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

She wasn’t pleased to see me. She mentioned our separation agreement and, when I asked about the champagne, told me to save my conspiracy theories for The Racket. She was doing a divorce renovation, she said, and the bottle of champagne was for Javier, who was bringing some kitchen designs.

The Moet broke with a satisfying crash. Satisfying, just like the look of terror on Linda’s face as she reached for the phone, set to threaten me with 911 and lawyers and the rural constabulary, calls destined never to be completed. Later, I drove to JFK, I’m sure I did. I know I did. How else would I be here? I drove to JFK, caught a flight, and voila! Troyman on the beach.

Why here? Remember my facts. Remember the Medeas. I think, I know, that Shelley disappeared with cash in hand. She liked the sun, hated the cold — and is still fond of me, I know she is. How long can she be loyal to the Medeas? How long? How long would be needed? And then where else but here?

I turn off the radio and sit up. Three o’clock. People are starting to fold their chairs and blankets, close their umbrellas. They’ll pass me smelling of salt and sun oil and certain powerful meds. I see a few late arrivals straggling in, students coming for a swim after school, workers who have blown off that last hour of work. Troyman alert, feeling lucky.

And yes! I see her down the beach, right at the water’s edge. I see her! Someone new. She’s walking along in a bright yellow bikini, her dark hair under a straw hat. I’ve got her. I run after her, but I’m smart. I don’t speak until I’m fairly close to her. “Shelley,” I say, “Shelley?”

She glances around, her eyes shadowed by her glasses, but continues walking, kicking up the purling, shallow water. Shelley liked childish games.

“Shelley, Shelley Phillips!” I’m so sure, I catch her arm.

She flinches away. “Let me go! You know contact isn’t allowed.”

I ask if the champagne was good, if the money’s still coming through regularly. Because I’m standing between her and the guard kiosk, she tries to back away into the surf.

“Look,” she says, “you’re getting seriously out of line.”

I explain I’m Troyman, Troy Donnelly, twenty million listeners and a dominant market share, though, of course, she already knows that, having helped prepare the stats.

“Shelley, sweetie, I understand your point of view, but I can’t get back to drive time unless and until you come clean and sink the two Medeas. We’re talking my career, my whole life,” I say, and though I’m talking pretty loudly, I still hear the guard’s warning shouts.

Two of them this time in their green scrub suits, hiding the red trunks I know they’re wearing.

Should have warned you. He’s fine inside, but outside... Come on, Mr. Donnelly.

He had his hands around my neck!

Yeah, but he’s fine inside. Get him inside and he’s a pussycat, aren’t you, Mr. Donnelly?

They’re talking about Troyman. I’m not listening. Another little mistaken ID, but tomorrow I’ll find Shelley and get back where I belong.

Always worse after his wife’s visited. Almost killed her. We really should keep her from coming, but she’s so devoted. Sad, really.

“My evidence? Where’s my evidence? My legal folders?”

Hand me those papers. See he has them at all times. Otherwise major agitation.

“Here they are, Mr. Donnelly.”

The Medeas will try anything to get that folder from me. Bribe the guards, sneak up on me at the beach. I have to watch them. But they haven’t succeeded yet, and they won’t. Troyman is too smart for them. Tomorrow when I find Shelley, when I spot Shelley, they’ll be toast. You’ll see.

Thorns

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

It started on an unseasonably hot May afternoon. The air was as thick as a Midtown July. I’d already brought the exotics inside — much as I hated to, since exotics lured the casual buyer, the out-of-towner, the newly arrived soon-to-be-jaded Manhattanite. Exotics were what they expected from the city. Something unusual, something strange, everything they wanted available for a price.

The shop’s interior was as cool as it could be with the front door open. In the summer I kept the air at frigid, but I didn’t have the budget for that in May. So I had the air at luke-cool and kept the misters running. The plants would survive a day or two of this, and if the weather stayed the same, I’d have to spring for the extra electricity.