Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 48, No. 1, January 2003

Well, yes and no, my dear. To you maybe, but not to me. What nagged at me was not how the ring got to New York but that it did get there. But I said, “You’re probably right.”

Sadd said, “You mean Clara isn’t going to be able to exercise her talents?”

Sophie smiled at me. “Of course she can if she wants to, but I’m sure she has better things to do.”

“Well, I have something to do right now.” Malcom stood up. “And that’s to uncork a special bottle of wine that I got to celebrate our wonderful — what shall I call it? — Christmas present!”

“Hear! Hear!” said Sadd, standing up. “Let me help.”

“Sophie,” I said quickly, as they went into the house, “I’m catching a glimpse of the gulf at the foot of your street. Would it bore you to take a stroll down there with me?”

“Not a bit.” She jumped up, took my arm, and we went down the steps.

I said, “I hope it doesn’t awaken unhappy memories. Is this near the beach where you were going to be married?”

“It is the beach. No problem. I swim here every day.”

“You’re a good sport.” The fragrant dusk settled around us as we neared water. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, which you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to?”

“Sure.”

“When you decided not to go ahead with your wedding were any of your friends critical of you?”

“A lot of them. I was overreacting, I was brutal, cruel, you name it.”

But she was not a cruel girl. We’d almost reached the beach and some people passed us coming from it lugging gear and children. Sophie ran a little ahead to halfway down the sand. She called back, “This was the fatal spot, actually.”

I walked toward her and stopped a few feet away. I said, “Sophie, you said I was a person who found out about things.”

“Yes.” She stood still, her arms at her sides, her face expressionless.

“May I tell you what I think I have found out?”

She hesitated, then said slowly, “Yes, if you promise not to tell Grandfather.”

“Promise.” I drew a breath. “I believe that the ring was never recovered from the sand because it was never in the sand.”

She gave a little nod. “Go on.”

“I believe that your husband-to-be didn’t drop the ring but only pretended to, then palmed it.”

“Palmed it?” she gave a little laugh. “I’ve never heard that expression.”

“It’s one magicians use. To hide or conceal.”

She took the few steps to my side and and even in the almost-dark I could tell she was smiling. She said, “Well, he wasn’t much of a magician, because I saw him do it.” Then she put her arms around me. “Let’s go in and have some wine.”

The Trophy Room by D. A. McGuire

Of course it was her handwriting. The way she formed the small letter a and crossed the letter t so high, the nonexistent r at the end of both Carter and Sawyer; they were her trademarks. Even though Frances used a quill pen, with ink so old it was brown, and a sheet of yellowed paper she’d probably found in the attic, along with...

“Look at these, Herbie. I think we used these here, once, when I was a child. Can you imagine how old they must be?” She had plugged them in, and ancient as they were, the filament in each bulb glowed.

“But it’s not even Thanksgiving yet.” My protest had been small. These were her things; this was her house; these were her brass electric candles — ancient Christmas decorations. And they were standing stiffly in each window because of her insistence.

These were not my windows I looked out to watch the wild autumn wind sweep the leaves back and forth across the street. This was not my carpet, books scattered across it in the waning afternoon light, where history was opened to a forgotten chapter, and science to facts which held no interest. Nor was this my chair, where I rested my arms and leaned forward to watch the wind play with the leaves and rock the naked limbs of the sycamores in the front yard. And not my cat padding across the floor softly. Not my keys wound round my fingers.

I was only the caretaker, the boy hired to clean, to repair, to watch over this house that was not his own.

“Make it seem lived-in,” Frances had said. “Set the timers. Put the electric candles in the windows.”

So I had. I’d also set the clocks. “There are so many; I’ve not got to them all. Maybe what I should do is...” She seemed so flustered, and yet so perfectly beautiful as she tapped the tip of her pen against her teeth. “Yes, that’s it. I’ll make a list of chores for you. Will that be all right? It’s odd being back here. This was just a summer house for me, and well, I’m a city girl.” Then she had signed my paycheck, looked at me, and smiled.