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

He opened the rear door of the limousine, and took out a square white box, and, smiling shyly, presented it to Sybil. “Oh, what is it?” Sybil cried. She and Aunt Lora rarely exchanged presents any longer, it seemed like a ritual out of the deep past, delightful to rediscover. She lifted the cover of the box, and saw, inside, a beautiful purse; an over-the-shoulder bag; kidskin, the hue of rich dark honey. “Oh, Mr. Starr — thank you,” Sybil said, taking the bag in her hands. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” “Why don’t you open it, dear?” Mr. Starr urged, so Sybil opened the bag, and discovered money inside — fresh-minted bills — the denomination on top was twenty dollars. “I hope you didn’t overpay me again,” Sybil said, uneasily, “—I never have modeled for three hours yet. It isn’t fair.” Mr. Starr laughed, flushed with pleasure. “Fair to whom?” he asked. “What is ‘fair’? — we do what we like.”

Sybil raised her eyes shyly to Mr. Starr’s and saw that he was looking at her intently — at least, the skin at the corners of his eyes was tightly puckered. “Today, dear, I insist upon driving you home,” he said, smiling. There was a new authority in his voice that seemed to have something to do with the gift Sybil had received from him. “It will soon be getting chilly, and your feet are wet.” Sybil hesitated. She had lifted the bag to her face, to inhale the pungent kidskin smell: the bag was of a quality she’d never owned before. Mr. Starr glanced swiftly about, as if to see if anyone was watching; he was still smiling. “Please do climb inside, Blake! — you can’t consider me a stranger, now.”

Still, Sybil hesitated. Half teasing, she said, “You know my name isn’t Blake, don’t you, Mr. Starr? — how do you know?”

Mr. Starr laughed, teasing too. “Isn’t

it? What is your name, then?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Should I know?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

There was a pause. Mr. Starr had taken hold of Sybil’s wrist; lightly, yet firmly. His fingers circled her thin wrists with the subtle pressure of a watchband.

Mr. Starr leaned close, as if sharing a secret. “Well, I did hear you sing your solo, in your wonderful Christmas pageant at the high school! I must confess, I’d sneaked into a rehearsal too — no one questioned my presence. And I believe I heard the choir director call you — is it ‘Sybil’?”

Hearing her name in Mr. Starr’s mouth, Sybil felt a sensation of vertigo. She could only nod, mutely, yes.

“Is it? — I wasn’t sure if I’d heard correctly. A lovely name, for a lovely girl. And ‘Blake’ — is ‘Blake’ your surname?”

Sybil murmured, “Yes.”

“Your father’s name?”

“No. Not my father’s name.”

“Oh, and why not? Usually, you know, that’s the case.”

“Because—” And here Sybil paused, confused, uncertain what to say. “It’s my mother’s name. Was.”

“Ah, really! I see,” Mr. Starr laughed. “Well, truly, I suppose I don’t, but we can discuss it another time. Shall we—?”

He meant, shall we get into the car; he was exerting pressure on Sybil’s wrist, and, though kindly as always, seemed on the edge of impatience. Sybil stood flatfooted on the sidewalk, wanting to acquiesce; yet, at the same time, uneasily thinking that, no, she should not. Not yet.

So Sybil pulled away, laughing nervously, and Mr. Starr had to release her, with a disappointed downturning of his mouth. Sybil thanked him, saying she preferred to walk. “I hope I will see you tomorrow, then? — ‘Sybil’?” Mr. Starr called after her. “Yes?”

But Sybil, hugging her new bag against her chest, as a small child might hug a stuffed animal, was walking quickly away.

Was the black limousine following her, at a discreet distance?

Sybil felt a powerful compulsion to look back, but did not.

She was trying to recall if, ever in her life, she’d ridden in such a vehicle. She supposed there had been hired, chauffeur-drawn limousines at her parents’ funerals, but she had not attended those funerals; had no memory of anything connected with them, except the strange behavior of her grandmother, her Aunt Lora, and other adults — their grief, but, underlying that grief, their air of profound and speechless shock.

Where is Mommy, she’d asked, where is Daddy, and the replies were always the same: Gone away.

And crying did no good. And fury did no good. Nothing little Sybil could do, or say, or think did any good. That was the first lesson, maybe.

But Daddy isn’t dead, you know he isn’t. You know, and he knows, why he has returned.

10. “Possessed”

Aunt Lora was smoking again! — back to two packs a day. And Sybil understood guiltily that she was to blame.