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

“With that theory and a dozen others.” She yawned. “Suicide, for example. She’s feeling blue, she heads for the falls with a bottle for company, she slugs down some wine, throws the bottle over the falls, decides to follow the bottle. Or she takes her bottle to the park for a private party before the initiation. The wine makes her so giddy she traipses across the stepping-stones, blindfolding herself to add to the fun—”

“The wine wouldn’t have had time to make her giddy yet,” Bolt objected. “Now, were the bruises on her forehead definitely caused by the rocks below Petite Falls?”

“Not definitely,” she said. “Cripes, Bolt — you’ve been at this long enough to know these things don’t tend to be definite. Fact is, there was more bruising than I’d expect. Maybe someone smashed her head against something blunt, knocked her out, then finished things off by putting her in the river. Then again, maybe not.”

“Thanks for narrowing down the possibilities,” I said, irritated. Random street crime, some other kind of homicide, initiation, suicide, accident — I still had to consider them all. As the coroner strode back to her lab, I shuffled moodily through the folder.

“A stimulating case,” Bolt said, blinking happily. “I imagine it poses a challenge even to your powers of deduction — not that I doubt you’ll solve it in record time, sir. As for me, I’ve been looking through Miss Warren’s things, gleaning what poor shreds of evidence I can. Her checkbook shows a balance of three dollars and eighty-seven cents. I called the bank, and a helpful clerk remarked that Miss Warren stopped by Saturday morning to open a savings account with an initial deposit of five dollars, the minimum amount the bank accepts. Rather an optimistic move, wouldn’t you say, sir, considering her circumstances?”

Damned optimistic. It pretty much knocked the hell out of the suicide theory. She had dressed carefully and fussed over her makeup — who’d bother with that on her way to a watery grave? “And the clothes, the makeup,” I said. “Those don’t fit, either.”

Bolt looked lost, then nodded. “Shrewd observation. Then there’s her calendar — she has three appointments marked for the next two weeks with someone named John. You see? For this Thursday — ‘John, Elite Lounge, 8 P.M.’ And for next Saturday — ‘John, Fifth Street Grill, 10 P.M.’ And for the following Wednesday — ‘John, airport, 6:45 P.M.’ ”

So Maggie had a new boyfriend. Maybe that’s why she broke up with Fletcher. Maybe John could help us decide if the suicide theory made sense. Naturally, he had to have a common first name, but at a college as small as Culbert, we’d track him down.

“And there’s this.” Bolt held out Maggie’s address book. “Under L — for lawyer, I assume — she has Phillip Easton’s number. Why would a college student carry around the number for a high-powered criminal attorney?”

“I’ll call his office and see,” I said.

The secretary who took the call checked the Rolodex, checked computer files, checked with other secretaries, found no mention of Maggie Warren, no one who’d heard of her before reading this morning’s newspaper.

“Dead end,” I said to Bolt. “Anything else?”

Frowning, he pointed to Maggie’s silver-banded watch. “I am bemused about why the watch was in her purse. It matches her outfit — the silvery top and sweater, the silver ankle straps, the silver necklace and earrings. Why wasn’t she wearing it?”

Well, that goes to show you. Even a smart guy like Bolt can miss obvious things. This was a cheap watch, not waterproof. Naturally, if Maggie was crossing the stepping-stones for an initiation, or just for fun, she’d take her watch off. She wouldn’t worry about drowning — kids always feel immortal — but she’d worry about landing in the water and ruining her watch. This time, I was a step ahead of Bolt.

“It’s easy to miss a step,” I said, worried he’d feel bad about messing up. “Anyone can make a slip.” Eventually, he’d get over feeling dumb — I’ve done it often enough — but how could I assure him of that? “Time,” I said. “That’s real important. Things can be all smashed up, but... oh, damn.” How could I find the perfect word to say that wounded pride gradually gets better. That it, well... what? “Heals,” I said, realizing that was the word. “That’s what you should focus on — heals. Know what I mean?”