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

May was the month when the writing changed. All her previous entries had been open and almost childlike. In May she got real cosy and began to refer to a He in capital letters. I don’t think this particular He referred to the Almighty. He, whoever he was, ran into her at the local Publix. She was shopping in the produce department when He said He could grow watermelons twice the size of the supermarket offerings, and that claim led to a free watermelon offer, which in turn led to the delivery of “truly the biggest and tastiest watermelon I’ve ever seen. I offered to pay him, but He was insulted at the very thought, and if I wanted to repay him, I could treat him to a cup of coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts.”

A cup of coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts was the first in a series of casual meetings that culminated in dinner dates, and I thought, uh-huh, could be He’s my man. But who was He? What was his name? Why was she being so coy?

Her only hint as to why came in a rambling paragraph about past disappointments (“He said He was sorry, he swore it would never happen again.” Could that pertain to the tooth loss?) and introspective revelations: “Mother wondered why Charles Evers didn’t call, she liked him, and I said I don’t know, Mother, I guess he just doesn’t find me very interesting. I’m not ‘interesting,’ I know. I’m rather dull, actually; I’m too precise. Mother says I’m a perfectionist and perfectionists are hard to live with. I don’t think I’d be that hard to live with if I had a chance. I believe He finds me interesting. He hangs on my every word!”

I made a list of the men mentioned in Rosejoy Precious’s diary, leading off with He. Then came employer Fenster, Pastor Faversham, Jeffrey Wilson, Cornell Eps, Henry Davis, Charles Evers, dentist Edwards, and (unmentioned but possibly the watermelon connection?) Paul Reston. Just before I turned off the lights, I looked up elephants in my Bartlett’s and found George’s mother’s charming little rhyme about elephants and telephones. It came from a poem entitled “El-telephony” by Laura Elizabeth Richards, 1850–1943. If I could’ve, I would have said to Rosejoy Precious, “Now see, there’s an example — the kind of nineteenth century lady who’d think like that, that’s interesting.” Poor Ms. Precious, she would never know.

But... she thought He found her interesting. He must have found her interesting enough to take to bed, but in some men’s worlds that doesn’t mean much.

Her use of the word interesting intrigued me. She could have tried for sexy or beautiful or desirable, but all she wanted was to be interesting. Well, she’d been good to look at. And bright enough. Good manners, oh yes, well-behaved. You could take Ms. Precious anywhere. All of which must have been important to Him. And what did that tell me?

He was a conformist. Maybe a mother’s boy. And considering the effort involved, physically strong. Which set his age at a probable range of late twenties to forty, old enough to care about appearances, young enough to be able to transport a body two hundred fifty yards through a primeval forest in the dark. And there must have been a vicious side to him. She’d spoken of dental visits, but she’d never explained why, and I took it from the one reference to disappointments that he slapped her around. Maybe only once? “He swore it would never happen again.” What else had she written about ill treatment? I thumbed back to June, no, not then, July... “I think it’s the humidity that causes us to behave badly in the high heat of the year. Why, even my mother berated me this morning, and I must confess I reciprocated. I will not be ill-treated, not by anybody! I know a girl from high school who married her childhood sweetheart. We thought it so romantic. I saw her on television last week. She’s hiding out in a home for battered women. How can any woman with any self-pride get herself in such a situation? It’s pathetic! I refuse, absolutely refuse to be intimidated — by anyone!”

Yes. Pathetic. My last thought before I dropped off to sleep was that I needed to talk to Dr. Edwards. Maybe she’d said something to him about her attacker. Then, at the very last minute, just before blackout, I told myself I was missing someone. There was another man in Rosejoy Precious’s life — her father. Fenster had given me his last known address. I set my schedule for next morning.

Derek Precious lived in a mobile home in a trailer park. It was not a lots-of-money mobile home, it was a much-lived-in mobile home that had seen numerous casual occupants with lackadaisical habits. The place was a mess outside, ditto inside.

He’d been a goodlooking man. Traces remained — a good bone structure, strong jaw, widow’s peak hairline. But now his skin was sallow and unshaven, his dark eyes were sparkless, his hair uncombed. “I meant to go to the funeral,” he told me, “but I was too hungover and I figured she wouldn’t want me there anyway.”