Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

In Wyattsville the first week in September traditionally belongs to the Pioneer Society. Everyone dons a costume reminiscent of the early days when the town was the last wagon-train stop on the way to the gold fields, the men grow beards, and there is a kangaroo court held on the lawn in front of the courthouse. The real feature, though, is the rodeo. It draws such a big crowd that any one visitor goes unnoticed. No one paid any attention to a Mrs. John Metcalf who registered at the Californian on September third and checked out on the seventh, the day that Andy Wyatt put a gun in his mouth and blew off the top of his head.

Had he been questioned (which he wasn’t) the desk clerk at the hotel might have remembered Mrs. Metcalf as a soft-spoken middle-aged woman who asked a lot of questions about the town’s history. It is possible that old Mr. Pruitt, owner of the variety store, and Miss Tait, an elderly saleswoman in the Emporium, also would have recalled her. Both had given her a great deal of information about the leading citizens of the community, especially those who bore the Wyatt name. These seemingly casual conversations were forgotten in light of the shocking news of Andy Wyatt’s suicide. No one — then, or later — associated her presence in Wyattsville with his death.

My first knowledge of Mrs. Metcalf came on the morning of September sixth when Velma put through a call to my desk. I heard her say, “Mr. Wyatt is out, ma’am. I will connect you with his secretary.” A pleasant voice said, “Hello? Will Mr. Wyatt be in his office later today? I would like to make an appointment to see him.”

Wyattsville isn’t really “small town” any more, but most of us act as though it were, so it was quite natural for me to volunteer the information that Friday was Kid’s Day at the rodeo and Mr. Wyatt would be staying for the whole program because he had two sons and five nephews entered in the various events. To make up for lost time, I said, he would be in his office Saturday and could see her at five o’clock. She had to be content with this, and I noted the time of her appointment on my desk pad and on Andy’s.

Those Wyatt boys took a total of eight firsts, three seconds, and five thirds, and the biggest barbecue in town that night was at Andy and Laura Lee’s home where there were more than forty men, women, and children, not one of whom wasn’t a Wyatt by birth or marriage.

In spite of all the celebrating, Andy was in his office at nine o’clock on Saturday morning and worked straight through until one, when John Bartlett came by to take him to the club for lunch and nine holes of golf. My standing appointment at the Delta Beauty Salon always has been for three o’clock on Saturday, so before I left the bank I went in and turned on Andy’s tape recorder. This is used at my discretion: when I’m not able to be there to take notes, or when my presence in the room would be an embarrassment. I listen to it later and decide what needs to be transcribed. The recorder is in a lower desk drawer and the pickup is in the desk lamp which always stands just about halfway between Andy’s chair and the one occupied by the person who has come to see him.

On this occasion, quite frankly, I wanted to know what Emil Sondergard would have to say about the route of the new freeway because of a piece of property I own. His appointment was for four thirty and I was afraid I wouldn’t be back in time. As a matter of fact, my roots needed a touchup and it was nearly five when I let myself into the bank. Emil’s car was in the parking lot and Andy’s door was closed so I sat down and typed a letter to the Chamber of Commerce saying Andy would be glad to pay for three trees on the east side of Sacramento Avenue, “same to be spaced evenly in the 150-foot strip north of Cabrillo Street and parallel with the property owned by the Wyattsville Farmers and Merchants Bank.”

The big clock over the entrance said exactly five o’clock when Mrs. Metcalf tapped on the glass door and I went through the bank to admit her. She was a trim, well-cared-for fifty or fifty-five; smartly, but not expensively, dressed in a lavender linen sheath, with matching pumps and handbag, and a bandeau of violets which fitted snugly over her short grey hair. What impressed me most was the fact that she looked cool, which is quite a feat in Wyattsville in September. She seemed well at ease.

“Mrs. Metcalf?” I smiled and held out my hand. “I’m Sylvia Sommers, Mr. Wyatt’s secretary. You’re new in town, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been here a few days.”

“One of our new teachers,” I guessed.

“Yes. Is Mr. Wyatt ready to see me?” she asked.