Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

The Hamburger Mind by Evelyn Payne

I took the matter up with Rhoda when the meat loaf appeared on my tray that night.

“This is the third time this week that you’ve served me ground meat in one form or another. I don’t care for ground meat,” I pointed out, trying to be as pleasant as possible. The memory of that phone call from Nellie still rankled, but I wasn’t going to bring that up now.

Rhoda just stood there, her lower lip pushed out mulishly, her black eyes angry. Then she tossed her head, that absurd haystack hairdo of hers waving like a black balloon, and said, “Things are getting more expensive all the time, Tess. You don’t realize it since you’re not doing the buying. Hamburger is just as nutritious as—”

“I have plenty of money,” I interrupted, “and I’m sure Harold gives you enough to run the house without being so parsimonious. Steaks and roasts aren’t so easy for me to chew, but I like chicken, turkey, seafood. And no spaghetti. I’m particularly fond of lobster—”

She actually winced, and I remembered hearing how stingy she had been even as a child, always hoarding her money and begging pennies from visitors; and then she married that no-good husband and had to scrimp and save for years and years. No wonder she thought in terms of hamburger. Her clothes were always neat and clean, but they were obviously old and sometimes darned. The only thing in the world she spent money on was that hairdo of hers. She went to the beauty shop every week and came back with it blacker than ever, teased and shellacked so that no single hair dared stray from its appointed place. It might have been a wig; at any rate, I don’t think she ever combed it herself.

“I’ll make out some menus, and Maria knows how I like things fixed, so you won’t have to bother with anything except the actual buying,” I said, glancing out the window at the side yard. “Oh, and another thing. The garden looks dreadful. Hasn’t the gardener been coming lately?”

“Oh, he wanted to raise his prices, so I let him go,” she said casually. “We can’t afford that much for a gardener.”

“Of course we can,” I snapped. “I’ll take the matter up with Harold when he comes tomorrow.”

She sniffed, the sniff suggesting that I was a gullible old fool and that Harold was probably robbing me blind. She didn’t like him, although he was always very polite and nice to her. Perhaps she’d guessed that he had been opposed to my hiring her to run the house when I couldn’t get around as well as I used to. But I’d felt sorry for my sister, who had had a mighty thin life, and I expect I’d been a little nostalgic about my only remaining relative (Harold is Tom’s nephew, not mine). Of course that was silly because Rhoda is fifteen years younger than I, and I’d been married and gone from home before she even started school.

Well, Harold had been right. Nellie Blair had told me on the phone that morning that Rhoda was going around insinuating that I was getting senile, losing my marbles. Oh, Rhoda hadn’t said anything — it had been a matter of head shakes and gestures and pursed lips. I could visualize it — in six months I’d learned how Rhoda operated. She never wasted a word when a gesture or an expression would do.

As for my losing my marbles, it just wasn’t so. True, I can’t remember as well as I used to, but at eighty-two one has to let some things go, and I’d just as soon forget about the present — it’s dull and rather frightening. Much more interesting to remember the past, to filter out the warm, exciting, happy things and hold them close. Since I had pneumonia six months ago I haven’t been able to manage the stairs even with my cane, so my days consist mostly of eating, taking the medicine Dr. Stanhope prescribes, reading, and watching TV. Of course I have occasional visitors and phone calls from old friends, and then there’s Harold, who comes once a week. I really look forward to that.

I’m very fond of him, and he seems to return the sentiment. He takes care of my affairs and, most important, he still treats me as if I were an interesting person, one he really enjoys visiting with, not just an old nuisance. I gave him power of attorney right after Tom died ten years ago, so I don’t have to worry about anything — except these little spells of confusion that come over me now and then. I suppose that’s why Rhoda thinks I’m losing my mind. I break out in perspiration first, then everything gets confused and sometimes I fall. I guess I must say some rather strange things because when I begin to clear up I notice that Rhoda’s face is longer and more disapproving than ever — if that’s possible — and Maria, who’s cooked for me for eighteen years, pats my arm and says tenderly, “Pobrecita, pobrecita.” It hasn’t happened very often, and otherwise, except for occasional lapses of memory, I’m in pretty good shape. I only use glasses for reading and I can hear as well as ever.

I don’t know why Rhoda wants to make out that I’m getting senile. Maybe she thinks that somehow she can get hold of some of my money. I’m a rich woman. Tom made a lot and we never had any children. I’d have liked children, but it didn’t happen and, after all, I had Tom, who made up for everything.

Thursday afternoon Harold came as usual. He’s always prompt, the dear boy. Of course he’s not a boy any more except to someone my age. He’s fifty if he’s a day; still handsome, but a lot fatter than he used to be and beginning to gray a little at the temples. He’s always very carefully dressed, and he smokes far too many cigars, cutting the ends off with a little gold cutter I gave him once for Christmas. I tease him sometimes about not being up to the minute — mod, I think they call it — and he always laughs and admits that he’s a square from way back. “If I have to go barefoot and dirty and wear my hair like a King Charles spaniel, why then I’m content to be out of fashion,” he says comfortably.

He climbed the long marble stairs to the second floor and came into my room, puffing a little. He leaned over and kissed my cheek.

“How are you, Aunt Tess? Still as pretty as ever. You look younger than most of my contemporaries,” he said flatteringly.

“It’s good to see you, Harold. I always look forward to Thursdays,” I said, patting his arm.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked, sitting down at the table and putting his briefcase down.

“Oh, I’m fine, just fine.”

“Now, you come sit over here by me at the table,” he went on, helping me to a chair and seating me.

I like these little attentions from men. That’s where I think these women’s lib people are wrong. What’s the matter with a little politeness between the sexes? It does grease the wheels of communication, I think. Unless, of course, your idea of communication is yelling at each other.

I got out an ashtray from the table drawer, and he opened the briefcase and took out some papers.

“Now, Aunt Tess, I thought it advisable to get rid of your Merriwell stock and put the money into bonds. There have been some rather disturbing rumors about Merriwell lately and I thought it better to be on the safe side. Oh, I realized a nice profit for you — Tom bought them so long ago,” he explained, and then launched into a disquisition on the market in general and Merriwell in particular.

He’s nice about pretending that I understand what it’s all about, and I listen intently and try to ask a few reasonably intelligent questions. I trust him implicitly, but even if he were robbing me, as Rhoda implies, I wouldn’t really care. Most of it is going to be his one of these days, and I know he’ll keep me living in the way I prefer as long as possible. He even offered me a home with him and his wife, who’s a dear too, right after Tom died, but I wouldn’t consent to that. This is my house and I intend to stay here as long as I can.

When he had finished with that and returned the papers to the briefcase, I said, “I want to talk to you about Rhoda. You were right and I was wrong.”

He listened attentively while I told him about the hamburger and the gardener, and then he exclaimed, “But that’s absurd. I give her five hundred dollars a month to run this house. I’ll talk to her.”

I mentioned her implication that he was mishandling my money and he simply laughed, but when I got around to the phone call from Nellie he was furious.

“I’ll fire her right now, the b — I’m sorry, Aunt Tess, but—” He stood up and then sat down again. “No, it would be better to send her a letter from the office, enclosing a final check. I suppose she’s overhearing all this,” he added, glancing at the open door, “but no matter. In the meantime, I’ll check on that other woman who applied for the position as housekeeper. She sounded pretty good to me.”

“I’ll go by your recommendation this time,” I said meekly. “But I never thought that a sister of mine—”

“She has a small mind, thinks of nothing but money, a... a hamburger mind, you might say. Because she’s a penny-pincher and a cheat herself, she thinks everyone else is, too. But enough of that. I brought those pictures of the grandchildren with me today,” he said, pulling some snapshots out of his pocket.

They were darlings, those two little boys. We had a nice talk about the family and Tom. Harold is practically the only one I can talk to about Tom these days.

Finally he looked at his watch and rose. It was getting close to five and there were shadows coming into the corners. He picked up the ashtray and took it into the bathroom to empty it. When he came out he left the mirrored door ajar.

“Much as I’ve enjoyed this, Aunt Tess, I have to leave. Have to go home and dress for a charity dinner.”

“You do too much of that civic work. You should take it easier,” I said, handing him his hat.

“I know, I know. Next year I’m going to take it easier, say no to some of these jobs. In the meantime, though, I have to finish what I started.” He bent over and kissed my cheek. “See you next Thursday. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll attend to her,” he added, jerking his head in the direction of Rhoda’s bedroom.

He walked out, and I lay back in my chair and shut my eyes. Visitors do tire me, much as I enjoy them. I wasn’t even up to walking over to shut the bathroom door, although I’m usually pretty particular about such things. Then I heard the door of Rhoda’s room open — you can’t fool me about any of the sounds of this house, I’ve lived here too long — but I heard no footsteps, which was odd because she walks loudly, on her heels. I opened my eyes and looked into the mirror on the bathroom door, which reflected the hall. She was tiptoeing toward the stairs. I sat up then and watched. What was she up to now?

Harold had stopped at the top of the staircase and taken out a cigar and the little gold cutter, and then suddenly Rhoda was behind him, pushing at his back with all her strength. His arms flew up, the briefcase dropping and the cigar flying through the air, and he fell. The sound of his scream and the thumping of his body down those stairs will stay in my ears forever. I heard the kitchen door open and Maria come running, screaming too. Then and only then, did Rhoda scream and rush down the stairs.

I got up, took my cane and went out into the hall and looked down. The two women were standing over Harold, and I could see from where I was that his neck was twisted peculiarly, and I knew he was dead. For a moment my heart seemed to stop beating. Then I heard Rhoda go to the phone and begin dialing. I moved closer and peeked over the balustrade. She was directly below me.

“Dr. Stanhope,” she was saying, “Harold MacDonald fell down the steps here at the house. I think he’s dead. Will you come at once? Oh, I’m going to call the police, but it’s Tess I’m worried about. You see, Harold didn’t slip. Tess — well, poor thing, I guess she didn’t know what she was doing. She gave him — I hate to say this — she pushed him.”

It was as though someone had thrown ice water in my face. She was blaming me! For a second or two I could hardly think. I took a step forward and felt something under my foot. Absently, I reached down and picked it up. It was the tip of Harold’s cigar. I stood there, holding the thing, and listened to her rattle on.

“Oh, I wasn’t anywhere near or I’d have stopped her. I was just opening the door of my room. You’d better be prepared to take care of her. She’s dangerous, out of her mind.”

Oh, it was all very clear then. With Harold out of the way and me certified as a dangerous lunatic, Rhoda would get herself appointed my guardian and she’d have the money and the house all to herself. This was what she’d been aiming at all these months. I tried to think. I would have to fight, but what was there to fight with? Maria would be on my side, but she hadn’t seen it happen. Besides, her testimony would be disregarded because she was uneducated. Dr. Stanhope would be on my side too, probably, but he only saw me about once a month, and by the time Rhoda had further exaggerated the odd spells I had and had given a graphic description of what she had “seen,” I’d be a dead duck. Maybe there were medical tests, but I didn’t know, and I couldn’t wait for that. I had to do something now. Then suddenly I had an idea — not a very good one, perhaps, but something.

Rhoda was still on the phone, talking to the police this time. I leaned over the balcony and dropped the cigar end down. As I’d hoped, it landed on top of her hair. She didn’t seem to notice it, thank goodness. I tiptoed back into my room and lay down on the bed. I didn’t weep — I had used up all my tears when Tom died — but there was a vast hurt inside me, and a terrible fear.

Maria came rushing up the stairs. “Oh, señora,” she cried, gathering me into her arms and rocking me a little, as one comforts a sick child. “I hear her. And I know it is not true. You do not kill him! Nunca!”

“I know, and we’ll prove it somehow, Maria,” I said, heartened by her love. “There, there’s the doorbell. That will be the doctor. And I hear sirens.”

I lay up there waiting. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but no doubt Rhoda was giving a full account. Then I heard them coming up the stairs. I got up off the bed and stood, leaning on my cane.

Dr. Stanhope came to my side, anger and sympathy commingled in his expression. He took my pulse, looked at me sharply, and demanded, “Are you all right, Tess?”

I nodded and he said bluntly, “Tess, Rhoda says you pushed Harold down the stairs. Is that true?”

I was equally blunt. “She’s lying. She did it herself. Crept up behind him and pushed. That mirror was just that way — I was sitting in that chair and I could see the hall and the top of the steps. I watched her do it.”

The chief of police, Oliver Smith, looked doubtful. Rhoda belonged to his church and no doubt he was aware of her little insinuations about my sanity. Finally he said, “Perhaps we’d better call Rhoda up here.”

She came up and sat herself down in the chair farthest away from me, trying to look afraid.

I said coldly, “Don’t make such a play of being afraid of me, Rhoda. I won’t hurt you even though you’ve lied about me.”

She straightened up. “You did it. I saw you with my own eyes. I’ve been afraid of you for a long time. You’re nuts. A lot of old people get that way.”

I turned to the chief. “I’ll tell you what happened this afternoon.” I went through what I’d told Harold about the hamburger and the gardener, and Maria suddenly interrupted, “She no pay me what the señora did. I only stay because I love the señora and I am afraid of what this malcriada do to her.”

“Rhoda probably overheard what we said. The door was open,” I went on. “And I told Harold that I had had a phone call from Nellie Blair yesterday morning, and she told me that Rhoda was intimating that I was losing my mind.”

“I never said a word,” Rhoda said indignantly. “Besides, you didn’t have a phone call yesterday morning.”

“Oh, yes, I did. Nell called while you were in town marketing. Anyway, Harold was furious about that. He got up and started to go fire her right then, but finally he decided to send her a letter of dismissal and a final check from the office in the morning. So she crept up behind him and pushed.”

“Why, you lying devil!” she screamed at me. “I wasn’t anywhere near when he fell. I was at the door of my room and that’s a good twenty feet away.”

“Then what’s that in your hair?” I asked, moving closer to her. “It looks like the end of a cigar. Harold’s cigar. If you were so far away, how did it get into your hair?”

She yelped and started to reach up, but the doctor grabbed her arm. “Look at it, chief. It does look like a cigar end.”

Very carefully the chief picked it out of her hair. “Hell, that’s what it is, all right.”

“It isn’t, it can’t be,” she cried. “I wasn’t anywhere near him. You put it there, Tess. You must have.”

“I wasn’t anywhere near you until five minutes ago when you came into this room. Maria can testify to that,” I pointed out coldly.

Maria nodded vigorously. “The señora stay up here. The other one,” there was infinite scorn in her voice, “stay downstairs.”

“Then it must have flown back and hit my hair,” Rhoda insisted desperately.

“The cigar was at the top of the stairs, the cutter a few steps farther down,” Oliver Smith said. “That cigar end wouldn’t have gone very far. Too light.”

“Maybe you’d better check into her bank account,” I went on. “She’s been getting two hundred and fifty dollars a month salary and five hundred a month to run the house on. She bought the cheapest food, fired the gardener, reduced Maria’s pay. Where did the money go?”

Oliver Smith nodded. “Yeah, that’s a point. What’d you do with it, Rhoda?”

She looked around at the doctor, who looked furious, and then at the chief, who looked highly doubtful, and began to whimper. “If you only knew what it is to be poor, really poor, dirt poor. And there she is with all that money and nothing to do but sit around and be waited on. I was only trying to lay up something for my old age. And then Harold was going to fire me and I’d be poor again. I had to kill him, I had to.”

They’ve all gone now. The doctor gave me a shot, and the chief apologized for something — perhaps for believing Rhoda’s innuendos. Maria has gone to make me a cup of tea, and Harold has gone forever. I’m all alone, and the perspiration is beginning to break out on my forehead. Maybe this will be a good one, one from which I’ll never recover.