Наташа Купер: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 1. Whole No. 767, July 2005

“Penny!” Meg went to her then, wrapping protective arms around the young woman.

“You feared that George might have been attracted by the noise, so you couldn’t unbolt the door and go out that way. Instead, you went up through the secret passage to his bedroom, closed the metal door behind you, and hid there, perhaps under the bed.”

“Yes,” she muttered.

“After George checked the room and went downstairs to phone the sheriff and me, it was easy for you to sneak out and remain hidden upstairs until the rest of us arrived later. Then you acted as if you’d just come in, and phoned Meg to report the killing. But when I left, I noticed all the cars in the driveway, and there wasn’t one for you. Where did you park it, Penny?”

“Down the road behind some bushes. I didn’t want people to see my car in his driveway at six in the morning.”

“He’d made advances to you before?” Meg asked.

“God, he was old enough to be my grandfather!” She turned to stare me down. “That’s the one thing you got a bit wrong, Dr. Hawthorne. He bolted the library door so George wouldn’t interrupt while he tried to seduce me.”

Meg shook her head. “You were a fool to go there alone, Penny.”

“When I recognized our china cabinet in that picture I was just so furious! He claimed someone broke in and stole it from our old house, and there it was, all the time.”

“What do we do now?” Meg Woolitzer asked me.

Before I could speak, Penny answered for me. “Call Sheriff Lens. And then go to press with an extra edition, Meg. I’ll give you an interview for the front page. That should be enough to make the Advertiser into a real paper!”

Copyright (c); 2005 by Edward D. Hoch.

Natasha Cooper worked in publishing before becoming a writer. Her debut mystery, published in 1990, was the first in a tongue-in-cheek whodunit series; several years later she introduced a new sleuth, barrister Trish McGuire, in a darker, more realistic crime novel. Her more than 25 novels in print also include some she writes under the pseudonym Clare Layton. Her most recent U. S. publication is Keep Me Alive .

The crash of breaking glass made Maggie flinch. It always had ever since the Blitz.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Cross,” said the woman from Number 23, “it’s only Phoebe dropping her tumbler. Look, Colin’s picking up the bits.”

At the far end of the long table, with its red checked cloth and pretty flowers, one of Number 23’s sons was reassuring five-year-old Phoebe from next-door.

“He’s only fourteen,” said Number 23 proudly. (Maggie couldn’t remember any of the names of these young people who spent fortunes buying houses in her street.) “But as tall as me already.”

“Yes,” Maggie said, wishing her eyesight was better. But she could tell he was taking trouble with the little girl.

“Have another sandwich,” Number 23 said, “or a cake.”

Maggie took a small brown sandwich with smoked salmon in it. “Thank you,” she said. “This is nice. We never had parties like this in the old days. Not even when the war ended.”

“You must have been here longer than anyone else. When did you first come?”

“I was born in your house. My dad was a coal heaver.” Maggie tried not to smile at the thought. “But it wasn’t grand like you’ve made it with the conservatory and all that. I moved into Forty-six when I married Alf.”

“Isn’t that wonderful?” said Number 23. She wasn’t nearly as snooty as she seemed at first. “But it makes what happened to you even worse. I was so glad when I saw you safely back from your sister’s and out and about in the street again. And even more when I heard you were coming today.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Maggie said. “You’ve all been so good to me since Halloween.”

A faint blush spread in Number 23’s cheeks. She must have been remembering the days when they’d all talked about “Mad Maggie” and the “old witch in Number 46 who never weeds her front garden.” Funny how being so frightened could make you a heroine, Maggie thought.

“I wasn’t sure I could ever come back,” she said. “Not till you all sent that card to my sister’s and invited me to the party.”

“We were so shocked by what happened to you. Those louts could’ve burned the house down.”

“I know.” Maggie always tried not to think about it. For weeks after Halloween, she hadn’t been able to sleep, and she’d spent her days hiding behind her curtains in case they came back. She’d always hated Halloween and the trick-or-treating children. But it had never been as bad as last year. She shivered now, in spite of the sun and the kindness all around her.

First she’d had raw eggs thrown by a group of teenage girls who thought she hadn’t given them enough, so she didn’t answer the door to the next lot. They put flour through her letterbox to punish her, and it turned the eggs into a terrible mess. The arthritis was so bad she couldn’t bend down to clean it up. Not wanting more flour, she did answer the door the third time and saw two big figures in horror masks. One of them looked as if he’d drawn a bat on his hand. It was only when she peered more closely that Maggie saw it was just a birthmark.

She was angry by then, so she told them what Halloween really meant and how they should be praying for the souls of the dead, not scaring old ladies and demanding money with menaces. Then she shut the door on them and their greediness.

Someone filled up her teacup and asked if she needed another cushion.

“No, thank you, dear,” she said, glad of the respite from her memories. “I’m very comfortable.”

If she shut her eyes, she could still hear the hiss from outside the door as the trick-or-treaters lit their firework, and the bang as it fell onto her mat, shooting out sparks and flames. If it hadn’t been for her heavy winter coat, hanging ready on the peg by the door, she’d never have been able to put them out. Number 23 was right: She could have burned to death.

“You’ve been so brave,” she said now.

Suddenly Maggie remembered her name. “It’s kind of you to say so, Sarah,” she said. “And I’m having a lovely time today.”

One of the young men from the far end of the street had a guitar and was playing a folk song Maggie recognised. She began to hum in tune. Lots of the others joined in.

Everyone was smiling at her. They’d welcomed her like royalty and made her feel safe again. Tonight she could go to bed happy.

“I think you made those awful boys from the council flats really ashamed of themselves,” Sarah said when the song ended. “They’ve never given any trouble since. We all owe you so much, Mrs. Cross.”

“Thank you, dear. I’m getting a bit tired now. And the sun’s very bright. I’d like to go home.”

“Shall I come with you? Just to make sure you don’t fall?”

“Don’t you move. I’m sure your Colin would help me, and he’s already on his feet.” She beckoned.

A minute later the boy was standing beside her, smiling gravely, and asking if she wanted him to help her off her chair.

“No, thank you. Just to walk with me over the potholes in case I trip.”

“Of course, Mrs. Cross.”

He kept a steady hand under her elbow, then waited patiently while she looked for her door key at the bottom of her big bag. When she’d opened the door, he smiled, showing off his brilliant white teeth.

“Will you be all right now?”

“Yes. I want to give you something.”

“No, no, please,” he said. “It was nothing.”

“It’s advice. There’s no point disguising yourself with a mask at Halloween if you let everybody see that birthmark on your right hand.”