Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 6, May 27, 1981

The Forced Retirement of Elton Pringle by Nancy C. Swoboda

The years had eroded rather than enhanced their marriage. Elton Pringle, trim, promising young business-equipment executive, had at age fifty become a balding, paunchy lump of clay. His fading lack of initiative had reduced him to a static, unchallenging salesman’s position with which he was perfectly satisfied. There was always Doris’s nest egg to smooth him over the rough spots.

Doris Pringle — exacting, fastidious, and extremely conscious of what others might think — had come to regard her husband in the same league with the aphids that threatened her roses, a blight that could dim the glory of her colorful garden. Periodically, he had eaten into her inheritance because of his failures. But then, what would people think if they found out that the Pringles were in financial difficulty?

She had always lived her life according to appearances. It was a tacit challenge among her peers to catch Doris without her makeup, with a strand of hair out of place. The story circulated for years about a local group who flew to Europe for a tour and observed Doris sitting bolt upright for the six-hour flight and emerging at Orly perfectly coiffed, pressed, and painted.

Lest someone drive by and see a weed or a bit of chipped paint, Doris kept the yard and house in House Beautiful condition. The dog Elton brought to live with them, surely as a small source of respect and affection for him, was given away because the poor creature turned the grass yellow in spots and traumatized the zinnias.

Elton’s favorite pastime was to settle deeply into his recliner in front of the television set and dust potato-chip crumbs comfortably across his wide girth. His relaxation was usually interrupted by the whine of the vacuum cleaner, vigorously wielded by his wife.

“What if someone stops by?” was her response to his futile protests.

For a time she had monitored his diet, tried to keep his weight at a reasonable level, but it was a hopeless, thankless endeavor. He would simply gorge himself during working hours and come home dutifully to watercress dinners. To preserve at least an illusion of trimness she insisted he have his clothes tailored to minimize his bulk. But at best, he reminded her of a well dressed bullfrog.

Doris was proud of her slim figure. It seemed she could exist for days on a piece of cheese while she cleaned or worked in her garden. The garden was her outlet, her refuge. Having children had never interested her. Tending and nurturing her plants and flowers was satisfaction enough.

The back yard was enclosed within a privacy fence. Flower beds ran along the sides, the garden to the rear was bordered with stepping stones and a latticework archway. In the quiet of late afternoons Doris indulged herself by relaxing on the patio chaise and gazing contentedly at her creation. She alone had turned every shovelful of earth, laid out the borders, rid her paradise of every weed.

With Elton becoming more and more of an irritant in her orderly life, the garden was a panacea. Doris never discussed her private life with anyone. From outward appearances, the Pringles were a comfortable middle-aged couple — Elton a bit henpecked, Doris a bit too fastidious, but a compatible twosome.

One late afternoon in the spring, Doris paced the house nervously. She was impeccably attired in white slacks, sandals, and a stylish blouse. Elton was late. They were due for the annual dinner cruise down the river with the Hestons. The hors d’oeuvres were wrapped, a bottle of vodka packed, and their jackets were on the hall chair ready to go.

She heard him drive up and opened the door. “Where have you been?” she said, peevishly. “You have ten minutes to change. And wear your navy pants. They make you look thinner.”

He’d been drinking. Carelessly, he tossed his briefcase in the hall closet and swung around belligerently. “Listen, today I—”

“Later,” Doris said. “Hurry! You won’t even have time to shower!”

“Sure, sure.” He lumbered up the stairs. “Gotta be on time. Can’t keep Doris’s friends waiting.”

The Hestons had a natty little sixteen-footer and liked to play host to their friends by boating down the river for shore cookouts or putting in at the marina for dinner. Normally Elton enjoyed these excursions, but this night he sat, his drink in his hand, and stared out at the water.

“Ol’ Muddy,” he muttered glumly. “Keeps moving on. Wonder where it goes?”

Nervously, Doris tried to cover his rude detachment with small talk and frequent offerings of her hors d’oeuvres. By the end of the evening her jaw was clamped into a fixed smile.

“It was lovely, as usual,” she assured the Hestons as they parted and then whispered, “Elton’s allergy has been bothering him all day. I’m sorry he’s such a stick.”

He insisted on driving home. Completing the fifteen-minute ride in ten, he slammed out of the car, ricocheted up the stairs, and fell across the bed like a beached whale. Methodically, Doris hung up her clothes, showered, creamed her face, and retired to the guest room. She could hear Elton’s resonant snores through the closed door.

The next morning he came down in his robe, his face puffed and unshaved, dropped into a kitchen chair, and stared out the window.

“Coffee?” Doris said coldly.

“Hm? Oh — yes.”

She poured him a cup, pushed it toward him, and watched him as he drank. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“The Hestons. You were awful last night! What got into you?”

He took several gulps of coffee and then focused on her with bleary eyes. “As of next month I’m being replaced by a computer.”

“What?”

“My job’s being phased out.”

Her tone changed to one of apprehension. “Well, surely they’ll give you another position after all the years you’ve put in.”

“Not at my age. Partial retirement and a severance check is all they’re offering.”

Sputtering, Doris said, “What ingrates! The least they could do is find a place for you!” But in her heart she knew there was little chance of that. Elton was no fireball and never had been. As with so many businesses these days, automation was taking over and older employees were being let go to avoid full pension payments.

She felt no sympathy. All she could think about was the drain on her own funds that was sure to come with Elton’s forced retirement. Just looking at him she knew he was finished. He would become an overweight albatross around her neck. Automatically, she began formulating excuses to make to her friends for his unemployment.

She explained it as a heart condition. Poor dear Elton had to take it easy, quit his job, and rest for a time. And that he did. He made no effort to seek out other employment. He retired to his recliner and became as demanding as a sheik with a corner on the oil market. Self-pity became his occupation, and his cocktail hour began earlier with each day of idleness.

Furiously, Doris dug up the bed for the asters. She loved the solid array of colors they offered each fall. She could see Elton through the patio door, a reclining blob constantly feeding and spilling, growing larger, sinking deeper into a world of self-gratification. She had already had to dig into her savings to meet their obligations, to save face.

She had picked at him all morning, made him shave and dress in case someone dropped by. In between her loving ministrations to the garden she tried to keep ahead of his littering. When he’d been working she’d had the whole day to tend her flowers, the house, herself. If nothing else, why couldn’t he be neat, considerate of her routine?

At last she had the bed ready for the asters. The earth had been worked until it was like velvet. Before Doris could devote her full attention to the careful placing of the seeds, she made another sweep of the living room, picking up newspapers and dirty dishes and running the vacuum to take up the new fall of crumbs, scolding Elton in a crescendo that reached a pitch well above the Hoover and the TV.

Back in the orderly, serene world of her garden she dropped to her knees and began the ritual of planting. In the quiet afternoon robins sang their twilight song, wrens chattered in the bushes. Then, abruptly, the patio door flew open and Elton, roaring like a maddened bull, charged out.

“What’s wrong?” She sat back on her heels.

“You never let up on me, you shrew! I’ll show you!” His voice was trembling with rage. His shadow, a giant behemoth, loomed over the peaceful garden. With both hands flailing he began to rip up flowers, pushed over the fragile archway, and began rooting out plants.

Doris’s primary reaction was to save her precious garden. She jumped up and tried to subdue him, but he brushed her off like a fly. She looked around helplessly. Seeing the shovel, she picked it up and circled behind him. The hatred she felt for him now gave strength to the blow she delivered to the back of his head.

He fell heavily face forward into the jonquils, and was still. For a moment Doris stood triumphantly, then she bent down to examine him.

He was dead. She regarded him for a long moment but it wasn’t until she looked at the surrounding ruination that a sob welled up in her throat.

Then panic set in. She had to hide what she had done. There was a tarpaulin in the garage that she used to cover the various sacks of fertilizer, lime, and seed. Quickly she ran over and stripped it off, dashed back to the garden, and covered Elton. She considered the ominous mound, fascinated and horrified, and then bolted into the house, where she poured herself a small glass of straight vodka, lit a cigarette, and sat down at the kitchen table to think.

“He went berserk. I had to defend myself.” “It was an accident. He fell and hit his head on a stepping-stone.” “There was an intruder, and they fought.” Nothing seemed valid.

If he’d fallen she would have called for help long ago. The same with the intruder. If Elton had gone mad, what would people think? Besides, she could have escaped easily by merely outrunning him. The least she could expect was a manslaughter charge. But no matter what the outcome, she couldn’t bear to face the humiliation and awful notoriety of a trial.

It was dusk before she formulated a plan. Recalling Elton’s behavior over the past few months gave her the idea. There was work to do, backbreaking work, and she was thankful for the stamina she possessed, the strength she had acquired from working in the garden.

The dirt in the aster bed was soft and easy to turn. Gingerly, she took the tarpaulin off Elton, spread it alongside the bed to accommodate the earth she would have to shovel out, and began digging. It took her two hours to make a hole deep enough to hold him. The next step would be the worst.

She took several long boards she had used for framing the beds and managed to shove the ends under Elton. Laboriously she rolled him over and over along the wooden track until with one final revolution he plopped neatly into his grave. Next came a generous dose of chemicals from her supply in the garage to hasten his return to dust.

It seemed to take forever — watering, tamping, shoveling — but at last the bed was level, its secret hidden beneath the fine, rich topsoil. Now she was back at the stage in her planting that Elton had interrupted. Carefully, she put down the aster seeds according to her design, gave the bed a light sprinkling, and returned to the house. It was time to make the call.

With a cloth over the mouthpiece she dialed the police.

“I’m at the phonebooth on this side of the river. I just saw a man jump off the bridge!”

“From what part of the bridge, ma’am?” asked the policeman, voice alert.

“In the middle, over the railing of the pedestrian walk. He was in my headlights for just a second. All I can tell you is that he was heavy-set. I have to go now. I left my baby alone in the car.” She hung up before he could ask her any more questions. Over the years people had reported seeing jumpers on that bridge and at least two bodies had never been found. With the strong current and the undertow, it was assumed that they were snagged someplace beneath the murky waters. Satisfied with her performance, she stretched her sore muscles and returned to the garden, where she worked until dawn setting it to rights.

The birds were well into their cheerful welcome to the morning when she collapsed on the chaise to survey her work. Everything was back in order and the archway again presided over the garden. She had been able to save most of the plants and flowers by rerooting them back into the ground. The aster bed looked neat and innocent, awaiting glorious blooms to spring from it.

She gave one last approving look and went inside to shower, change, and apply fresh makeup. It didn’t upset her that there were dark circles under her eyes. It was right for her to look tired, worried. Next, she cleaned the house. Then she began phoning friends.

“Have you seen Elton?” she asked them. “I’m so worried. He said he was going for a walk, to think. In the mood he was in I thought he needed to be alone. But he’s been gone much too long.”

Finally she called the police and a detective came to the house. She told him the same thing, how depressed her husband had been about being unemployed.

“Mrs. Pringle,” he said evenly, “I have to tell you. Sooner or later you’ll hear it on the news. There was a suicide off the bridge — a woman reported it last night. He was a large man, she said.”

Hysterics came easy. She was so tired, worried that she’d make a slip. “Oh, no! The Hestons — I remember when we were on their boat. He kept staring at the river. It wasn’t like him at all.”

The detective was soothing and tried to reassure her, but she could see from the look in his eyes that he thought Elton was the man who’d gone off the bridge.

The woman who had witnessed the man jump from the bridge was urged to come forth by the news media — but, of course, people hesitate to become involved. After a few weeks of investigation, Elton Pringle went into the police records as “missing — probable suicide.”

By early fall Doris had settled into a secure routine, comforted by her friends, enjoying her freedom. The aster bed was blooming in riotous color. Enough time had elapsed that she decided on a shopping spree for some winter clothes. She wanted to go to the jeweler as well — the diamond in her wedding ring was loose.

A man named John Rupert had been their jeweler for years. He had an elegant and dignified shop in the heart of downtown. Doris had always admired his style. He was attractive, slender, silver-haired, and flawlessly tailored.

“Mrs. Pringle,” he greeted her warmly. “It’s so nice to see you. I was very sorry to read of your misfortune. Your husband was a fine man.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rupert.” Doris looked down for a moment and then smiled bravely back up at him. “I’m here about my ring. The diamond seems to be loose.”

“We’ll certainly fix that. Can you leave it with us for a day or two?”

“Of course.”

“By the way, hasn’t it been some time since we’ve appraised your good jewelry for insurance purposes?”

“I–I don’t know. Elton always took care of that.”

“Forgive me. I’ve upset you. Yes, he spoke about it last time he was in. It would be wise, you know.”

“You’re right.” She sighed. “It’s time I learn to do these things myself.” She hesitated. “But I wouldn’t feel safe bringing my most valuable pieces here alone.”

“Of course, that’s understandable,” Mr. Rupert said and suggested he could come by the house to do the appraisal. He was a widower and now that she was alone too something seemed to click between them. Perhaps it was her imagination, Doris told herself, but she felt a thrill, the long-dormant emotion of a mutual attraction.

He was very businesslike when he arrived on his professional visit. She watched his precise movements and his neat handwriting as he appraised and listed each piece. She served him coffee and a torte and he didn’t drop a crumb. In fact, he insisted on assisting her with the dishes.

“You have a lovely home here,” he remarked. “Were I to examine it with my jeweler’s glass I daresay I wouldn’t find a speck of dust.”

“My friends chide me,” she murmured, “but order seems to be a passion with me.”

“You remind me very much of my late wife. I was fortunate to have her as long as I did,” he said wistfully.

To cover her pleasure and embarrassment, she wiped her soapy hands. “Come out and see my garden.”

He stood on the patio and surveyed it. “My dear!” he said. “It’s a miniature paradise.”

She was ecstatic. For a man as meticulous as Mr. Rupert to enthuse over the garden raised her spirits to a level she had never known. “Oh, thank you,” she said. “Please, won’t you come visit again? Have dinner with me here on the patio and have a nice long talk.”

“Yes — Doris — I’d like very much to do that. Don’t think me forward, but I know what it is to be lonely. And I think we have much in common.”

She invited him to come early, when the last sunlight fell over the garden in a cascade of golden light. The house was immaculate, her hair and makeup perfect, the waiting dinner exquisite. She wore her turquoise caftan to highlight her hazel eyes and dark hair. He appeared promptly in a beige flannel suit, a bottle of wine in hand.

He too preferred martinis and he mixed them expertly. They sat on the patio and, as two people who have just discovered each other do, they exchanged likes and dislikes.

“I share your appreciation of order, Doris, even in my leisure time. Crossword puzzles, for example. And mysteries — they’re my passion! Each clue is like a jewel. You keep rearranging them in the setting until a pattern emerges.”

“Oh, yes,” she enthused. “I know what you mean. My garden affects me the same way — planting the seeds and seeing them bloom into the design I’ve envisioned.”

“I’d like to interest you in mysteries. You’d love Miss Marple, the way she collects odd little bits of information and observation and weaves them into a solution.”

Doris really didn’t like to read. She had enough to keep her occupied, and when she went to bed at night she collapsed into a short but sound sleep. But she wanted to please him. “She sounds like someone I’d enjoy,” she lied.

The rich orange sun had settled on the aster bed and turned the flowers various shades of bronze.

“Look,” John drew her attention to them. “They’re magnificent!” He took her hand and they walked over to the flower bed.

Standing there, he put a tentative arm around her waist and she moved closer. There wasn’t a thought in her head about Elton until they saw it glinting in the sun.

“My word!” John said. “What’s this?” He stooped over and pulled the gold circle free of the foliage growing around it.

Doris froze. She stared at the ring he held in the palm of his hand.

The import of what had happened combined with what she knew forced her scattered thoughts together into an explanation. She covered her face with trembling hands. “Oh, no! Why now — after all this time?”

“What do you mean?” John regarded her intently.

“Just before Elton disappeared he helped me dig up this bed. He was on his hands and knees, poor dear, breaking up the clods, and—” she sobbed “—and he lost his wedding ring.”

“I see,” he said.

“Do you suppose it was some kind of omen?” She tried to enhance the sense of tragedy.

“Perhaps.” He dropped the ring in his pocket. “Shall we go back inside?”

Silently, he mixed her a martini and handed it to her. “I’m going to leave now,” he told her. “In view of what’s happened, I think I should.”

He seemed strangely detached, cool. But there was no possible way he could suspect the truth, she reasoned. Finding his wedding ring had probably just reminded him that, missing or not, Elton still held legal claim on her, at least for a time. John was very proper. A thing like that would upset him.

“Yes. Of course,” she agreed. “It has put a damper on the evening, hasn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it has. I’ll let myself out. Stay here and finish your drink.” He looked at her for a long moment and left.

As soon as she heard his car driving away she hurried back out to the aster bed and looked through the blooms, down among the bottoms of the stems, and saw nothing unusual. She had heard of lost rings and other small articles growing up from beneath the soil with plants. The horrid thought occurred to her that perhaps Elton wasn’t dead when she buried him and had tried to claw his way out.

She hurried into the house and turned off the oven. Then she remembered that John had left without returning the ring. Well, no matter. She was glad to have it out of the house. But she would have to ask him for it, as a remembrance of her dear husband.

She had just finished cleaning up and putting the roast in the freezer when the doorbell rang. With a quick primp in the hall mirror she opened the door. “John!” She looked beyond him and saw four men. “What’s happened? Who—?”

One of the men stepped forward. “Detective Boswell, Mrs. Pringle. We have a warrant here to search your house and grounds.”

“You what? John!”

“I’m sorry, Doris.” His expression was pained.

“But why?” Fear was affecting her senses.

He reached in his pocket and held out Elton’s ring. “Just a week before your husband disappeared he stopped in to see me.”

“Yes, you told me that. About reappraising my jewelry, wasn’t it?”

“That too. I didn’t tell you the rest because I saw how it upset you to talk about him.” He laughed bitterly. “Little did I know. I was trying to be kind. I admired you.”

“But why else did Elton go to see you?”

“He’d put on weight, as you know, and he wanted to see about having his wedding ring made larger — it was becoming painful. After examining it on his finger I told him it would have to be cut off. He said he’d stop by when he had more time.”

Doris looked around weakly for a chair.

Detective Boswell led her to one and she sat. “It’s highly unlikely that in a week’s time a man could lose enough weight to get a ring as tight-fitting as Mr. Rupert says your husband’s was off his finger intact,” he said.

“You told the police that, John?” She looked up at him in shock.

“I’m afraid so. If it’s any consolation, had I known you longer I might not have.”

“Mrs. Pringle, there’s only one way that ring could have come off. Decomposition.” Detective Boswell shoved the search warrant in front of her. “Do you want to show us where he’s buried or do we have to dig up the whole garden?”

She jumped up. “No! Don’t do that! I’ll show you — he’s underneath the asters! But, please, try not to make too much of a mess!”