about things that go bump in the night.”

“How about waiting until dawn and things that go bump in daylight?”

The coffee cup stopped halfway to his lips.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

“Two thirty in the morning is not a time for self-recrimination. Come back to bed.”

He placed the cup on the nightstand and turned on the light. “Let me have your keys. Your car is blocking me in.”

“Where are you going?”

He threw the robe aside and slipped into shorts and a T-shirt. “To look for something that goes bump in daylight. Don’t ask if I’m crazy. Just give me the keys.”

She threw back the covers. “Oh no. Where my car goes, I go.”

He grinned. “Like that? Not that I have any objection to nudity, but you’ll find those vinyl seats a little cold.”

She sighed. “Mother was right. If he laughs when he sees you naked instead of being overcome with flaming passion, the romance is over.”

“Only waning. I’ll need something from the garage, so I’ll meet you outside. No need to dress formally and makeup isn’t necessary.”

Five minutes later, wearing slacks and one of his sweaters, she started the engine. “Where are we going?”

“Up the hill to Zeigler’s house.”

“We could have walked.”

“We’ll need the headlights.”

“With this moon?”

He told her to stop in front of the house, walked slowly back and forth across the lawn, returned, and said, “Move over.”

He made a U-turn so that the headlights flooded across the grass.

She joined him in their glare. “Exactly what are you doing?”

“Trim the grass on Zeigler’s lawn close enough, and you’d have an enormous putting green. It’s all as smooth as silk, but when I was mowing I hit a couple of bumps about here. I thought nothing of it at the time. Could have been the earth settling after a tree trunk cut below ground level rotted away.”

“It all looks level to me.”

“It would. The mower blade sort of floats over small depressions. The mower wheels don’t.”

He probed with a foot. “There it is.” Crushing the grass with the toe of one shoe, he worked his way around the perimeter, his blood running colder with each step as the outline of the depression took shape.

He finished with a rectangle about two feet wide and six long.

She let her breath out slowly. “I hope that isn’t what it looks like.”

Using the pointed spade he’d thrown into the car, he cut through the sod in the center and placed it aside, lifting out the soft dirt beneath until he met a stiffer resistance.