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

“Sweetness. Paul Reston was one sweet little boy. You know, the kind who gets pushed around a lot in school. They say his sister had to physically protect him more than once. Anyway, my point is maybe Pauline saw something that night, being as she’s the kind who’d notice things. Then again, maybe she didn’t. But it’s worth a talk. Let’s see, the men you mentioned. Fenster? No way. Dietrich hasn’t got the macho urge any more, maybe he never did have. The Reverend Faversham — you were really reaching there. Oh, I know, so-called men of God are sometimes self-ordained, but not Faversham. The boytoys, what were their names, Wilson and Eps; sounds to me like if either one had been involved he’d just slip the lady some cash and tell her to get rid of it. If she wouldn’t, hell, so what?”

He leaned back in his old auto seat chair and cogitated. “We’re assuming that the pregnancy and the murder are cause and effect — that young lady was too damned close-mouthed for her own good. I’ll do some more thinking, Ben, but so far I haven’t got the itch. You know what I mean, that inner starter that gets your engine running. Right now all I can say is call on Pauline Reston.”

Looking back, I had this vague memory that the Restons had been two or three grades behind me in school, and since I was busy bonding with my peers, was into sports and nagging for a car, I didn’t pay attention to younger kids, let them fight their own battles. Thus I expected Pauline Reston to look like her brother (sans mustache) and was surprised to find that except for height — she too was a tall one — they didn’t much resemble one another. His hair was dark, hers was on the blonde side. His eyes were a mixture of blue and brown like aggie marbles; her eyes were paler, more blue than brown. His face was soft; if I poked his cheek with a finger, it might deflate. Her chin was firm, her cheekbones prominent. She said, “Can I help you?”

I said, “I hope so.” And then, while she waited for me to go on, “I bought some azaleas the other day. From your brother. I don’t think they look too healthy, I’ve got them in my trunk. Can you give them a look-see?”

She poked the soil around the plants with one finger. “I don’t know about these containers.”

“I live in an apartment. On the second floor. I put them out on my porch; they get plenty of sun.”

She frowned. “That may be part of your problem right there — azaleas like some shade. Furthermore, this isn’t a real good time to plant them — didn’t Paul tell you?”

I got him off the hook. “Yes, but I was pretty determined. I guess I have a lot to learn about gardening. That’s because in real life I’m a cop. Ben Edison. I think we more or less grew up together.”

Her “Really?” was cool. “Do you want us to take these back? Is that what you want?”

I shook my head. “No, I’ll muddle on.” I shut the trunk. “What I really want is to talk to you. About the night Rosejoy Precious was killed. When her body was dumped in Big Tree Park.”

She looked me straight in the eye. “What could I possibly know about that?”

“Your brother told me he was out of town but you were here. Maybe you saw something, heard something? We’re having a kind of a tough time with this, anything at all might be a help.”

“Sorry,” she said and turned on her heel, headed back to the shop.

I tried a stab in the dark. “I was looking around just now, thought I saw a vegetable patch in the back there. And what looked like some watermelon vines. You folks grow watermelons?”

“It’s the wrong season for watermelons.”

She threw the words over her shoulder. I stayed close behind.

“I know, but they look like watermelon vines. I know a lady who says you grow the best watermelons she ever ate. Now, I’m really fond of watermelon. I suppose there’s no chance at all I could grow a vine on my porch — what do you think?”

“I think you’re wacko, that’s what I...”

Paul Reston loomed up in the near doorway.

“What’s up?” he asked. “Have we got a problem?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she said and I interrupted with, “Well, there might be a problem.”

The itch had hit me, the inexplicable signal that told me I was in the ballpark, all I needed to do was get a hit, even a single. It took two people to transport Rosejoy’s body, two strong people, and here I was, facing two strong people. I took a calculated swing.

“Who decided to get rid of her? Who did the deed while the other watched?”

Pauline Reston’s eyes blazed. “Wacko, that’s what. What are you talking about? Paul, I think — it sounds like he’s accusing us.”

Paul Reston made a sound as though he’d been punched in the stomach. He gagged, and for a minute I thought he was going to throw up. Pauline turned on her brother and slapped him across the face. He blinked and backed off.

“He’s subject to fits,” she told me, face suddenly smooth. “You’ve upset him, brought on a attack.” She reached for the telephone, “I’ll call 911 for the medics, Paul. Just sit down, you’ll be all right. Shut your mouth — and breathe naturally.”

That’s it. Shut your mouth.