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

Caryn was surprised by the conviction underlying his words, but Troy Habegger supplied part of an answer for her.

“That’s because everyone’s always talked about your old man. If my dad was the town drunk, I wouldn’t gossip either.”

Kenny leveled a quiet stare at him, and Troy immediately tried to eat his words. “Look. It’s not like it’s your fault. Everyone thinks you and your mom are something, sticking it out and all.”

Kenny’s expression didn’t change, and Troy said, “Forget it, man: I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Yes, you did. You like to hurt people. It makes you feel big. But that’s your problem, not mine.” Kenny picked up his books and left the classroom.

The rest glanced at each other uneasily, then followed.

Caryn couldn’t believe how much she was looking forward to spring break. She was tired of the conjectures and whispers. This was one part of living in a small town she hadn’t anticipated and didn’t like. She was fairly confident that Silas Greeley was right, though, that the talk would eventually die down. Once everyone had a week off and tractors plowed fields again and boys went hunting in the woods, people would have other things to occupy their minds. So when the first week of April came, Caryn was ready for it.

She drove three towns over for the weekend, hoping to buy some furniture at a big auction that Mrs. Henderson had told her about.

“Everybody spring-cleans around here,” Mrs. Henderson had explained, “and lots of folks don’t care if a chair or a table’s supposed to be an antique. They just want the junk out of their attics.”

Caryn didn’t care if a chair or table was an antique, either. She just needed more furniture to fill her rooms. The few things she’d brought from her apartment when she’d moved here hadn’t gone very far. She was pleasantly surprised when she saw the oak rocking chairs, heavy mahogany dining room tables, and old horsehair sofas plunked in the grassy meadow where the auction took place. She’d rented a U-Haul and filled it before she started home late Sunday afternoon.

She stopped for supper at the Greasy Spoon Cafe so she wouldn’t have to cook when she got back.

“Where’s Betsy?” she asked Claire Morris after she’d given her order. “I always try to sit at her station.”

“Girl didn’t come in tonight,” Claire snapped. “Didn’t call in, either. Parents said they haven’t seen her since early this morning. Damn kids. Spring break and they do as they please.”

Caryn thought about that as she ate her meal. Alone, as she’d eaten every dinner since she’d come here. It didn’t sound like Betsy not to call in. Betsy was usually dependable. She was studying hard at school so she could go to college to be a nurse. Betsy prided herself on being responsible.

Frowning, Caryn had to admit the girl had been different lately, though. She’d had sort of a glow about her. Caryn had put it down to the upcoming spring break, but maybe there was something else. Troy Habegger had been surlier than usual, too. Was there a connection?

Finishing her meal, she paid at the cash register and left a bigger tip than normal for Claire. The woman looked run ragged. On the drive home, she felt her spirits sink. Why was she bothering with this charade? Why pretend that she was ever going to be happy again? She had to admit, finally and emphatically, that teaching had lost its appeal for her. City or country, it made no difference. And she was past forty. She didn’t want to start over.

As she pulled into her gravel drive, she had to brake to keep from hitting Jake Greeley, who was pulling out.

Rolling down his car window, Jake said, “Dad thought I should come over to see if you needed any help unloading furniture. How about it?”

She shook her head. “I’m too tired tonight. I’ll park the U-Haul in the barn and worry about the furniture tomorrow.”

“Give us a call when you’re ready,” he said. He put his pickup in reverse and backed onto the grass to let her by.

Nice, she thought, driving into the old barn. That had been country hospitality at its best. Fumbling for her key while she climbed the back steps, she inserted it in the lock only to have the kitchen door swing open before she could turn it.

A shiver ran down her spine, and a knot tightened in her stomach. She’d locked the door before she’d left. She was sure she had. City habits. Swallowing hard, she reached inside the door and flipped on the light. Still standing on the stoop, she peered through the kitchen windows, studying every inch of the room she could see. There was no movement, but she couldn’t see below the kitchen counters. Someone could be squatting there, waiting.

Reaching into her purse, she dug to the bottom and found a canister of Mace she’d carried in the city and never bothered to remove. She held it in front of her as she stepped through the door. Nothing. No one. She went to the drawer by the sink and took out the butcher knife. With the Mace in one hand and the knife in the other, she started through each room of the house.