John Betancourt - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006

There was no computer in the house, no answering machine attached to any of the antiquated dial phones, not even a television set. Of the bedrooms upstairs, Ida Blanford had used only the front one. In the other rooms they found stored furniture, locked trunks, cardboard cartons secured with heavy cord. The heirs, if any, were going to have a circus digging through the spoils and apportioning them.

The basement was nearly empty, probably because of the damp that reigned there. Another of the keys on the ring got them into the detached garage. There was no car — just a broken porch swing, several dozen red clay flowerpots, a formidable array of gardening implements, several pieces of furniture that belonged in a landfill, and a bicycle that belonged in the Smithsonian.

Returning to the back parlor for a more focused search, they found an address book containing the address and phone number of a Dale Blanford in East Atlas, about seventy-five miles away. Auburn used his cell phone to call East Atlas.

“Dale Blanford.” A man in his thirties, his voice crisp and assertive.

“This is Detective Sergeant Auburn calling, sir. About a Miss Ida Blanford. I believe she’s a relative of yours?”

“She’s my aunt.” Still crisp, now expectant and slightly challenging.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, sir. Miss Blanford was found dead this morning near her home.”

“ Found dead? What happened to her?”

“At first glance it looks to us like she was shot in the course of a robbery.”

The man at the other end of the line muttered something that might have been profanity. “Was this a break-in?”

“No, sir. There’s no evidence of that. We’re inside her house now. We found it locked and we don’t see any evidence of damage or theft. Her body was found on the riverbank just east of here.”

“You can understand this comes as kind of a shock. I’m trying to get myself together.”

“Are there other relatives besides yourself?”

“No. Well, my sister, but she lives in California. What do I need to do?”

“As soon as our investigation here at the scene is finished, your aunt’s body will be removed to the mortuary. The coroner will want you to go there and make a formal identification. I’m going to turn you over to Mr. Stamaty from the coroner’s office if you’ll hold the line just a moment.”

Stamaty expressed sympathy in businesslike tones, gave Blanford information and directions, and handed the phone back to Auburn.

“This is Auburn again. I’d like to talk to you eventually so we can work up a profile on your aunt for our report and possibly get some ideas on what happened to her. I’ll give you a number that will reach me no matter where I am, and I’d appreciate it if you’d call me when you get to town.”

“Okay, but, like I told the other gentleman, it may be sometime this afternoon before I can get away.”

After Auburn hung up, Stamaty explained that Blanford was building a deck somewhere in the wilds of Carney County. “Says he can’t leave until he’s sure his guys are far enough along to finish up without him.”

They locked the house and returned to the riverbank. Kestrel had already left the scene and the body was once again draped in blue plastic. The crowd of spectators was getting bored and thinning out. The TV crew idled patiently in the shade. After touching base with Dollinger and Krasnoy, Auburn crossed the street to the bar and grill on the corner of Jardine and Pace.

The Green Fish looked as if it might have started out as a neighborhood restaurant and sunk slightly in status in order to keep its owner out of the red. The front window bore the image, in cracked and fading paint, of a spirited bass writhing at the end of a line amid churning foam. Lettering, somewhat less faded, offered BEER, LIQUOR, AND FOOD. The door facing Jardine St. was marked FAMILY ENTRANCE. Auburn went in.

The place was a little busier than might have been expected at nine thirty in the morning. Three men, each in his own world, were downing eye-openers at the bar, which ran back along the left side, opposite the windows facing out on Pace Street. A stainless steel lunch counter, reminiscent of an old-fashioned diner, was set at a right angle to the bar. Behind it a stocky man in a white apron and chef’s cap wielded skillets and spatulas with skill and dispatch.

At the counter and at booths and square tables in the front part of the building, seven people were having breakfast. A couple of tinny speakers in the ceiling gave forth the current output of a local rhythm-and-blues station. In the narrow spaces among the tables, a solitary waitress was juggling plates and cups. Most of the customers, even the ones at the counter, seemed to be watching the crowd across the street through the plate glass window with the picture of the green fish. Nobody, not even the waitress, paid much attention to Auburn.

He stepped to the counter and caught the cook’s eye. “Excuse me, sir. Police officer.” He showed identification.

“Scotty Casteven. Chief cook and flycatcher.”

“Are you the proprietor?”

“That too.”

“I understand you identified the body of Miss Ida Blanford across the way this morning?”

“I don’t know about the Ida part.” Casteven, tending an order of hash browns and a couple of waffles, wasn’t looking Auburn’s way. Everybody else in the place was. “I never heard her first name before. We always called her Miss Ramford — you know, like Ramrod. That’s what my wife called her because she walked so stiff.”

“But you definitely recognized her?”

“As the old gal that lived in the white house across the street, sure. I’ve seen her out there a thousand times, getting the mail out of the box, working in the garden, raking leaves, walking to the bus.” He broke off to shout some cryptic message to the waitress.

“Would your wife know anything more about her?”

“Maria died three years ago. Heart.” His expression clouded and he turned back to the grill.

“Sorry. What time did you close last night?”

“We close at eleven sharp except Friday and Saturday.”

“I understand you live here on the premises. Were you home last evening?”

“Yes, sir. I already told those two cops over on the bank that I didn’t hear any shots last night, no yelling, no commotion, nothing.”

The waitress kept circulating among the tables, refilling cups and glasses, removing dirty dishes, taking further orders. Two people left their table and stepped to the cash register where the lunch counter and the bar intersected. Casteven put down his tools, wiped his hands on his apron, and took their money.

In the circumstances there was obviously no question of a private interview. Auburn decided to turn that to his advantage. Raising his voice slightly, he addressed the whole bunch. “If anybody here has any information about the woman who was killed across the street last night or about what happened to her, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know. If you don’t want to talk to me here, you can call Public Safety any time day or night and ask for Sergeant Auburn.”

In compliance with the mysterious laws that govern crowd behavior, nobody was looking at him now.

The couple who had just left had vacated the table in the window. On a whim, Auburn sat down there himself. The heat and humidity were building up outside, and from here he had a view of Ida Blanford’s house and the adjacent riverbank, except for the site where the body lay.

Eventually the waitress stopped beside his table. “Did you want to order something, Officer?”

Her name tag said “Darla.” She was fighting a losing battle with the calendar over the issue of turning thirty. She was lean, hungry, and overdecorated, the kind of woman Auburn’s father described as “a shark in mascara.”