Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

“Small world, ain’t it?” I felt her sudden twinge, a connection she was making behind her mossy green eyes. “I believe we can take care of everything here.” She rummaged through the purse. “Hancil’ll wait,” she said as if that were my cue to leave, which I had no intention of doing. Not with Nell lying unattended under my drawer full of sacred and undeniable truths and a frightened child on the loose.

Rosalie brandished a pink rabbit’s foot key chain and was headed toward the El Camino. “Tell the sheriff to bring three strong deputies,” I called.

The body had been removed, and he’d heard the whole story from Rosalie Sikes Timmons and her newly wedded husband Hancil. Sheriff Don Earl Keck paced across the wide front porch of Nell’s Elegant Junk, then propped his black shoe on the crate where I sat. And I was ready. Ready for “There’s no murder here, Marcy,” or “You can go on home to your spy novels now, Marcy,” or perhaps “My, my, my, you do get around, don’t you, Marcy.”

But all he said was, “What do you think?” with what sounded vaguely like respect. I could smell the Juicy Fruit gum he was folding into his partial plate while I searched for an answer.

“I’m worried, sheriff,” I said. Not an hour had passed since I’d seen Nell Hopper’s palm and wrist, lifeless, the only visible sign of her body caught beneath Jeb’s humongous piece of walnut.

He nodded thoughtfully, gnawing the gum while I took the privilege of speaking my mind a bit farther. “First, there’s the question of how, Don Earl. How did it happen? How did—”

“Furniture doesn’t move all by itself,” he said. I agreed. Then he stood up and motioned me to the edge of the porch out of earshot from Rosalie, who was telling Hancil how to smush out his cigarette. Don Earl’s voice was as deep as a toad’s. “That’s what I was thinking, Marcy, but it could have been an accident. Nell could have been trying to move the thing herself—”

“Or somebody could’ve pushed it down those stairs on top of her.”

He bristled. Murder was sometimes complicated, and Don Earl was not a complicated man. Also, he hated being interrupted, but I couldn’t help it. “We need to question the girl if she turns up,” I said. Another faux pas. It sounded too much like an order. I couldn’t help that either.

He placed a thumb in his black leather holster and walked over to the squad car with a bothered look. Rosalie and Hancil were rearranging suitcases, a lamp, an ironing board in the back of the El Camino. “She’ll turn up,” said Rosalie to everybody, holding up a can of something perspiry wrapped in the handkerchief. I wondered if they were still going on vacation.

I could barely see the stepback through Nell’s front windows. It was propped at the bottom of the stairs now, an upright angular blob. No one had been allowed in the shop after the sheriff had arrived, and I hadn’t had a chance to tug on my bottom drawer.

I heard the static of the squad car’s radio as the sheriff put out an ABP on Nell’s niece. “No trespassing, Marcy,” he said before I hopped in Jeb’s truck and drove away.

I remembered my date with Clint Knuckles and spotted my stowaway at the same time. Her small sunburned arms and ponytail loomed from the brown canvas in back of my truck like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. I gently hit the brakes and pulled under a shade tree on the side of the road. She dodged my reflection in the rear view mirror.

I got out of the truck, checking off my mental list of what else could go wrong today. “Are you okay under there?” I said. “It’s awfully hot. You can ride with me in the truck if you want to.”

I was drumming my fingers on the side of the cab.

She threw the canvas away and sat up, perspiration dripping from her flushed face. She looked down the road toward Nell’s place. “What about Aunt Nell? They get that thing off her?” Her voice was slightly hoarse.

“Yes, honey. They got it off.” I knew better than to ask all the questions reeling through my head. Why didn’t you come when we called? Don’t you know better than to hide in a stranger’s truck, I could’ve been an axe murderer for heaven’s sake? “By the way, I’m Marcy,” I said.

She ignored my offer of a handshake, squinting from a square of sunlight that fell between the tree limbs. “I don’t wanna go back there. You live in town?” she asked.

I hesitated. Not that I don’t like kids. I do. I used to be one. But I did have that date with Clint, and I wasn’t running a babysitting service, and even if I was, I didn’t see anybody handing out five dollar bills.

“Don’t you know where you live?” she said, shading her face with a little hand.

“I do, um, live in town,” I said out of pure guilt, shifting my feet. “You like ice cream?” I added.

She shed the canvas, climbed over the truck’s gate, and said, “I’ll have a popsicle.”