Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

“I’m down to one pack a day,” said Tiffany. “Gran’s working hard on me to quit. On us to quit. She’s down to something like ten butts a day.” She lowered her voice. “You don’t suspect her, do you?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Just wondered. Her swiping that CD from Ames. That was for me, you know. It was my birthday, and she didn’t have any money and wanted to get me something.”

Dean raised a hand. “Listen,” he said, “I wasn’t the one who pressed charges. It was the store owner, said he wanted to make an example of your grandmother, and your grandmother agreed.” It was coming back to him now.

“As I recall, the judge sentenced her to fifteen hours of community service, and she said, ‘No, that’s not enough. Give me at least twenty.’ You know something?” Dean watched the granddaughter, late twenties, close to his twenty-eight, blow the smoke away from him. “I think your grandmother’s a class act.”

A smile edged across Tiffany’s face. “Too bad you’re a cop.”

“Why’s that?”

She used her hand again for an ashtray. “I dunno,” she said, shrugging.

“So who’ve we got for suspects?” said Bunk. “Guess we’ll have to start with the grandmother and granddaughter. They both knew DeBeck. And the girl at least smokes.”

For some reason Dean didn’t mention that granny also smoked. “Motive?”

They were standing on the gravel drive. The only other person around was T. J., who had showed up to watch the house, keep rubberneckers away. The press had come and gone, and Trish and Tiffany had also left.

Lacy DeBeck’s three story mansion was probably the largest, fanciest house in Efizabethville, a town of four thousand that had once been a major granite producer and was now creating milk, cheese, lumber, electronics, and contented retirees. Its wooded hills and green meadows provided the perfect setting for retired bond traders and pediatricians.

DeBeck was neither a trader nor a doctor, but he had money and lots of it.

The house was flanked by wide lawns dotted with statuary and surrounded by woods. At the back a maple and beech wood rose to Shincracker Hill, which had been a favorite picnic spot of Elizabethvilleans until DeBeck, who had bought it ten years ago with the house, put up No Trespassing signs. The only visible evidence of any neighbors was a gray roof a quarter mile away seen through a gap in the foliage.

“Motive?” echoed Bunk. “Maybe he left them something in his will, and they didn’t want to wait.”

“I doubt that,” said Dean as a green Caddy purred up the drive. “They just clean his house; they aren’t related to him.”

A broad-shouldered man with a headful of wavy gray hair climbed out of the Coupe de Ville. Dean recognized Rob Clampitt, a realtor with an office on Main Street. A year ago he had fined Clampitt ninety-eight dollars for failing to come to a complete stop at one of the town’s two red fights.

“I just heard about Lacy over the radio,” said Clampitt. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

“It’s true, Rob,” said Dean. “You live around here, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Clampitt jerked a thumb toward the gray roof peeping through the trees. “What happened?”

“Looks like someone was having a drink with him in the library and popped him,” said Bunk. “Were you a friend of his?”

“Nobody was a friend of his. I got along with him okay, though. We played a lot of tennis together, an occasional game of golf.” Clampitt stared up at the library windows on the second floor. “I’ll miss him,” he said simply and wandered off onto the lawn, putting his hand on a statue of Aphrodite.

“There’s something else,” said Bunk to Dean. “DeBeck had a weakness for younger women. Remember that tax accountant he supposedly fondled last fall? She withdrew her complaint, and I’ll bet anything he paid her off. She was around twenty-five, same age as Tiffany.”

“Come on. You saw the granddaughter. She wouldn’t let an old jackass like him get near her.”

“Thanks,” said Bunk. The chief was fifty-two, same age as the deceased.

Clampitt, still looking dazed, had wandered back. “I heard that crack about Lacy. Don’t kid yourself Dean, he may have been in his fifties, but he was in great shape. Did you ever see him play tennis?”

The two cops shook their heads.

“He could beat most tennis players half his age.”

“Who are his relatives?” asked Dean.

Rob Clampitt raised a forefinger. “Just one, far as I know. A brother, Marty DeBeck, lives in Dutton Falls. I feel sorry for the guy, having to deal with this.”

“But look what he’ll inherit.”

An amused twinkle in Rob’s eye. “You haven’t heard Marty on the subject of inherited wealth, have you? Don’t get any ideas about Marty. He wouldn’t hurt a flea.” Rob’s eyes slitted. “You want to know who did this? Either some guy who didn’t like Lacy fooling around with his daughter or an old business partner.”

“Business partner?” said Bunk. “I thought he didn’t work. That he was independently wealthy.”