Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

Myra inched her way forward, and when she got to the front of her car, she could see that the lights were burning. So that was it! She’d left the lights on after the rain, and Beth was signaling her.

“Oh, Beth! Beth! Come on over. Please come over and find me!” Myra raised up on her hands, pressed her face hard against the screening of the breezeway. “Look, Beth. See me. Come over and save my life!”

The pain was too much to bear. She collapsed again and lay with her face in her arms, waiting for Beth to come. Certainly, she’d come. She wouldn’t just stand there waving. Sooner or later, she’d wonder why Myra hadn’t responded, and she’d come over to tell her about the car lights.

“Come, Beth, come. See me. Save me.” It sounded like a first grade reader. And ironically enough, Myra thought, the whole thing was so elementary. All Beth had to do was walk across the yard.

Myra waited a long time before she raised her head again and saw that Beth was turned around waving in the other direction. A tremendous sob rose into her throat, threatening to choke her. Beth Hartman had to be purposely avoiding even looking at the Saunders house. She was simply washing her sliding glass door!

“Please, Beth, please! Look at my house, see that my car lights are on and then come over to tell me! I won’t scream at your child. She can pick all the flowers she wants!”

Beth Hartman squatted down, as if to examine the door for streaks, then went back inside and closed the full-length draperies.

Myra’s head dropped down into her arms again, and nausea swept over her. She hated Beth Hartman and all the other stupid, self-centered, grudge-holding people in the world.

With her last bit of strength she rolled over onto her back and lay staring up at the ceiling. She would simply wait for Charles. The pain was too great now, and she was far too exhausted to try any more.

The neighborhood sounds died away, and the sun was sinking rapidly. Everyone had gone inside to eat. No one could possibly find her now except Charles. She was almost hidden from the street by the car and the darkness, and it was extremely unlikely that anyone else would come. She decided she was glad. Never once during the five years she had lived in the house had she asked a favor of a neighbor. She didn’t need one now.

She had no idea of the time, but it was completely dark when she heard Charles’ car. He parked in the driveway, slammed the door and walked towards her very slowly.

She could see his tall, lean silhouette outlined against the moonlight as he stepped to the edge of the carport. He hesitated, then hurried to her, knelt down and took hold of her wrist.

“Myra!” he said hoarsely. “Myra?”

She couldn’t answer. Her lips wouldn’t move, but she tried to flutter her eyelids. Call Jim! she tried to tell him. I’m hurt, but I’m alive. I can make it if you get hold of Jim right now.

He was agonizingly slow. “Move, Charles, move!” she commanded mentally. “Can’t you see that I’m bleeding to death?”

At last he got up and hurried to the phone. She could hear him dialing the number. Oh, thank you, Charles, she thought. Thank you! Thank you! I’ll forgive you for everything.

For everything? She heard his voice, low-pitched and edged with anger. “Sabino?” he was saying. “She’s alive.”

Sabino? Jim’s name wasn’t Sabino. It was Fox.

“She isn’t dead, I tell you. No... no... I couldn’t! I paid you...” He broke off, listened a minute, then clicked the receiver into place. For an eternity, there was nothing. Then his footsteps crossed the kitchen again and he came outside. The car lights went out and he closed the door quietly, then went back into the house. Myra was left in total darkness.

“Oh, no!” she cried silently. “Charles! Please! Don’t leave me here to die. You can have the divorce. Marry your little tramp. I won’t stop you. I won’t even ask for alimony. And I’ll never tell on you, Charles. I promise I won’t tell! Just save me, Charles. Please save me!”

It was almost as if he’d heard her. His footsteps were coming back again. They were slow, but they were coming. She had known he couldn’t do it. Charles Saunders wasn’t the type. He didn’t have the nerve.

“Hurry, stupid, hurry!” Her throat ached, and her brain was bursting into flames. She would get him for this. If it was the last thing she ever did, she would get him.

And then he was standing over her.

“No, Charles, no! I’ll give you the divorce. I’d never hurt you, Charles. I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve been a perfect wife. You know it. Put that pillow down, Charles. You idiot! You’ll never get away with...”

Murder off the Record by John Sidney

“Good-by, my dear,” she said. There was nothing strange about that — except she was quite dead!

* * *

At twenty minutes past eleven that Wednesday morning William Saunders permitted himself to say aloud, “Everything comes in useful if you keep it sufficiently long enough.”