Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

The summer wore on. I began making progress on my novel. Tea with Olivia became a daily event. While Perdita gazed menacingly upon us or honed her already lethal claws on the furniture, Olivia would pore over her maps and guidebooks, Monty’s benevolent button eyes regarding us with a mute but placid indifference. I was no longer startled when Olivia might suddenly break off and turn to address some remark to Monty, as if aware he was being excluded from the conversation. “What do you think, Monty? Do you think the tour might prove too exhausting for me?”

And then, like the intrusion of the ogre, the monster, or the wicked witch into that fairy-tale summer, the real, the living Monty Crackenthorpe reappeared on the scene, a resurrection devoutly to be regretted by all concerned.

I looked across into Olivia’s garden one morning to see a stranger standing on the back porch. I may have imagined a menacing aspect in that narrow crabbed jaw jutting wedgelike beneath a swollen red nose, but I felt an instant alarm. The seedy look of the stranger aroused fears of burglars and break-ins. I decided to investigate.

I introduced myself and asked for Olivia. The man shrugged, eyed me with an insolent frown, then turned back into the house, squalling Olivia’s name. “Livy! You got company. Get down here.”

At length she appeared, looking like some wasted flower that hadn’t been watered in a week. She darted a quick look over her shoulder and came down the steps to join me.

“He’s back!” she whispered. “Monty’s come home.” Drawing me further from the house, she plucked at my sleeve and looked up at me imploringly. “He simply breezed in last night, pleased as punch with himself, as if he’d only gone down to the corner for a pack of cigarettes. He looked frightful. So shabby. He says he’s home to stay. My dear, whatever shall I do?”

“Kick him out, if that’s what you want.”

“He won’t go. He drinks like a fish and says the nastiest things to me. He says I’m cuckoo. He says I should be put away. What on earth am I to do?”

I could see Monty watching us from the window, an ugly smirk on his face, and although I wanted more than anything to offer Olivia some comfort, there was little I could say and nothing I could do. Finally I promised to come to tea that afternoon and at least talk to Monty.

The tea party was not a success. We went through the motions but the real Monty was no more forthcoming than his effigy, which I noticed was nowhere in sight. In the end, he scowled into his teacup and said crossly: “You ought to know better, Livy. Serving tea in dirty cups. Go and wash them properly.”

Like a chastened child, Olivia did as she was told. Only then did Monty adopt a more sociable manner.

“Batty as a hoot owl, that one. I’d hoped she might have grown up after all this time. Jeez, she’s still playing with dolls.”

“You think you’ve any right to judge her?” I replied. “After all, you deserted her.”

He ignored this quibble. “She says you’re a writer of some sort. Used to loonies, I suppose.”

“I’m very fond of Olivia.”

“Well, don’t go putting notions in her head. Only one thing to be done, by George, and I’m going to do it. She should have been put away years ago.”

“And that’s what you plan to do?”

“Sooner the better,” he snapped. “I’m her husband. I’ll do what’s got to be done. Plenty of folks around here will testify what she’s like.”

“I won’t.” And with that I got up and left.

For the next several days I saw very little of Olivia and must confess I became too caught up in the final polishing of my novel to take an active interest in what might be happening next door. Until late one morning Olivia burst in upon me, visibly distraught and on the verge of tears.

“I’ve been dying to talk to you, my dear, but he watches me like a hawk. He’s gone to town this morning. I just know he’s planning to do something awful. If only I’d had the sense to divorce him. He’s going to put me in some sort of — place. Can he do that? Please. Tell me what I should do.”

She seemed at that moment more childlike than ever. Clearly, her mind was no match for the appalling Monty’s. Nor could I assume responsibility. I wasn’t a relative and had known Olivia for only a few months. All I could do was offer meaningless phrases of assurance that things might work out for the best.

I neither saw nor heard from Olivia for a week. She did not appear to water her flowers, though several rainy days intervened to make this unnecessary. And then one afternoon I saw Monty digging a hole under the catalpa tree. He went back inside and came out carrying a burlap bag which he proceeded to bury in the hole. I waited until I saw him drive off in Olivia’s ancient De Soto before rushing over.