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

Trish smiled and then folded her arms and watched the pitcher. After a minute she said, “I guess it’s pretty obvious how I feel about Tiffany. I told you about her father yesterday. He’s a long way off now, but the scars are still there. Do you know what the worst thing about that is?”

“No.”

“It’s made her jumpy around men. Way down deep she isn’t sure she trusts them. So she goes for the safe ones, like George, the guy’s she seeing now. To get George to do anything you have to fight a firecracker under his fanny. You know why I’m telling you this?”

“No.”

“It’s because — dam it, here I go.” Two fat tears raced each other down her cheeks. “If Tiff sees me...” She turned away from the game and faced the parking lot, and beyond the cars a blue-green hayfield waving in the breeze. “I want her to get past those scars. I want her to be with some guy who’s both gentle and a little crazy. You know what I mean? A guy you don’t have to light a cracker under.” She swiped a sleeve over her eyes and turned back to the game. “Sorry about that. Do you play baseball, too?”

Dean didn’t answer. Though it was a warm day, he felt a chill in his back. There was a question he knew he had to ask. “Did DeBeck ever try anything with Tiffany?”

“Lacy?” Trish gave a scornful laugh. “You better believe he did. But I set him straight.”

“How?”

“Told him if he made another pass at her he’d be playing tennis in a wheelchair.”

“What did he say?”

The grandmother rested a finger lightly on Dean’s chest. “He didn’t say a word.”

Sunday afternoon Dean walked into the squad room and found Bunk throwing darts. He had hung an old quilt behind the board to muffle any stray shots. “Chief, you know what day it is?” Dean slumped into his chair, draped a leg over the corner of his desk.

“Don’t worry, I’m not charging the town for this. Kind of sad, isn’t it? Like I have nowhere else to go.”

Bunk picked up another dart, cocked his arm. “You know what we’re missing in this case?” he said as he planted a dart in Saddam’s left ear. “Hey, I’m getting better. A piece of hard evidence. A fingerprint, a hair, or — if we get really lucky — the .32 auto he was shot with. Dean? Hey, Dean?”

“Huh?”

Bunk had come over and was waving a hand in front of his face. “You aren’t listening, buddy. Come on back to earth.”

“Sorry.” Dean dropped his foot off the desk and sat up. “I was wondering what black lipstick tastes like.”

“Black lipstick?” Bunk Cummins squinted hard at his young officer. “Are you okay? You need some time off?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Just rambling there. I see what you’re saying about hard evidence.” He took the Blue Note matchbook out of his pocket and tossed it in the air. “This is about all we’ve got. And it’s not gonna help us.” Idly he opened the flap, stared at the matches.

“What’s wrong?”

“One match gone. Left side. Nah, that doesn’t mean anything. This case has me thinking in circles.”

“What doesn’t mean anything?” The chief sounded a little impatient.

“Okay, I’m right-handed. If I were to take a match from here, I’d take it from the right side. Nine out of ten times. Maybe ninety-nine out of a hundred times. So does that mean the killer’s a—” Dean suddenly stopped, feeling that chill again.

“Goddammit, Dean, what’s up?”

That was maybe the third time in three years he had heard the chief swear. “Nothing,” he said. “Just babbling.” He pictured Tiffany making that great play at shortstop and throwing the ball to first. Nothing unusual about that — except it was with her left hand. He looked at his watch and stood. “Gotta go to the brothel’s little party I was telling you about. You coming?”

Bunk looked over at the stack of paperwork on his desk. “Probably not.”

When Dean pulled into the gravel turnaround at Lacy DeBeck’s estate, Marty DeBeck was standing in the portico in white ducks and a Hawaiian shirt with his arms spread wide like a revivalist preacher. A few people Dean had never seen before strolled about the grounds, taking in the statuary and tennis court. Off to one side, by the statue of Aphrodite, he saw Trish and Tiffany. On the porch with Marty was a man in a seersucker suit.

“Glad you could make it, lieutenant,” said DeBeck. “Look at this place, will you. This million-dollar house, the tennis court and lawns, four hundred acres of prime real estate. It’s all mine. And do you know what I say?”

Dean said he didn’t.

“Nuts. That’s what I say. Nuts. I don’t want it. You saw what it did to my brother. By the way, this is John Rawlins, my brother’s attorney, who has agreed to be here to make this somewhat official. And all these beautiful creatures you see lounging about are members of the Dutton Falls Players. Are you on duty, sir?”

“Yup,” said Dean.

“Then you can’t drink, can you? Pity. Well, go on up to the library and get yourself a Coke. I’ll be right along, but first I have to make a phone call. An important guest is still missing.”