Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

“Willie was reliving that night clear as a bell.” Simon was on his feet. “He remembers thinking it was a piece of jewelry and he kept saying ‘I gave it back! I gave it back!’ ”

“Then where is it? And I believe the guard is due presently.”

Startled — he’d been so absorbed he’d forgotten to watch the time — Simon slid all his gear behind the long tapestry on a table, snapped out the light and dove behind the curtains as a light flickered in the hall.

“I explored one other possibility,” Dorothea said as Mr. O’Malley’s light beamed around the room. Simon wished she wouldn’t do this. He realized the man couldn’t see or hear her, but it gave him the jitters to think of her shimmering away out there and talking casually. “I inquired at the pawnshop — there was only one in Sarasota — and nothing of the kind had been brought in.”

Mr. O’Malley moved on and the sound of his footsteps faded. Simon emerged and snapped on the lights. He said, “How would a ten-year-old kid know anything about a pawnshop?”

“He probably wouldn’t, but his parents might.”

Simon turned around so fast he’d have bumped into her if there had been anything to bump into. “Sure, that’s what you think! He’d give it to his folks and they’d pawn it!”

“I only mention it because—”

“—because it’s what you figure a poor black family would do.”

“Correction: any poor family.” Her light blazed. “My own family was very poor. We lived in a New York City slum and there were many trips to pawnshops. I had no money at all when I married Everett Fox-Nugent. He bought me that cheap little trinket because I liked it, but he said, ‘I’ll teach you to recognize beautiful jewelry and great art,’ and he did. He was a dear, kind man, and that napkin ring lay at my place at the table every day. I treasured it, and when it was lost I offered a reward of one hundred dollars for its return.”

Simon had stood motionless as she spoke. Now he pulled his gear out from behind the table and sat down. He looked at his paints but he couldn’t make his hands move. There was no sound behind him and for a few seconds he thought Dorothea had departed. He turned his head slightly and knew she was still there. He made himself reach for his brush, and said, “I wish you’d get back up in that painting and stop bugging me.”

“What is your opinion of that painting, by the way?”

“I suppose it looks like you.”

Dorothea sailed around him and stood directly before the Nativity. “Such a question calls for a gracious answer, something complimentary or gallant. You have no manners.”

“Neither do you, sister. You’re standing right in my way.”

She moved to one side and her voice quivered a little. “I was never really beautiful but I had good hair and a fine figure. Everyone said I had a fine figure.”

Simon suddenly felt almost sorry for her. He gave her a quick look up and down, winked, and said, “And for once everyone was right.”

The effect of those words was astonishing. Dorothea’s light turned bright pink. Was she blushing? She drifted toward her frame and said in the gentlest tone he’d heard her use, “I’m sorry about Willie and I respect your loyalty to him. Good night, Simon.”

It was the first time she had spoken his name and it affected him strangely. He stood up quickly. “Dorothea, wait.” She turned. “Tomorrow is my last night here.”

“And mine too.”

“Maybe... between now and then...” He began to feel the futility of his words even as he spoke them. “Willie can tell me something that will prove...”

“Of course, that would be splendid.”

And of course, that will be impossible, Simon thought as she stepped into the frame. He closed his eyes, suddenly unable to bear being in this room another minute, unable to face the thought of returning without tangible proof of Willie’s innocence. Tomorrow night Dorothea would probably be kind and forgiving as they said good-bye, but he didn’t think he’d like her kind and forgiving; he liked her haughty and challenging. He took his picture from the easel — it was almost done and he could finish it from memory — and leaned it against the door. He carried his gear to the locker, then came back to the room and walked to the light switch. He stood looking at the painting of Dorothea, then whispered, “So long, Dorothea, it’s been real.” He began to laugh a little, but he knew the laugh had some cry in it. Had he half fallen in love with a dead white woman twice his age whom he would never see again? What a hoot. He snapped off the light.

Simon picked up his picture, holding the wet canvas at arm’s length, and walked down the corridor. He descended the stone steps, forgetting that at the bottom was a statue of a satyr, one hoof playfully extended. The next thing he knew his painting had clattered to the floor and Mr. O’Malley was running toward him with his torch and yelling, “Simon? Si?” in a horrified voice.