Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

One night at dinner at Betsy’s the hostess said to her two guests, “I have something to tell you.” She poured brandies and led them to the sofa and easy chairs. Comfortably seated, Betsy said, “You’re my two best friends. In fact, next to my lawyer, Bartlett Campbell, you’re the only people I trust. I have come to love you both. So I want you to know that I have made a new will, and you, my dear friends, are my sole beneficiaries.”

Maxwell heard Ruth gasp as he felt the blood rush to his cheeks. My God, he was thinking, how can you tell a poverty-stricken writer, one who deserves to be declared a disaster area, that he’s now the heir to a share of a great fortune. Ruth was struck dumb. The insurance money was long gone, and she was too shy and embarrassed to ask Betsy to increase her generosity.

“Oh, my poor darlings, this is such a shock. I didn’t mean it to be. I wanted to make you happy!” She lowered her voice. “I have no relatives; you see. I’m alone in the world. And, well...” she arose dramatically and positioned herself against double doors that led to a balcony that afforded a magnificent view of the San Diego freeway. “I didn’t want you to know. But now you must. I’m very ill. I’ve been ill for years. The real reason I came to L.A. was for medical treatment only available here.” Ruth and Maxwell found their voices and were remonstrating. “Please, please don’t, please. Let’s enjoy ourselves. Let’s have our luncheons and dinners and go to the theater and see terrible plays about ugly people in the barrios, and revivals of George Bernard Shaw with an all black cast. Come on now, let’s have more brandy and swap terrible jokes!”

Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and bills began piling up. “It’s awful,” Ruth said to Maxwell one Saturday evening when they dined alone, Betsy having arranged dinner with her lawyer, “knowing we’re to inherit all that money and today we can’t pay our bills. I have to admit it, Maxwell, I have to admit it,” the texture of her voice darkened, “I’m thinking a very terrible thought.”

“Me too.” He was barely audible. “Umm, er... Betsy’s been losing weight. The circles under her eyes are turning into crevasses.”

“And she’s barely eating. You know, I’m going to ask her if I can give her some vitamin shots. I wonder if her doctors give her any. She won’t tell me who they are. Has she told you?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I feel she’s gone a little quiet of late. Like, well, like she might wish it was all over with.”

“I wonder. Do you think she does?”

Betsy brightened at the suggestion of vitamin shots. “Not that I think they’ll really help.” She and Ruth were speaking on the phone. “Do you want to come over now?” Betsy asked Ruth.

“There’s no time like the present, if you’ll forgive a cliché!”

Betsy replied solemnly, “I do forgive a cliché.”

Several days later, the obituary in the Los Angeles Times read:

BERING, BETSY: Age 39, suddenly of a heart attack. There are no immediate survivors. Her friends Ruth and Maxwell are grief-stricken. Services will be private.

Betsy’s lawyer, Bartlett Campbell, invited Ruth and Maxwell to his office. Before going, they spoke on the phone, very excited at the prospect of hearing the terms of Betsy’s will, which, they presumed, was why they were asked to Campbell’s office. He was a handsome man in his sixties and introduced them to an associate, Walter Trance, who grunted his hellos and sat next to Campbell.

Campbell held a small white, sealed envelope. “Betsy left instructions for me to open this envelope in your presence in the event of her sudden death.” Ruth’s heart sank when she heard “sudden death.”

Maxwell said innocently, “Is this her will? She told us she was leaving everything to us.” Ruth bit her lower lip while hoping Maxwell might blissfully go mute.

Campbell extracted a folded sheet from the envelope. He read clearly and distinctly. Walter Trance leaned forward, looking as though he intended to pounce at the sheet of paper.