William Bankier - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 103, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 625 & 626, March 1994

“Got a cold?” she asked, looking back. He had sneezed.

He hesitated. “Yeah,” he said finally.

They entered the tack room, which was like a bunkhouse without the bunks: a potbellied stove, a cot in the comer, saddles, bridles, boots, and other horsey paraphernalia strewn about. Next to the door was a big oak roll-top desk, piled high with papers. Sam picked one up at random; it was a vet’s bill, second notice: “Is there some reason why you haven’t responded...?”

The letters were locked in the top drawer of the desk. There were five of them, printed in the completely anonymous typeface of a dot-matrix printer: so much for typewriters with “e”s out of alignment and letters snipped from the London Times . Perched on the comer of the desk, Sam held the letters gingerly and opened them one by one.

The first two were merely mildly pornographic, suggesting nothing that Sam hadn’t imagined himself once upon a time, and he was uncomfortably aware of Glenda watching him expressionlessly. The third was longer, and slightly sadistic. But the last was different: three ominous words in the middle of the page.

“Since I broke up with Eddie,” she said, “I’ve gotten letters twice.” She hesitated. “Both times, I was going out with somebody. He seemed to know, somehow. No matter how discreet I was. But this time — I don’t know what set him off.”

“Did he ever threaten you before?” By now it was tacitly accepted that they were talking about Eddie Froelich.

“In the letters, you mean? No. But when we were married he used to... to knock me around occasionally. Nothing serious.” She smiled wryly. “Nothing broken.”

Oh, of course. Of course Eddie would “knock around” women. He was a bully and a whiner, and Sam felt his face flush with anger.

But then why was she protecting him? Was it possible, after all this, that she still loved him? Had she ever loved him? He had always wanted to believe that she hadn’t, but knew very well his feelings about her couldn’t be trusted.

“What do you want me to do?” he said, once again expressing the motif of their relationship.

“Just talk to him. See why he’s so angry all of a sudden — or — or if you think it’s not him after all, then tell me. I trust your judgment. I’ve always trusted you, Sam,” she said, suddenly earnest.

His simultaneous translator was telling him, Yeah, she always trusted you — her loyal eunuch. Glenda always needs someone around to muck out the stalls and take her boots off. But part of him was saying, Give her a chance, people change.

She was talking, quietly, as if to herself. “I think I’ve just learned to value that kind of friendship in the last few years. Since Barney died.”

She stopped abruptly, and closed her eyes. “Oh God, Sam,” she exclaimed passionately, “I miss my father so much!”

There was a long silence. “I’ll talk to Eddie,” he promised, rising and holding out his hand.

On the way home he realized that he had better start thinking about another shortstop.

Dutifully he called Eddie, who sounded pathetically eager to meet for lunch; loneliness or, most likely, the nightly six-pack kicking in. He assumed the reason was softball and Sam didn’t correct him. He hung up, reflecting that whatever had attracted Glenda to Eddie, it obviously hadn’t been quick wit. On the other hand, he was pretty smart on a baseball diamond, so maybe he was smart in bed too. He dropped that idea in a hurry.

He stayed up late catching up on some reading for work. By eleven he gave up on the idea that Claire might call.

They had agreed that she would call him; she was going to be on the move, didn’t know where she would be from day to day. Which made sense, but also made him the one to sit by the phone and wait. Why did he still feel like she had him on probation? Why did he only fall in love with women who could hurt him?

But then he could hurt Claire, too. He hadn’t believed that for a long time, but now he knew it was true. Mutually assured destruction: each had the power to wound the other and refrained, for the most part, from exercising it.

In his marriage he had held all the power, had carefully chosen someone, in fact, whom he didn’t love too much. And no matter that he had never abused that power, that he had been unfailingly kind and faithful — they both knew the score, he and Debby. And so she had finally turned to someone who needed her.

He had felt so guilty he hadn’t even contested the custody settlement — and now, by God, he was paying for that.

The heart of Parkerville was rotting despite every lame stunt the city council could think up to reverse the process. Increasingly, commerce was conducted at the malls that straggled along, and defined and enlarged, the city’s perimeter. More change for the worse, thought Sam grumpily as he pulled into the mini-mall comprised of Fred’s Western Wear, Parkerville Rainbow House of Carpets, the Safeway, and the McDonald’s. Eddie’s pickup was already there.

Half an hour later Eddie wiped the McDonald’s Special Sauce from his mouth with the back of his hand, stood up, and said sincerely, “I’d like to smash your nose. Teach you to keep it where it belongs!”

Sam considered this statement. Eddie probably didn’t have the edge on him that he had had in high school, but still he was a natural fighter; he had that reservoir of explosive rage that he could tap in an instant. Yes, he decided, Eddie could probably break his nose. He clenched his hands, just in case he couldn’t talk himself out of this.

The conversation had begun amicably enough, with anecdotes from high school, the war, and the softball team, but relations had disintegrated when Sam had cautiously introduced the matter of the letters. When he understood what was being said, Eddie had snarled, “Still Glenda’s little dog. I thought you’d gotten over that, Sam. But then maybe nobody gets over Glenda.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sam had retorted, stung. “She asked me to do her a favor, that’s all — and you too, as a matter of fact. She could have gone straight to the police and you’d be under investigation right now. That probably wouldn’t sit well with your boss!”

Temporarily chastened, Eddie had admitted, “No, probably not, on top of the Patterson fiasco. I’d probably be selling lawn mowers at Kavoian’s.” After a pause he had burst out, “But why? Why doesn’t she ever — I mean, if she really believes I’m sending these letters, why doesn’t she go to the police?”

“Who knows? Maybe she feels guilty about the divorce,” Sam had replied. “And maybe,” examining his tangle of greasy fries, “she still cares for you.”

Startled and then slightly dreamy expressions had flitted across Eddie’s face before it settled back into its customary resentful lines. But in that instant Sam was sure — almost sure — that Eddie had sent the letters. To see what she would do, to keep her from seeing other men, to stay connected to her somehow. He was desperate and pitiable, and also, possibly, dangerous.

“Glenda don’t care for nobody but Glenda,” Eddie had said sullenly. “Especially now that Barney’s dead. But I didn’t write those letters,” he had continued hotly. “And I’d still like to know why you volunteered to be her errand-boy.”

Sam had shrugged. “A favor, like I said.” He hesitated. “She seemed really alone.”

“Alone?” Eddie had shouted with laughter. “Listen, sucker, Glenda’s never alone! Don’t swallow that Poor-Little-Rich-Girl bullshit.”

It was at this point that his face got very red and he declared his desires regarding Sam’s nose. Now he drained his thick shake noisily, which seemed to cool him off, and added, “Except that I owe you something for saving my butt at Patterson’s.”