Charles Ardai - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

“Help me,” she says, and together they wrap Wolf carefully, securing him with duct tape, then drag him to a spot near the kitchen door while Crystalbell meticulously cleans the butcher knife and Mrs. Hucklebee’s kitchen floor.

After that, they wait. When it’s dead dark outside, they carry him between them out into the raw November night and place him in one of his own deep holes against the stone wall, smoothing dirt over its top when they are done.

Back in the kitchen, Crystalbell makes cheese sandwiches and they both drink scalding black coffee. Mrs. Hucklebee feels numb.

Finally, Crystalbell says matter-of-factly, “He never would have hurt you. Ever. I made all that up to scare you so you’d let us stay. Wolf wouldn’t hurt anybody. He had a real bad life, Mrs. H. I don’t know all of it, but I know enough. He needed someone to look out for him and that’s what I did.” Her voice sounds different, older and not so warm.

“His family,” Mrs. Hucklebee whispers. “Someone will miss him.”

Crystalbell shakes her head. “Not from what he told me, they won’t. Besides, I don’t even know his real name.” She lays a firm hand on Mrs. Hucklebee’s arm. “If any of the neighbors saw him and mention it, we’ll just say he went away.” Her eyes look flat and her lip curls. “Who’ll care? He’s just another street kid, right?”

Mrs. Hucklebee is trying to concentrate, but her brain feels splintered. “I simply don’t know what to do.”

“You let me worry about that,” Crystalbell says sharply.

“But you can’t stay here. Not now.”

The girl leans close. Her words are slow and precise. “Now that’s where you’re wrong. You and me are the only ones know about this. We got to stick together. See, I worked hard on setting this up, getting me some kind of family. I won’t let you mess it up. One peep from me and it’s off you go, Mrs. H. Locked up, you understand? What’ll happen to all that stuff you collect then?”

A terrible pain drives itself into Mrs. Hucklebee’s heart. All her treasures. Her eyes rise slowly to meet the brown ones across the table. Pretty puppy eyes.

“I see,” she says. “I understand. Of course you’ll have to stay.”

The first snowfall begins the following morning, tiny wet flakes that sting. Mrs. Hucklebee pores over the weekly wedding announcements while Crystalbell goes to the market with a list of her own making — peanut butter, cookies, potato chips, and pop.

Mrs. Hucklebee is thinking more clearly today. Her treasures are safe. Crystalbell will help her guard what happened here. And the girl has promised they can have the telephone reconnected. When she hears quick footsteps on the porch, she hurries to open the door. Crystalbell has snowflakes sparkling in her hair.

“Look what I found!”

A bag of marbles is thrust into Mrs. Hucklebee’s hand. They are the color of warm caramel.

“Amber!” Crystalbell exults. “I bet you never saw that color before. And it’s the perfect name for you, too — Amber. I told you I’d come up with one.”

Mrs. Hucklebee peers behind the girl to see who’s standing there. Very tall, thick in the chest. Hair black and oily, a gold ring dangling from one ear. This one is a man, not a boy, and something is sitting on his shoulder. Mrs. Hucklebee draws a quick breath. “I don’t like monkeys,” she says softly.

They’re moving past her, into the house. “This is Midnight,” Crystalbell says, clutching the man’s ragged sleeve. “And the little guy is Demon.”

The monkey bares yellow teeth and reaches for Mrs. Hucklebee with leathery little fingers. He smells foul. She shudders, gazing hopefully into the man’s eyes. One is pale blue, watery, shot with red. The other is made of glass. A cold marble eye looking back at her. His face shows no expression.

The front door is closing. Mrs. Hucklebee glances wistfully through it. The girl is pulling the big man into the kitchen.

“Wait till you see,” she is telling him. “We’re loaded with food, all kinds of good stuff. How about some pork roast? Or birthday cake? I made it myself.”

Mrs. Hucklebee looks down at the cluster of clear tawny balls inside the plastic bag. Such a lovely warm color.

“Hey!” Crystalbell is in the kitchen doorway, beckoning. “Come on, Amber, time for something to eat.” Her face is bright. “You really like the marbles?”

Mrs. Hucklebee turns away from her front door. “I do,” she says earnestly. “They’re beautiful. You’re so thoughtful, Crystalbell.”

© 1993 by Gloria Rosenthal

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds

Baked in a pie;

When the pie was opened,

The FDA appeared

And shut the baker down because

His ingredients were weird.

© 1993 by Suzanne Jones

A sunny college town at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, Boulder, Colorado, is not only the home of author Suzanne Jones but the setting for her latest story. “As always,” she tells us, the story derives from her interest in “why people behave as they do, even if the behavior is sometimes self destructive. .. ”

Paul noticed her right away. She was as incongruous in the coffee shop as if she had black, brown, or yellow skin. Boulder doesn’t have very many members of minorities, the largest concentration of whom may be found on the very successful football team at the University of Colorado. No, she was as Waspish as the rest of the clientele who were enjoying the smell of freshly ground coffee and the warmth of the shop. It was mostly the way she was dressed on a snowy day that had been, unfortunately, all too common in Boulder that particular winter.

She stood awkwardly just inside the door in her long cloth coat and pants which were crumpled over the tops of low-heeled shoes, not snow boots. Her head was uncovered and her hair was a nondescript color, something between light brown and blond. Her face was pale and drawn, the skin stretched tightly over bone. Good cheekbones. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes; she had dropped them to count the coins in her hand as she stepped forward into the line for coffee. It was a shop in which one served oneself from clean and shiny containers which offered a variety of brews, from French vanilla coffee mocha to dark Colombian to something called a Denver blend.

He would not have kept watching her except that Sandy was prattling on again about how well her interview had gone, and how sure she was that she was going to be the next Paseo girl, doing a series of auto commercials for a Denver television station. She probably would get the role. From time to time Paul glanced at her to simulate interest. Sandy was a very attractive blonde, tall and leggy, and her cheeks were currently flushed prettily from the cold and her enthusiasm for her own apparent good fortune.

The woman had gotten her coffee and was looking around a little shyly and discovering no place to sit — it was very crowded, as it usually was on a weekend, and very few chairs were provided. It was a shop that sold coffee by the pound and the machines dispensing the various flavors existed primarily for purposes of sampling. She put a plastic cover over the cup in her hand and prepared to take it with her.

Idly he watched her progress through the door and back into the cold. Through the window he saw her approach an older-model car.

“Paul, where are you going?”

He was out of his chair and the coffee shop in a moment.