Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

“I tell you must look.” Undeterred, our son stood in front of me so that I couldn’t go up the stairs. “I found the rose that Monsieur LeBoeuf was holding when he died.”

To satisfy him, I glanced at the page that Wolfgang held out for me to see. It was a sketchbook which LeBoeuf had undoubtedly kept while gardening for the king in his younger years.

“This is the rose,” young Wolfgang insisted.

It was a watercolor image of the dark pink, heavy-headed flower we’d found in the garden with the body. Below it, in ornate cursive, the name of the plant was written in Latin and French: Rosa Gallica, or Rosier de Provins.

Only now did I notice that Provins was also gone from the inn.

Well, Anna Maria! Five hours later, the merchant had been apprehended and had confessed his crime, and Signor Marini, who had led the gendarmes to him, was once more sitting in the dining room in front of his greasy cards.

Mademoiselle LeBoeuf sighed a deep sigh.

“Who would have thought that Monsieur Provins had kept a grudge for so many years? It’s true he and my brother squabbled about a large piece of land and a mill, but was it reason enough to kill him?”

“I think that your brother’s contempt for Provins when he was poor was rather at the root of the grudge,” I said. “When the beggar was maltreated last night, Provins’s resentment must have flared up again, and he decided to punish LeBoeuf.”

“In Italy we kill for less,” Marini added lightly.

“But how did you connect the rose with the killer?” Fraulein Putz asked, adjusting her red curlets.

“Ah, that was my son’s doing,” I was glad to reply.

Wolfgang was in bed by then, of course, because we have a long trip ahead of us in the morning, and two concerts at the archbishop’s residence. “You see,” I explained to the ladies, “right away Wolfgang understood that the dying man hadn’t just grasped a flower at random. LeBoeuf knew all the roses by name and staggered to the shrub that — by fatal coincidence — bore his killer’s name. He hoped it would serve as a hint, but it was only because of my son’s wit that we solved this crime. In his innocence, Wolfgang sought and found the perfect clue.”

Signor Marini had been looking at me all this while, grinning.

“Do you disagree?” I asked.

“On the contrary, Herr Mozart, I concur entirely. I suspected the merchant from the moment LeBoeuf kicked the beggar; I saw murder in his eyes.” He held up the card he had hidden from me, the Ace of Spades. “But I would never have thought about the rose, or the sketchbook. That was indeed your son’s doing.”

“Is that why you showed me the picture of the Joker in reference to Wolfgang?”

Marini laughed. “Oh no. That’s because I heard your son play, and I think that he’s the cleverest in the deck.”

I believe he’s right, dear Anna Maria.

Tomorrow we’re headed for Paris, where God willing we’ll be received at court. Take care of yourself and Nannerl, and do not worry about us. Be well, and receive the most affectionate embrace from your devoted husband,

Leopold Mozart

P.S. Wolfgang sends his love.

Many a Pickle Makes a Mickle

by DeLoris Stanton Forbes

When Uncle Willis died and left her all he had, she began to think that she didn’t despise him after all.

Of course he didn’t know she despised him, that seemed pretty obvious. Otherwise he would have willed his worldly goods to someone else. He’d have known for certain if he’d given her more cause, but a few close (very close) hugs and a touch (accidental?) every so often weren’t enough to make her flat out tell him to knock it off. She knew he was getting his kicks all right, she knew that, she wasn’t behind the door when they handed out smarts, but she was just a kid and she couldn’t come out and nail him, so as soon as she was sure (and that took a couple of years, like her mother said, look before you cut off your nose), she did the next best thing, she stayed away from Uncle Willis. And she despised him because if he was into kiddie porn he didn’t have the guts to make an honest (dishonest?) run at it. Even kids get totally turned off by gutless wonders. Maybe kids get turned off sooner. No rose-colored shades, at least none for her. Plus, if she said anything to her mother, her mother would have put it down to her “overactive imagination.” What mothers didn’t know didn’t hurt them. Did it?