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

“Instant panic. Randy yelling at his father, his father yelling at Randy. When Zeigler realized what he’d done, he came apart. By that time Mrs. Zeigler was out of the house. When Randy started inside to call the police, she stopped him. His father would be arrested, go on trial for manslaughter, might even receive a prison sentence. Did he want that? Who knew Grover was there? No one. Who was more important, Grover or his father? She kept reinforcing the questions with shots of straight scotch. Zeigler was sitting on the ground, staring at his fist. Before he knew it, Randy was digging a hole. Don’t worry, his stepmother kept telling him. Only the three of them would know. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut. When his father came out of it, he’d be grateful his son had protected him.”

“She has to be one helluva saleswoman.”

“Randy bought the idea only long enough to bury Grover, but by then he figured it was too late. He had another problem. Zeigler hadn’t moved. If he wasn’t back to normal by morning, people would wonder why. Tell them it was her fault, she said. She’d been thinking of going back to the West Coast. She’d go now. He could blame her. He gave her the money from the safe and promised to send more. Everything was under control. He’d worry about his next step when his father came around. He waited. And waited. Until yesterday.

“Didn’t anyone ever ask about Grover?”

“Of course. His family called when he didn’t come home, but the last time anyone had seen him, he’d been heading for the bus station, so it was assumed he’d disappeared somewhere between Philadelphia and his home town.”

She finished her drink and rested her head against the back of the chair, her voice flat. “I feel cold. Is it the story I just told you or that open door?”

Sun almost gone, the thermometer was falling. He rose and closed the patio door, looking out at the deepening shadows.

“What happens now?”

“Randy and the fast talking Mrs. Zeigler are guilty of the illegal disposition of a body to cover up a crime, but because of the motive and their position in the community, no judge will be too hard. Zeigler? Nothing. A man who isn’t aware of the proceedings can’t be prosecuted.”

Curiosity about a vaguely remembered bump in an otherwise level lawn had driven him into the night in the hope that he could somehow help Zeigler, but nothing had turned up that would help him at all.

His reflection in the glass stared back at him. Beyond, in the growing dark, he also seemed to see Zeigler. In a way, the man was a shadow of himself. They lived differently but followed the same code, which was why they got along so well from the day they met. The code said others could lie, cheat, and steal. They would not, even in retaliation.

Analyzing businesses, separating causes from effects and looking for solutions had given him a sixth sense. The pieces fit or they didn’t — and these pieces didn’t fit. He couldn’t believe accidentally killing Grover would push a man like Zeigler over the edge, any more than the departure of a wife he didn’t care about.

There had to be a flaw in the story somewhere.

When the thought came, he couldn’t erase it. Like the one solution to any problem, it stood pure and shining and unassailable. He turned to Amanda. Her eyes were closed.

He bent and whispered into her ear. “Randy lied about what happened.”

The eyes remained closed. “Lied? That’s one helluva story to dream up.”

“He didn’t dream it up. He reversed the roles. Listen to me carefully. Zeigler was working late, not Randy, which is more likely. Zeigler didn’t have much cash on him. He never did. Zeigler couldn’t operate the cash access machine. Anything with keys on it always baffled him. That’s why he kept money in the house safe. And because of the late hour, it was like him to take Grover along, intending to give him the money, drive him in to the station, and put him on a bus. So Zeigler drives up to that house on the hill and he walks in on something that takes the heart out of him and sends him into a depression so deep the mind mechanics may take years to find him, much less bring him out of it. One guess as to what it was.”

She sat silent for a few moments, then the eyes opened, the shoes were on, and she was headed for the door, tossing the words back over her shoulder. “Damn you, Denbow. I wish you’d stop thinking so that I can get some sleep.”

The phone rang two hours later.

“I’ve had enough of your fertile brain, Denbow. I’m at home.”

“That’s too bad. Dinner is waiting, the wine chilling, the table set, and the candles ready.”

“Bloodshot eyes ain’t romantic, even by candlelight.”

“Don’t you pay attention to commercials? I have a little bottle of the stuff that clears that up in seconds. What did Randy have to say this time?”

“Exactly what you thought he’d say. His father caught him and his sexy stepmother in the most embarrassing of all situations and it shocked Zeigler’s mind loose from its moorings.”