Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 9, September 1962

After she’d finished the dishes, Ann carried a cup of coffee into the living room. Phil was watching a news report on TV. She drank the coffee thoughtfully. Maybe she had been a little too sharp with Holly this afternoon, but Sara had grated on her nerves so. She didn’t see what there was about the child that attracted Holly to her. Then Ann remembered that she hadn’t had a chance to discuss the new doll clothes with Holly. By now she’d probably got over her moodiness.

She found Holly stretched out on her bed, face-down. Ann smoothed the child’s hair. “You’re not asleep, are you, baby?”

“No.”

Ann sat down beside her. “I forgot to ask you what you think of the Pettingills’ and Clara’s new outfits.”

“They’re okay,” Holly replied in a monotone.

“I had a terrible time with Mrs. Pettingill’s dress. The sleeves still don’t fit quite right below the elbows, but it’s so hard to work on anything that small.” Ann questioned gently, “Do you suppose she’ll mind?” Holly didn’t answer. Ann supposed that she was still resentful about not being allowed to play in her room. “I’ve been thinking that maybe we should fix up Mr. and Mrs. Pettingill’s room. It’s so drab compared with the rest of the house. I have some lovely pale green silk that I could make into draperies and a bedspread, and...”

“I don’t want you to,” Holly interrupted shrilly, and sat up on the edge of the bed. Her shoulders were rigid.

“But why not, sweetie?” There was a soft insistence in Ann’s voice.

Holly repeated uneasily, “I don’t want you...” She swallowed. “I mean, I don’t think Mrs. Pettingill would like that.”

“Of course she would,” Ann argued more firmly. “Pastel green was just the sort of color that was fashionable in those days, and it would do a lot more for that dark walnut bed and highboy than that dingy lace.”

Holly picked at one of the yarn ties on her comforter. “But it would make Clara feel bad.”

“What’s she got to do with it? She’s only the maid.” Ann glanced with annoyance at the uniformed figure in the kitchen. Clara’s blue eyes stared back at her. At that moment there seemed to be something challenging about her vapid smile.

Holly misinterpreted her mother’s silence as interest. “Clara’s so much nicer than Mrs. Pettingill. She understands Charlie and Mr. Pettingill. I think they really like her better.”

Ann was rather shocked. “But, Holly, that’s not natural.”

“I want to go to bed now.” Holly untied one shoe slowly, then placed it on the floor beside her bed.

“All right, chicken.” Ann kissed her daughter’s cheek.

Holly kept her eyes on the floor. “Don’t do anything more to the doll house. Please, Mother.”

“We’ll talk about it later, dear. You’re tired now. Go to sleep.”

For the next week the Pettingills weren’t mentioned. Holly played at Sara’s house every afternoon until dinnertime. Afterwards, she did her homework, read, or watched TV until bedtime. Phil was having Ann type a draft of his lecture, and she didn’t have time to talk much to her daughter. She grew increasingly keyed-up, with Phil’s demands that the copy be absolutely accurate, in spite of her having to decipher his illegible handwriting. And all the time she was bothered by Holly’s strange reaction that last particular night.

She finished Phil’s report Friday morning. At lunch she said to Holly, “I’m all through with Daddy’s work now. Let’s do something special this afternoon.”

Holly captured a bit of carrot from her spoonful of vegetable soup, and put it aside on a plate. “I promised Sara I’d go over to her house. She told me she has a surprise for me.”

Ann felt that she had to make a compromise in order not to estrange her daughter further. With resignation she said, “Well, bring Sara here then.” When Holly hesitated, Ann added, “You’ve been at her place so much lately, I’m sure her mother needs a rest by now.”

“Okay,” Holly agreed. She glanced at the clock over the refrigerator. “I’d better go now. Sara said she’d meet me at the corner at 12:30.”

Ann resolved to be as pleasant as possible to Sara that afternoon. She baked some brownies, and made a pitcher of lemonade. She set the kitchen table for a tea party. Holly would like this. Ann went upstairs to the spare bedroom, took from the closet a box of clothes to be mended, and sat down at the sewing machine.

“Mommy,” Holly called from the foyer an hour or so later, “we’re here. Come and see what Sara gave me.”

Ann smiled at the two of them as she came down the stairs. Holly held out her hand. In it was a tiny circlet of white fur.

Sara’s freckled face was exuberant. “It’s a muff for Clara. I made it all by myself.” She stopped abruptly as she saw the change of expression in Anne’s eyes. She looked down. “Well, my mother did help a little. She showed me...”

“Why did you do it?” Ann’s smile was fixed.

“Well, I...” Sara stammered.

“She wanted to, Mommy,” Holly spoke up. “What’s wrong?”