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

Sybil had been posing in the sun, warmly mesmerized by the sun, the surf, Mr. Starr’s voice, and now, as if wakened from a sleep of which she had not been conscious, she felt as if she’d been touched — prodded into wakefulness. She saw, upside-down, the fussy smudged sketch Mr. Starr had been doing of her, saw his charcoal stick poised above the stiff white paper in an attitude of chagrin. She laughed, and wiped at her eyes, and said, “It happened a long time ago. I never think of it, really.”

Mr. Starr’s expression was wary, complex. He asked, “And so — do you — live with your — father?” The words seemed oddly forced.

“No, I don’t. And I don’t want to talk about this any more, Mr. Starr, if it’s all right with you.”

Sybil spoke pleadingly, yet with an air of finality.

“Then — we won’t! We won’t! We certainly won’t!” Mr. Starr said quickly. And fell to sketching again, his face creased in concentration.

And so the remainder of the session passed in silence.

Again, as soon as Sybil evinced signs of restlessness, Mr. Starr declared she could stop for the day — he didn’t want to exhaust her, or himself.

Sybil rubbed her neck, which ached mildly; she stretched her arms, her legs. Her skin felt slightly sun- or wind-burnt and her eyes felt seared, as if she’d been staring directly into the sun. Or had she been crying? — she couldn’t remember.

Again, Mr. Starr paid Sybil in cash, out of his kidskin wallet brimming with bills. His hand shook just visibly as he pressed the money into Sybil’s. (Embarrassed, Sybil folded the bills quickly and put them in her pocket. Later, at home, she would discover that Mr. Starr had given her ten dollars too much: a bonus, for almost making her cry?) Though it was clear that Sybil was eager to get away, Mr. Starr walked with her up the slope in the direction of the Boulevard, limping, leaning on his cane, but keeping a brisk pace. He asked if Sybil — of course, he called her Blake: “dear Blake” — would like to have some refreshment with him in a café nearby? — and when Sybil declined, murmured, “Yes, yes, I understand — I suppose.” He then asked if Sybil would return the following day, and when Sybil did not say no, added that, if she did, he would like to increase her hourly fee in exchange for asking of her a slightly different sort of modeling — “A slightly modified sort of modeling, here in the park, or perhaps down on the beach, in full daylight of course, as before, and yet, in its way—” Mr. Starr paused nervously, seeking the right word, “—experimental.”

Sybil asked doubtfully, “ ‘Experimental’—?”

“I’m prepared to increase your fee, Blake, by half.”

“What kind of ‘experimental’?”

“Emotion.”

“What?”

“Emotion. Memory. Interiority.”

Now that they were emerging from the park, and more likely to be seen, Sybil was glancing uneasily about: she dreaded seeing someone from school, or, worse yet, a friend of her aunt’s. Mr. Starr gestured as he spoke, and seemed more than ordinarily excited. “—‘Interiority.’ That which is hidden to the outer eye. I’ll tell you in more detail tomorrow, Blake,” he said. “You will meet me here tomorrow?”

Sybil murmured, “I don’t know, Mr. Starr.”

“Oh, but you must! — please.”

Sybil felt a tug of sympathy for Mr. Starr. He was kind, and courteous, and gentlemanly; and, certainly, very generous. She could not imagine his life except to see him as a lonely, eccentric man without friends. Uncomfortable as she was in his presence, she yet wondered if perhaps she was exaggerating his eccentricity: what would a neutral observer make of the tall limping figure, the cane, the canvas duffel bag, the polished black leather shoes that reminded her of a funeral, the fine thin beautiful silver hair, the dark glasses that winked in the sunshine...? Would such an observer, seeing Sybil Blake and Mr. Starr together, give them a second glance?

“Look,” Sybil said, pointing, “—a hearse.”

At a curb close by there was a long sleekly black car with dark-tinted, impenetrable windows. Mr. Starr laughed, and said, embarrassed, “I’m afraid, Blake, that isn’t a hearse, you know — it’s my car.”

“Your car?”

“Yes. I’m afraid so.”

Now Sybil could see that the vehicle was a limousine, idling at the curb. Behind the wheel was a youngish driver with a visored cap on his head; in profile, he appeared Oriental. Sybil stared, amazed. So Mr. Starr was wealthy, indeed.

He was saying, apologetically, yet with a kind of boyish pleasure, “I don’t drive, myself, you see! — a further handicap. I did, once, long ago, but — circumstances intervened.” Sybil was thinking that she often saw chauffeur-driven limousines in Glencoe, but she’d never known anyone who owned one before. Mr. Starr said, “Blake, may I give you a ride home? — I’d be delighted, of course.”

Sybil laughed, as if she’d been tickled, hard, in the ribs.

“A ride? In that?” she asked.