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

For there was the matter of the kidskin bag. The secret gift. Which Sybil had hidden in the farthest corner of her closet, wrapped in plastic, so the smell of it would not permeate the room. (Still, you could smell it — couldn’t you? A subtle pervasive smell, rich as any perfume?) Sybil lived in dread that her aunt would discover the purse, and the money; though Lora Dell Blake never entered her niece’s room without an invitation, somehow, Sybil worried, it might happen. She had never kept any important secret from her aunt in her life, and this secret both filled her with a sense of excitement and power, and weakened her, in childish dread.

What most concerned Lora, however, was Sybil’s renewed interest in that — as in, “Oh, honey, are you thinking about that again? Why?”

That

was the abbreviated euphemism for what Lora might more fully call “the accident” — “the tragedy” — “your parents’ deaths.”

Sybil, who had never shown more than passing curiosity about that in the past, as far as Lora could remember, was now in the grip of what Lora called “morbid curiosity.” That mute, perplexed look in her eyes! That tremulous, though sometimes a bit sullen, look to her mouth! One evening, lighting up a cigarette with shaking fingers, Lora said, bluntly, “Sybil, honey, this tears my heart out. What is it you want to know?”

Sybil said, as if she’d been waiting for just this question, “Is my father alive?”

“What?”

“My father. George Conte. Is

he — maybe — alive?”

The question hovered between them, and, for a long pained moment, it seemed almost that Aunt Lora might snort in exasperation, jump up from the table, walk out of the room. But then she said, shaking her head adamantly, dropping her gaze from Sybil’s, “Honey, no. The man is not alive.” She paused. She smoked her cigarette, exhaled smoke vigorously through her nostrils; seemed about to say something further; changed her mind; then said, quietly, “You don’t ask about your mother, Sybil. Why is that?”

“I — believe that my mother is dead. But—”

“But—?”

“My — my father—”

“—isn’t?”

Sybil said, stammering, her cheeks growing hot, “I just want to know. I want to see a, a — grave! A death certificate!”

“I’ll send to Wellington for a copy of the death certificate,” Aunt Lora said slowly. “Will that do?”

“You don’t have a copy here?”

“Honey, why would I have a copy here?”

Sybil saw that the older woman was regarding her with a look of pity, and something like dread. She said, stammering, her cheeks warm, “In your — legal things. Your papers. Locked away—”

“Honey, no.”

There was a pause. Then Sybil said, half-sobbing, “I was too young to go to their funeral. So I never saw. Whatever it was — I never saw. Is that it? They say that’s the reason for the ritual — for displaying the dead.”

Aunt Lora reached over to take Sybil’s hand. “It’s one of the reasons, honey,” she said. “We meet up with it all the time, at the medical center. People don’t believe that loved ones are dead — they know, but can’t accept it; the shock is just too much to absorb at once. And, yes, it’s a theory, that if you don’t see a person actually dead — if there isn’t a public ceremony to define it — you may have difficulty accepting it. You may—” and here Aunt Lora paused, frowning, “—be susceptible to fantasy.”

Fantasy! Sybil stared at her aunt, shocked. But I’ve seen him, I know. I believe him and not you!

The subject seemed to be concluded for the time being. Aunt Lora briskly stubbed out her cigarette and said, “I’m to blame — probably. I’d been in therapy for a couple of years after it happened and I just didn’t want to talk about it any longer, so when you’d asked me questions, over the years, I cut you off; I realize that. But, you see, there’s so little to say — Melanie is dead, and he is dead. And it all happened a long time ago.”