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

The sheriff had strung the entire place with yellow tape and turned on the neon sign, which now flashed a permanent CLOSED. I went under the tape, used the key Merry had found in her shorts pocket, and unlocked the door. One of Merry’s dragon drawings drifted to the floor. I couldn’t chance turning on any fights, but there was still enough daylight left to see Jeb’s stepback where the sheriff had left it. The burly mass stood near the bottom step like a neurosis. But it looked different. The brunette wood had been cleaned and polished, even around the broken glass that stuck in the upper cabinet doors.

I noticed the stairway. Dark smears stained the worn carpet on the steps — but the killer had wiped her weapon clean. No fingerprints, no evidence.

I tugged at the bottom drawer of the stepback, spit out a choice four letter word, and bent down behind the chest, thinking I could reach in from underneath. It was boarded almost to the floor, where traces of bright pink flaked across the back lower edge. Bubblegum pink — the color of Rosalie’s shoes, new except for the dark scuffmarks across the toe of each one. She’d been nearly flush with the stepback when she stood behind it ready to push after she’d somehow coaxed Nell up the stairs, leaving gravity to do the rest of the damage. She’d used the strength of her entire body to push the thing over and had caught her feet just under the back of the chest as it went down.

“Thought that was your pickup out there.” I hadn’t heard her walk in. I moved toward the side of the stepback. The pink shoes stood out in the gloom of the antique shop, pointy bright triangles, with the scuffmarks still on them. Even murderers can’t think of everything, I thought. Rosalie hid her hands behind her back. “It’s such a pity, bout Nell,” she said, her eyes wandering over the stairs. Thunder rattled a chandelier, a stack of china. “Merry okay?”

“She’s fine.” I leaned against the front of the stepback. All I needed were the cotton-picking shoes.

“I want my girl, Murdock,” she said. “I used to be a nurse, and I’m a good friend of Nell’s, a responsible citizen. I’ve met Merry’s mom and dad. I know it’d be best if I had complete charge over her till they can come get her. Hanoi’s gone over to your place to get her now; then he’s comin’ back here to pick me up. I hope to God you didn’t leave that child alone.”

“I know all about the miscarriages, Rosalie. The botched adoption, the felony.”

“I’m appealing that,” she said.

“You also intend to appeal a murder charge?”

“You can’t prove that.”

I glanced down at the shoes, and she shoved me against the stepback so hard it rocked backward, hit a chandelier, and toppled against a bulky upright piano stacked haphazardly with dishes. I scooted around on the floor and pulled myself up on the piano bench. She landed against a sofa leg, grimacing, holding her lower lumbar.

“Was it so bad, Rosalie?” I said, breathless, mad. “Were you so desperate for a child that you had to kill Nell Hopper for the chance to kidnap her niece? Why murder? Why not just a kidnapping charge? Why didn’t you just take Merry and flee?”

Her cat eyes darted around the shop, then landed on me. “Nell had to be gotten rid of and it was too easy. I went on and on over that walnut piece, asked her to show me how the desk folded out. On the way up, I dropped a quarter. She picked it up and... well, she had to be gotten rid of. That’s all. She woulda been the first one to go blabbing to the police. I’m the only neighbor, I woulda had a good half day to get away if you hadn’t come along, nobody woulda known—”

She tried to get up, and I lunged forward, snatching a shoe off her foot as she headed for the front door. She stopped and turned around. “I did not intend for Merry to find Nell Hancil was supposed to flag the girl down on her way back from the store, keep her at the trailer. He botched everything.” Her voice collided with a thunderous boom. “I had a right! It was my right to be a mother, it is not a sin to love a child!” She was hobbling toward the door. “Merry was all I ever wanted.” I watched her shadow limp into the rain.

A flash of lightning skittered across the shop, illuminating the entire room with a sharp white blaze, and for an instant I saw the step-back lying on its side against the piano, shards of porcelain scattered beneath it. A jagged edge split the middle of the lower cabinet, and the bottom drawer was jutting a third of the way out.

I crawled toward the stepback and slid my hand into the shallow dark crevice, feeling a packet of folded papers rubber-banded together. I pulled out the packet, took off the rubber band, and unfolded a set of drawings. The one on top was a drawing of a baby dragon in a playpen by America Joyce Brumbeck, age three, and there were more she’d drawn at ages four, five, and six. Dragons in ballerina costumes, standing on their heads, blowing bubbles. Beautiful dragons. All of them were labeled at the top: To Uncle Jeb.