Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

He fixed himself another drink, a weak one, and went out to the garage. He got the rifles out of the truck, cleaned and oiled them at his workbench. Then he took the cooler out from where he had placed it under the camper shell and lifted out the heavy trophy head and skin, which were still in the Ziploc bag. Using one of his sharp fileting knives, he separated the head from the pelt. He placed the head back into the Ziploc bag and put it in the large floor freezer in the corner of the garage. The skin went into a second bag. He moved some stuff around so they would fit on the bottom, then covered them up with frozen packages. The trophies, especially the head, weren’t going anywhere for a while, and he wanted to keep them fresh.

He came back into the house and locked the guns up. On the television screen the X-Files was coming on. It was a rerun, but he watched it anyway. Halfway through, at the commercial break, he heard the winching sound of the garage door opening. Then he heard the sound of his wife’s car slowly coming up the slick driveway and pulling into the garage.

A moment later she came in. “Bobby turn in already?” Her face was red and chapped.

“Yeah. He’s not used to this weather.” He looked over at her. “Been outside?”

Her hand went to her face, her fingertips touching one raw cheekbone. “I took a walk. Down by the river. I’ve been inside all day, I was going stir-crazy.”

“It wasn’t too cold?”

“I came home when I got too cold.” She changed the subject. “You’re taking him to the airport?”

He nodded. “We’re leaving early. I’ll try not to wake you up.”

“I don’t mind. I want to say goodbye to him.”

“I’ll wake you up before we leave.”

She hung her coat up in the hall closet.

“You’re home early,” he observed.

She gave a little shrug. “Only a couple of the girls showed up. We ran out of things to say.” She looked at the television set. The commercials were still running. “What’re you watching?”

“Mulder and Scully.”

“Is it any good?”

“I’ve already seen this one. It’s okay. Not too gory.”

She paused, as if deciding whether or not to sit down with him on the couch. “I have a call to make. Before it’s too late.” She went into the kitchen, out of his line of sight. He heard her punching in some numbers. There was a long wait. Then she hung up.

3

He pulled an hour of overtime, which was good money, time and a half, so he didn’t get home until close on seven. He was the foreman, he didn’t go home until everyone else did. He’d been there his whole adult life, except for a stint in the Navy. If he ever upped and quit they wouldn’t know what to do. He didn’t say that — his boss did. He wasn’t one to brag on himself. He let his work speak for itself.

She had dinner all ready, Swiss steak with some fancy kind of potatoes and a green vegetable and salad. Pillsbury rolls. There was some of the apple brown betty left over from the night before for dessert. Even though she worked — she was the secretary to the principal at the high school, the hours weren’t bad and she had summers and holidays off, and the money was pretty good, it definitely came in handy — she fed him a real meal every night, not some freezer food thrown in the microwave. They didn’t have any children of their own — that freed her up.

“Work late?” she asked. She set his food down in front of him.

He’d washed up, had a light Jim Beam on the rocks, looked over his mail. Bills. He took Sports Illustrated and National Geographic. Neither magazine came on Monday.

“I should’ve called,” he apologized. “It was a last-minute thing. We had to get an order out.”

“No big deal.” She hovered at the edge of the table. Watching him eat her cooking was one of the most pleasurable things she got from him. He appreciated a well-cooked meal, even if he didn’t express his feelings as much as she would have liked.

He glanced up, “Aren’t you eating?”

“I already did. I got hungry.”

“It’s good.”

“Thanks.” She glanced at her watch, a practiced nonchalance. “I’d better get going.”

“What’s tonight?”

“Book club.” Her ‘book club,’ half a dozen women like herself, met once a week, Monday nights.

“What’re you reading?”

“We’re starting a new Amy Tan book.”

“Any good?”

“We’re just starting it. I’ve only read one chapter. I’ll let you know if it’s any good. Probably not your taste.” She pulled on her car coat. “You don’t have to wait up. The brown betty’s in the fridge. You might want to zap it for a minute.”

“Okay. Have fun.”

“Thanks. See you.”

“See you.”

He listened for the whirr of the garage door automatically opening, the sound of her car engine turning over, the tire squeal going down the driveway. He rinsed his plates in the sink, took out the bowl of pudding from the refrigerator, gave it thirty seconds in the microwave, and squirted Reddi-Wip on the top, since he and his brother had finished the ice cream the night before.