Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

He shifted in his chair. “I been farming it for years, ever since her husband died. Split the profits with her, fifty-fifty.”

“That seems generous.”

“Old folks need money, too, you know. Not that she ever got out much. Pretty much of a shut-in with her arthritis botherin’ her so much and all. But still, her kids never came home to see her, and with the extra money she could call them long distance whenever she wanted and buy the fancy chocolates she liked so much.”

“Why will people talk?” Caryn, asked. The whole thing seemed reasonable to her. Silas had been kind to the old woman, and she’d repaid him the way she knew he’d appreciate it most.

He frowned, his forehead puckering like corrugated cardboard, dry and weathered. Too much time spent outdoors. “This here’s a small town. People talk about anything and everything, and everybody knows everybody else’s business. They’ll know that money’s been tight for me, tryin’ to buy up more land. The corn crop didn’t do too good last year. It was mighty odd the way Hazel died.”

“I see.” She went to the stove and poured them more coffee. “Is that why you came, to let me know I shouldn’t listen to their gossip?”

The idea seemed to surprise him. “Everybody listens to gossip,” he said. “S’pose you’ll have to make up your own mind what to think. No...” He fumbled with his mug. “I don’t like it, that’s all. That an old woman that lived alone had a nasty accident. That Hiram Becker’s barn caught fire last spring, with him in it. That Josie Turner drowned the summer before that when she hit her head on a rock in the swimming hole.” He gave her a level stare. “And that you live way back here, a woman all by herself.”

For the first time, Caryn comprehended what he was trying to say. “You think I might be in danger?” she asked.

“Just seems funny, don’t it? So many accidents in such a small town.”

Caryn thought about it. She’d become so used to deaths and violence in the city that an accidental death a year didn’t seem much to her. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

He shook his head, embarrassed. “I’ve prob’ly just been stuck in the house too much, with too much time to think.” Pushing himself to his feet, he said, “Hazel’s funeral is Tuesday. S’pose most of the town’ll be there. Thought you should know.”

“Thanks for telling me.” She walked with him to the kitchen door and watched him U-turn at the empty chicken coop and drive away. Silas Greeley wasn’t the type of man to look for worries. He had enough of them at his doorstep. A widower, he’d raised a boy all by himself — a baby that townsfolk called “slow” behind Silas’s back.

“But pretty,” Mrs. Henderson had told Caryn at the grocery store. “Pretty and sweet. No wonder that little tramp, Heather Merchant, snapped him up. All the other boys knew what she was. Now she’s got a good husband, and her daddy-in-law keeps a roof over both their heads. He’d work himself into a grave to keep his boy happy.”

Yes, Silas Greeley was no stranger to hard work and hard times, Caryn decided. He must be pretty concerned if he drove to her house to tell her about Hazel Yardley’s death.

“It wasn’t Silas that offed her,” Ralph Fryburg was saying as Caryn strode into the classroom.

“Who else would it be?” Troy Habegger argued. “She left him all her property.”

“It was his boy,” Ralph said.

“Jake?” Betsy shook her head. “He’s too sweet. He comes into the restaurant every morning for breakfast. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“You’re just soft on him ’cause he’s good-looking,” Troy scoffed. “And the only reason he eats out every morning is ’cause the slut he married won’t get her lazy ass out of bed before noon.”

“My dad says she’s the one who put him up to it,” Ralph explained, “so old Silas could have a bigger farm. Means more money for her and her retard husband.”

“You’re both pigs,” Betsy told them.

“Better than being a sow,” Troy shot back.

Betsy’s face flushed red. She was a little overweight, and on the plain side, but if he meant his remark to silence her, he’d underestimated her.

“Why would it make any difference?” she persisted. “Silas was already farming her land. Why would he have to kill her for it?”

“Because,” Ralph said, “he was giving her fifty percent of the profits. I bet that made Heather red under the collar, the way she likes to spend money. And because the old bat was getting really feeble. There was talk of sticking her in a nursing home. To pay for that, she’d have had to sell everything she had.”

Caryn let them argue until the bell rang, then briskly started her lesson, putting a finish to the gossip. They took her cue: there’d be no talking about Hazel’s death on her time. As soon as the bell rang to dismiss them, though, they started up again.

Betsy turned to Kenny Nesco and said, “You’ve been awfully quiet. What do you think? Do you think Jake killed Hazel Yardley?”

Kenny shrugged. “That’s up to the law to decide. As for me, I like to believe everyone’s innocent until proven guilty. Gossip can get ugly. I don’t want to be a part of it.”