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

Then the week of Thanksgiving arrived and she asked again if I’d be interested in working inside: “I’ve got the place fairly livable, except for that furnace, but at least you wouldn’t be cold inside. So, if you’re still interested, would you...”

Strip the wax off the kitchen floor? Steam and scrape off old wallpaper? Vacuum and buff down the hardwood floors in the front rooms? Vacuum the furniture and all the rugs?

“Of course,” had been my response to every question.

“You’re too kind,” she’d said.

So I had slowly moved from being the outside boy to the inside help, and then, from there, to the caretaker.

Then, a few days ago, she’d said: “It’s just not ready to live in. I’m going back to New York for Thanksgiving and probably won’t return till spring.”

Had she seen the disappointment in my face? Did she know I lived each day watching the clock and counting the minutes until I could see her? Though our conversations were brief, focusing mainly on my next task (“Could you roll up those rugs, take down those paintings, wash those windows?”), I lived for every word she said, my answers yes, always yes.

“The house is winterized, but I can’t stand that clanging furnace. So, until the spring, will you...”

Set up these Christmas candles? Buy a wreath after the first of December, hang it on the front door? Set the timers so the lights will go on? And if it snows, shovel a path and clean the driveway? Make it look like someone lives here? Will you light the furnace, let it run a bit each day, keep it warm enough so the pipes won’t freeze?

“And Sammy?” I’d asked, as the gray cat wound through my legs.

“Jean will take care of him,” had been her reply as she scooped him up into her arms. “I inherited Sammy, too. He belonged to Sophie.” Then she pressed the keys into my hand.

“Sophia Clara Carter. Lived in Lynn, summered here in Manamesset, or did until about ten years ago. Paid insurance and taxes on the Sanctuary Drive property, but other than that, generally let the house and two outbuildings fall into disrepair. Then early this fall she hired a local man to do some painting and carpentry work. Unfortunately that ended when she was found dead in her condominium on October tenth.”

I hate to admit it, but it was the most interesting thing Jake had said in all the time we’d been living together. I looked up from my turkey sandwich. It was the Friday after Thanksgiving and I was having a rare meal at home because I had an indoor track meet that afternoon.

Jake waited for my reaction, then went on: “Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, Herbie. Sophie Carter committed suicide.”

“And?” I said with complete attitude. “So?” I even shrugged. “Got nothing to do with Frances... Miss Carter.”

“Miss...” he emphasized, “Frances Carter is a research historian, and lives in Greenwich Village, though she’s recently made plans to relocate here to Manamesset. Never married. Inherited the house on Sanctuary Drive, plus two other properties in Falmouth and Brewster, from her sister Sophie. No other living family members. Her father, Lyman Carter, died in 1970...” Another emphatic pause — cops must get off on this stuff. “...of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”

I shook my head. “Frances must have been just a kid then.”

“Must have been,” Jake agreed. “I have no age on either Miss Sophie or Miss Frances.” He definitely was getting off on all of this. “Maybe suicide runs in their family.”

I bit down deliberately on my sandwich, said with my mouth full, “I’ve heard it does... in some families.”

We’d had a lousy Thanksgiving at home, just him and me and a football game in which I’d had no interest. Halfway through, I got up and left and took my bike to the Carter house to do some work.

“Sorry, Herbie, I shouldn’t have said...”

“Forget it.”

“Okay, here’s something else: the man who worked for the Carter sisters, a Daniel Church of West Falmouth, was reported missing by his girlfriend on October sixteen of this year.”

“So?”

“So, Herbie, I’ve looked into this Frances Carter, though I have absolutely no reason to be concerned, not at this point. I’ve talked to a friend up in Lynn and...”

“And what?” I cut him off. “What are you saying, Jake, that I’m working for a murderer? You’ve got to be kidding. What did Frances do? Off her sister? And her father? When did she do that, when she was five?”

“Let me finish. The medical examiner said that Sophie Carter killed herself. No one accused Miss Frances...” Her name sounded dark and ugly coming out of his mouth. “...of anything improper. She was in New York when her sister died. I’ve just looked into her background because...”

“Because I can’t take care of myself?” I demanded. “Because I wouldn’t know a murderer if I tripped over one?”

“Herbie, no one said...”

“Are you jealous because I spend so much time over there? You do know I’m working, don’t you? That she pays me? I’m not over there partying, Jake. She keeps me busy, plenty busy. You should see the list of things she’s left for me to do.”