Аврам Дэвидсон - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 67, No. 3. Whole No. 388, March 1976

“But that first bullet!” she gasped. “The fired one! It must have been a solid bullet! Left over from a previous box! It could have been—” her voice trailed off.

She was caught. They wouldn’t find a solid bullet in Ben’s head.

She looked down at him, saw the brown blood crusted on his gray forehead, then looked to the glowing hills around, serene under the blue October sky.

The older policeman’s face softened with something like regret. He stepped forward, cupped her elbow gently. “Please, ma’am—”

She jerked away. “Take your hands off me!” she cried, and stalked toward the waiting cruiser with blind fury in her heart against all men who mumbled.

Look what Ben’s mumbling had cost her. Real bars this time.

This is the 439th “first story” to he published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine”. .. homicide with humor, or in Will Cuppy’s famous phrase, “murder without tears” — one of the most difficult challenges to the mystery writer, and how satisfyingly this new writer meets that challenge!. ..

The author, C. B. Labrid, contributed to her high school and college publications “aeons ago,” has sold crossword puzzles to “The New York Times,” guessing games to juvenile magazines, and captions to greeting-card companies. She has been an interviewer for the Louis Harris public-opinion surveys, has a golfing husband, two sons in college, and a dog and three cats at home. Her “adorations”: her family, sailing a Sunflower, artichokes, Metropolitan Opera broadcasts, and “staying at the dinner table for hours with companionable people. But more than anything on God’s earth,” she loves “to sit at the typewriter in delicious torment.” Our editorial chips are on C.B. Labrid: those “delicious torments” will turn into “delicious ’tecs” — wait and see!...

It took Letitia 20 years to plan the demise of her beloved husband. She’d found it difficult to concentrate while the children were still at home — Letitia liked to tackle one project at a time.

“Probably play only nine this evening, dear,” Alfred said, bestowing a dutiful peck on her cheek.

“Hmm,” she answered, voicing her usual enthusiasm for his hobby.

Daylight savings time was ending and, with that, Alfred’s last opportunity for his daily after-work round of golf.

His very last, thought Letitia, and smiled...

Having determined soon after the wedding that their marriage was heading for the rough, she began her research while honeymooning. Letitia’s intellect did not qualify as an asset, so to compensate for that deficiency she made lists.

Over the years, with the public library as her source, she had filled a notebook with strategic information. In the past six months she had correlated her data. The result was about to make her a well-to-do widow.

Studying Georges Simenon, she realized that murderers could be revealed through their personalities. So she trained herself to laugh, rather than cry, over her husband’s devotion to that hateful little white ball. She even joked about the first morning of their honeymoon, when he had leaped out of bed at sunup for “a fast nine” before breakfast.

She checked police procedure in Ed McBain and Dell Shannon, noting incidentally the danger of gossip by friends, neighbors, and relatives. Accordingly, Letitia presented herself to everyone — even to her mother — as the happiest of wives.

“Oh, Alfred does swing,” she would simper, “but only on the golf course!”

Reading Isaac Asimov, she learned caution about minute details. Her notebook, cached in the case of her sewing machine, was soft covered and contained no metal or plastic. Now that her plan was operative, she could cut up the pages and flush that evidence down the toilet. Attention to detail!

She had outlined her project, just as she’d been taught in school. Her working title was “Alfred’s Last Stance.”

Under the heading, when, she had penciled in question marks. And once, during their seventh year, she had happily written: “Perhaps never, after all.”

On that occasion Alfred had actually canceled his golf date and spent an entire Sunday with her. The pleasure of his company was only slightly marred by the nature of their activity — salvaging the remains of their house, which had burned down the previous night.

As things turned out, however, Alfred chose a new home directly across from the seventh green. At twice the price of the house Letitia had wanted in town.

She resumed her project, printing clearly under when in her scorched notebook: “As soon as possible.”

Where was no problem. The logical location, now so handy, offered a minimum of six thousand landscaped yards.

How remained a blank page for years.

She researched the use of firearms. People who wanted to shoot someone seemed always to have their weapons. She could find no example of a middle-aged housewife shopping for a gun.

She considered a knife. In her 20 years of preparing meals she was still slashing her own fingers nearly every time she disjointed a chicken. No, stabbing was not her forte.

Something neat and quiet, Letitia mused. She read more Rex Stout and Agatha Christie and Erle Stanley Gardner.

Eventually, underneath how, Letitia wrote: “Poison.”

Her choice was sustained by Dr. Wood’s ad in the local newspaper. He needed a receptionist for his veterinary hospital. There were serums in his lab strong enough to kill a bull — surely there would be something appropriate for Alfred.

Letitia worked almost a year for Dr. Wood before finding the suitable poison. It was effective on humans, tasteless, powerful enough to require only half an ounce for a lethal dose. These facts she elicited during casual and innocent conversations.

Another two years of infrequent access to the drug cabinet and she had siphoned out, one drop at a time, the necessary amount. She stored her supply in an empty perfume flaçon.

Alfred made the How easy for her. Like most golfers, he relished the euphemistic nineteenth hole. But soon after Labor Day the clubhouse would shut down and the only beverages available were cans of soda pop from the vending machine. Hardly spirited enough for Alfred!

So he began to carry a flask in his golf bag. When the pro shop closed for the season he kept his clubs in the garage. Each night he readied his equipment, including the flask, so that he would waste no time getting out to the course on his return home from work the next day.

That morning, had Letitia been seen leaving the garage, it would have been observed that she held a completely empty perfume flagon and wore an expression similar to that of the Mona Lisa.

She’d known that nothing short of a chance to caddy for Arnold Palmer or Jack Nicklaus would prevent Alfred from playing golf that afternoon. The last day before resumption of standard time — as everyone was told, within five minutes of meeting him, it was on this day in 1950 that Alfred had shot a hole in one.

How sportsmanlike, thought Letitia, that lucky day should now become mine.

She read her notebook for the last time. In the bathroom she carefully cut each page into tiny pieces and watched them flutter into the toilet. She was about to flush when she heard a voice on the porch.

He couldn’t have played nine holes so soon!

“Mrs. Compton! This is George, Mrs. Compton. Please open the door.”

George? One of the men in Alfred’s foursome.