Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

Dear Dr. Kessler,

You said I was a coward, afraid, couldn’t do it. Well, I got lover-boy, all right. I got a gun and I shot him seven times, so he won’t come messing around any more. You were so wrong about me. You just never understood anything.

Richie

“I’m... I’m—” Dr. Kessler held the paper out as if he didn’t know what to do with it. Detective Bates took it, folded it, and put it back into his pocket as Dr. Kessler went on, “—I’m sorry... very sorry to hear this. Who—”

“His wife, first of all.”

“Lara?”

“Found her buried, or rather half buried, in the basement. Medical examiner says she’s probably been buried there for about three months.”

Something skidded slightly.

“The other victim was a guy who evidently tried to dig her out. Brocia came into the basement from the side door and surprised the intruder and started shooting. The victim ran, and died on the stairs leading up out of the basement.”

He held out a card. “He had your calling card on him, Dr. Kessler. You know anything about him? A private investigator, name of Flynn?”

Miss Evangeline and the Monster

by Leo P. Kelley

Miss Evangeline Sabrina Withermane couldn’t believe her eyes as she looked out the window of her bedroom and saw the flying saucer circle, spin to the left a little, and then set down just as pretty as you please in the middle of her front lawn flowerbed with not so much as a by-your-leave.

“Well, I never!” she exclaimed aloud. “Right in the middle of my jack-in-the-pulpits. They’re ruined beyond repair, no doubt about it.”

She didn’t wait for the little green men to disembark. There simply wasn’t time. She would have to make a report to the police at once. It was urgent. Why, perhaps the whole town was being invaded — the entire planet maybe.

She scuttled downstairs, picked up the telephone in the hall, dialed the familiar number of the police station, and waited for the ringing to begin. When it didn’t after two agonizing minutes, she remembered. They had disconnected her; nonpayment of bills or some such nonsense. She had told the phone company that she was certain she had paid her bills, but they insisted she hadn’t — not for months. Being the lady that she was, she had refused to argue further and spent the rest of the day in a blue sulk.

She put down the phone with distaste. Actually, she had never really liked the machine to begin with, not since the very day her papa had had it installed all those lost years ago. She preferred face-to-face contact with people, preferably genteel.

She hurried out to the garage behind her ancient house, which was circa 1800, and got into the vintage Packard her papa had taught her to drive not long before he was unkind enough to die and leave her not only heartbroken but all alone. She rolled out the open doors of the garage like a Sherman tank and rumbled down the driveway.

The saucer, she noted, was still sitting insultingly on her lawn. Well, she’d see about that, oh, wouldn’t she just!

Later, as she parked in the central square of the small southern town, she noticed the letters lying on the seat beside her. She picked them up. One was from someplace called the City Tax Bureau. Another was from the water company. Would they never leave a lady in peace? She got out of the car and dropped them, unopened, into the trash can on the corner.

Past the statue of the Confederate soldier, past the tiny post office and all the little shops, went Miss Evangeline Sabrina Withermane. She marched up the steps of the police station and into its relatively cool interior. Flying saucers on a Monday! It was simply no way to begin a week.

“Afternoon, Miss Evangeline,” said Patrolman Carson, who was standing near the entrance reading the notices on the bulletin board. “Nice day.”

She gave him a polite nod and asked to see Sergeant MacReynolds.

“Something wrong, Miss Evangeline?” Carson inquired.

“Indeed there is. I want to register a complaint.”

“Something bothering you again?”

“Yes, officer. A flying saucer.”

Carson whistled softly through his teeth. “A flying saucer, is it? Last week, when we met over at the drugstore, you told me you wanted to report — what was it you wanted to report that day, Miss Evangeline?”

“The Mulberry Mall Monster,” she replied. “But I haven’t time to go into all that now. Where is Sergeant MacReynolds?”

“In his office.”

Miss Evangeline marched down the hall and into Sergeant MacReynolds’ office, trailing magnolia scent like an elegant feather boa behind her.

As she entered his office, MacReynolds glanced up from the papers on his desk and sighed at the sight of her. “Good afternoon, Miss Evangeline,” he said, and sat back in his chair.

“Good day to you, sergeant. I want to report a flying saucer.”

“Well, well.”