Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

I stared at Liske, trying to grasp the question. “We never had a falling in. I hardly know the guy. I only met him a few days ago.”

“Then what was the fight about?”

“I honestly don’t know. He pushed into my shop ranting about wanting his stuff back.”

“The meth, you mean?”

“Meth?”

“Trane was running a methedrine lab in his garage,” Liske explained patiently. “It blew up, remember? About an hour after your previous argument with him.”

“I didn’t argue with him that night. We were near the garage and he ran us off.”

“So you said. And this morning this guy you hardly know comes to your store and attacks you for no reason at all?”

“It’s the truth. Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Questioning me like a suspect. You must have talked to Miss Frantzis. Didn’t she tell you what happened?”

“She said she walked into your shop, saw you and Trane struggling. You yelled at her to run, Trane caught her as she was dialing 911 on her cell. You jumped Trane, pushed him into the street. Where he was struck by a car. And killed.”

“He’s dead?” I swallowed.

“Why should you care? He attacked you for no reason, remember?”

I looked away, trying to make sense of it.

“Mr. Kenyon,” Liske said quietly. “You’d better understand your situation. We don’t have much crime here in Bay Harbor. All of a sudden we’ve got two deaths in as many days and you’re associated with both of them. The only reason you’re not under arrest right now is because Phil Barrett says you’re okay and that’s good enough for me. But I’ve gone as far as I can to protect you. If there’s anything you haven’t told me—”

“There isn’t.”

“All right. Look, I know that your accident left you with some memory problems, but I need something to work with here. If you can come up with anything that might help clear this up, anything at all, you call me or tell Phil about it. We take care of our own in this town. We’ll do our best to keep you out of trouble. Fair enough?”

“More than fair, Chief. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, this isn’t over. We’ll talk again when you’re feeling better. Meantime, you rest up. And do some serious thinking, all right?”

After Liske left, Phil tried to make small talk, but he was clearly uneasy, fidgeting, avoiding my eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked at last.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Stu? When you woke up before, you...”

“I asked you about Tiffany. I remember.”

He nodded, his eyes misting.

“I was groggy, Phil. Waking up in a hospital, I guess I got the two accidents mixed up. I’m sorry if it upset you. But I’m not crazy. I know Tiff’s gone.”

“And the rest of it? Your trouble with this Trane fella? You’ve got to admit it looks bad. Is there anything more you want to say to me? Off the record, I mean?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Do you have some kind of a drug problem, Stu? Do you need money? Damn it, I’ve stood by you and I’ve asked friends to go out on a limb for you—”

“What are you saying? That you think I might be mixed up with a dope dealer? That I kill people? I thought you believed in me.”

“I did. I mean, I do. But—”

“But what?”

“You’ve changed, Stu. The fella my Tiffany married was a hotshot young attorney who took my girl down to Detroit to ride a rocket to the top. But since the accident, moving to Bay Harbor, opening a dinky little secondhand shop...” He shook his head. “I’ve tried to be patient, Stu, I know you’ve been through a lot. But I’m not sure I know you anymore.”

“Then maybe you never did. Look, I’m really tired, Phil. It’s been a long day.”

“Sure,” he said, rising stiffly. “You get some rest, boy. We’ll talk later. Meantime, take Tom Liske’s advice and do some thinking. You could be in a lot of trouble.”

“I will.”

And I did. But not at the hospital. After Phil left, I dragged myself out of bed, waited for the room to stop rocking, then stumbled into the bathroom for a quick inventory. A bandage on my left side, assorted bruises everywhere, throat going purple, a half dozen stitches above my right ear. No wonder Phil figured me for a thug. I looked like a wino after a train wreck. Felt like one, too.

I struggled into my street clothes, then checked myself out. I’ve already spent too much of my life in hospitals.

My shop was stone silent when I let myself in. Nothing moving, nothing breathing. Dead. The green message light on my answering machine was winking at me. I ignored it.

Instead, I eased myself painfully down at my desk at the back of the store, looking out over the orderly rows of secondhand stock. Kitchen canister sets, magazine racks, Bentwood rockers, Beatlemania handbags, all neatly arranged by era or manufacturer. I’d only been away a few hours, but somehow it looked very different to me.

Liske called it a junk shop. He was right. Everything in it was hard used. Thrown away.

Especially me. Battered and scarred. With a broken memory. And a secondhand heart.

There was a tentative tap on the back door.

“Come on in, Phil.” But it wasn’t Phil.