Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

“Well,” I said, “what can I do for you? I’m afraid you’re a bit late for the—” I was going to say party, but I stopped myself in time — “for the wake.” Is that what it had been? A wake?

Suzanne said, “We couldn’t bear the thought of it, Tom. We were sure you’d understand. All those people.”

Deirdre said, “We were very close to Caro, Tom. You can appreciate how we felt.”

“Well,” I said, “come in for a moment, at least.”

They came in. I led them through, these two black things, into the living room. I made a helpless gesture.

“It’s still a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. People have only just gone.”

“Oh, Tom,” said Suzanne, “don’t worry. It’s always like that. Deirdre and I went through exactly the same thing, didn’t we?”

Deirdre nodded.

She said, “Well, at least we can make a start on this.”

Suzanne nodded briskly, put down her package on the drinks table, and before I could say or do a thing, they were at it, piling plates, collecting glasses, emptying ashtrays, wiping surfaces, and in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, the living room was practically pristine, and they hadn’t even raised a sweat. That’s women for you.

Then we stood and looked at each other.

I said, “That was really kind of you, but really, it wasn’t necessary.”

Suzanne said, “Tom, we know how difficult it is to get started again. To do things. To look after yourself. To take care of things; even the smallest things seem difficult. We know.”

Deirdre said, “And so we brought you something.” She gestured to the foil-wrapped package. “Didn’t we, Suze?”

“We did,” said Suzanne.

I said, “That’s really kind of you, but—”

“It’s nothing much,” Deirdre said.

“Just a quiche,” said Suzanne. “I know you won’t feel like it just at the moment, but you will get hungry sooner or later and you can simply pop it in the oven when you feel like it and there you are. No need to worry about opening cans, preparing vegetables.”

I said again, “It’s really kind of you, but—”

“We’ll go,” said Suzanne, “and put it in the fridge. Come on.”

She picked up the thing and, with me trailing meekly in her wake, she led the way into the kitchen. Over her shoulder she said, rather forcefully, “No point in leaving it. Do it now.”

In the kitchen she headed straight for the fridge, stripped off the foil from the quiche, and put it on the top shelf. She did some rather pointless and irritating tidying up of the other things on the shelf.

She was in the middle of this when I heard very distinctly, from the living room, the clink of a bottle against glass. Suzanne heard it, too. She straightened up very suddenly, closed the fridge door, and spun round. Her face was tight with irritation.

“That bloody Deirdre,” she said. Then she seemed to make an effort to calm herself. “Tom, I just don’t know what we’re going to do.”

I said, “She’s still...?” I lifted my elbow slightly.

She nodded. “Fell off the wagon a week ago for the umpteenth time. I’m taking her down to her AA meeting tonight, for all the good it’ll do her. Still, what can you do?”

We went back into the living room. Deirdre was standing a good way from the drinks table, but I noticed that the whisky in my bottle of Glenlivet was swaying ever so gently, and Deirdre’s eyes were a little too bright for my taste.

Suzanne said, “Well, I think that’s all, isn’t it? We must be going, Deirdre. Remember, Tom, just pop it in the oven for half an hour.”

Deirdre said, “Personally, I think it’s best eaten cold.”

Suzanne said, “Whatever. But you must eat.”

And with that, they left. And for the first time since the police came to tell me of Caroline’s horrible end, I was alone. Alone and free to think my own thoughts, without other people putting their thoughts into my head, all the police, doctors, friends, coroners, more friends, undertakers, clergymen, and still more friends, all with their four penn’orth to get in.

I’ve been lying stretched out on the sofa and thinking about that afternoon at Doug’s house and how I had looked across the avenue and seen them looking across at us. Suzanne, Melanie, Caroline, and Tricia, the bright young wives with the dull husbands. And of course Deirdre, who had much to tell them, Deirdre who was giving a seminar, a master-class.

I’ve been thinking about how it really must have infuriated them that I was just too quick for them, unlike poor Doug, Bill, and Harry. And I’ve been thinking about that quiche in the fridge. Pop it in the oven. In a pig’s eye, I will. I wonder what’s in it. Something undetectable, knowing them. They’re very bright; I have to hand it to them, but not on a bloody plate. What did Deirdre say? “It’s best eaten cold.” I know what’s best eaten cold and I wouldn’t touch that thing even if I was starving.

The first thing I’m going to do is to throw the bloody thing in the waste disposal.