Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005

Soup Noir by Robin Hathaway

Robin Hathaway is the author of two popular series of mystery novels and the winner of the prestigious Agatha Award for mysteries in the cozy genre. She began her fiction-writing career in 1999 with the first of the Doctor Fenimore mysteries, the fourth of which, The Doctor Dines in Prague, came out in November of 2003. Her latest novel belongs to her “Jo Banks” series. See Satan’s Pony (St. Martin’s Press 9/04).

I searched the aisle signs for Soup. When I found it, I scanned the shelves for the familiar red, white, and gold labels. No-where in sight. Odd. Wait, there they are. But something’s wrong! They’re black, white, and gray. How strange. Why would Campbell’s give up such an attractive, well-known label for such a dull one? I turned to look at the shelves behind me, where the canned vegetables were displayed. Del Monte and Green Giant had also undergone changes. In-stead of green, white, and red, they were gray, white, and black. A panicky feeling came over me. Was I going color-blind? I looked up and down the aisle for something that would reassure me. A little boy came running toward me. He had black hair, pale skin, and wore a gray sweater. I swear I’d seen him when I came in the store and his sweater was light blue. I remembered noticing how it matched his eyes and wondered if his mother had chosen it for that reason. I looked down at my feet — and my stomach lurched. My sandals were a dingy gray. They had been an electric green when I’d put them on this morning! And my toenails — “Cherry Frost” when I’d painted them last night — were now jet black!

I stumbled down the aisle toward the produce department. A clerk in a white coat was spraying water on gray broccoli.

“Excuse me. Could you tell me what color my sandals are?” I was too upset to explain my odd question.

He gave me a quizzical look before glancing down at my feet. “What color were they when you put them on?” he asked with a mischievous grin.

“Green,” I said urgently. “Bright green.”

“Hmm.” He rubbed his chin, and I wondered if he was deciding whether or not to have some fun with me. “You must have stepped in a puddle,” he said, “’cause they’re a dirty gray now.”

“And my toenails?” I was desperate.

This time he looked at me as if I really was ready for the loony bin. “Black as the ace of spades.”

So it’s not my eyes! I felt a wave of relief. If this clerk saw everything in black, white, and gray, there must be something wrong with the lighting in the supermarket. I would speak to the manager. I stalked to the complaint department.

The young woman behind the counter was talking on her cell phone.

“Is the manager in?” I asked rather abruptly.

She shook her head, not bothering to interrupt what I was sure was a personal call.

“When will he be in?” I persisted.

She shrugged and turned her back on me.

Rude!

I decided I might as well do my shopping while I waited for the manager to show up. If this was a lighting problem and not some serious eye condition, I could relax a little. I picked out a few items and dropped them in my shopping cart. I made a point of choosing things that were normally white, like fish, potatoes, and cauliflower so they wouldn’t look so peculiar in my cart. I went back to the information desk twice to ask for the manager. The last time the woman was positively surly. I glanced at my watch. Almost time for General Hospital. Oh well, what was it to me if the supermarket had a lighting problem? I went through the checkout line.

As I stepped out into the parking lot, I almost dropped my shopping bag. All the cars were either black, white, or gray. I reached for the railing that kept the carts from rolling into the lot, for support.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” The boy in charge of the carts looked concerned.

“No, I’m not all right. What color are those cars out there?”

The boy looked puzzled. “Uh, some are black, there’s a gray one, and a couple are white... have you lost your car?”

“No. Yes. It’s a maroon Honda.”

The boy peered again at the lot. “I don’t see a maroon one, but there’s a black Honda over there.” He pointed.

“Oh, never mind.”

When I reached the black car he had indicated, I looked inside. There, on the front seat, was my yellow sweater (now white) where I had left it, and the paperback mystery, Death Is a Cold Mistress, that I had been reading. The scarlet pool of blood on the cover was now black. No need to check the license plate. It had to be my car. Maybe it was just because it was a dull, overcast day that everything looked so bleached and sickly. Or maybe an eclipse was coming. But there had been nothing on the TV or in the paper about it. I glanced at the sky. The sun was shining. I could feel its warmth on my face.

The ground around me looked as usual — black asphalt with the dirty remains of last week’s snowstorm. But across the street the normally yellow McDonald’s arches and the American flag hanging outside the post office had both been drained of their colors — replaced by black, white, and varying shades of gray.

The drive home was especially nerve-racking. The traffic lights were hard to read. The red light was black and the yellow and green were different shades of gray. I thought it would be reassuring to get home among familiar things. But it was just the opposite, because familiar things were no longer familiar. I forgot about General Hospital and wandered from room to room checking out the colors (or lack of them). My living-room rug, once a lovely pastel pink, was now a sickly gray. My favorite watercolor over the dining-room table was black and white. The only thing that was unchanged was the photograph of my parents on the piano. And it had always been black and white and gray. I stared at it for a full minute, seeking comfort from those dear faces. But they were gone now. They couldn’t help me. I turned away and picked up Sophie, my cat. She was also unchanged. Black, with one white paw, she looked the same as always. I settled into my favorite — once rose, now gray — wing chair, with Sophie on my lap, and stroked her. She purred loudly. Maybe I was just tired. I had been up late the night before watching the old-movie channel — an addiction of mine. There had been a double bill: The Lady Vanishes and The 39 Steps, two of my favorites. I closed my eyes.

I must have dozed off, because when I opened my eyes, the room had darkened and Sophie had vanished. I heard her mewing in the kitchen. I picked up my grocery bag, hoping the fish hadn’t spoiled, and made my way to the back of the house — flicking on every lamp and light switch within my reach as I passed. But the illumination was disappointing. Dimmer than usual, as if someone had replaced all the 60-watt bulbs with 25-watt bulbs.

My kitchen, a cheery yellow when I’d left this afternoon, was the color of dirty cement. I poured some cat nibbles into Sophie’s formerly blue, now gray, bowl. Undeterred by their new pallor, she gobbled the nibbles down with her usual gusto. Had I read that animals are color-blind?

The telephone on the counter rang. I answered it. A telemarketer. It was getting to be that time of day. Dinnertime. As I hung up, I wondered at my stupidity. Why don’t you call a friend? Ask them what’s happened? Before I did that, I turned on the little TV I kept in the kitchen to see if the five o’clock news had anything about this disaster. The anchor was reporting as usual about Iraq and the White House, a recent earthquake in the Far East, and a new snowstorm from the northwest. Nothing about a gray-out in Philadelphia. The only new thing about the news was that it wasn’t in Technicolor. It reminded me of when I was a child and all TV was black-and-white. In fact, this whole experience made me feel as if I was inside one of those old black-and-white noir movies that I used to love. Notorious, The Maltese Falcon, Rebecca. I doubted if I would ever watch one again. A musical comedy, in vivid Technicolor — that was what I craved! Now I knew how Dorothy must have felt in The Wizard of Oz when she returned to Kansas after her visit to the Emerald City. Only she, unlike me, had been happy to leave the colorful world behind.

I reached for the phone again and dialed Emily. She was my oldest and dearest friend. We had met in kindergarten. She was the only one I could ask about this weird situation who wouldn’t think I was crazy. The phone rang half a dozen times before Emily’s perky voice said, “Hello, everyone! I’ve taken off for the Bahamas for a few days. Leave your name and number and I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

“Shoot.” I’d forgotten she’d left yesterday for her annual winter trip to the islands. As I replaced the receiver, I shivered. The thought of Emily sitting on a beach lined with colorful umbrellas, soaking up the sun, made me feel cold — and depressed. I could call someone else, but... This was ridiculous. It had to be my eyes. Otherwise everyone would be in a panic. Reporters would be screaming that the world had gone gray. Some would be blaming the terrorists — others would be blaming the President. But it was too late to see an eye doctor tonight. It took weeks to get an appointment, unless it was an emergency. I could call Angie, my neighbor. But she was such a busybody. As soon as I hung up she’d be calling everyone in the neighborhood, spreading the word that I was going blind — or getting senile.

I tried to read. At least the newspaper looked the same. Black type on white paper. But there wasn’t a thing in it about the incredible catastrophe. Of course this issue had come out this morning.

I paced the living-room floor. Sophie watched me disapprovingly from the sofa. I was usually a calm person. I should really eat something. But I had no appetite. And that stuff I’d bought at the supermarket had no appeal for me. Maybe I should go to bed. The sooner I fell asleep, the sooner it would be morning and I could call the doctor and describe my symptoms. Maybe if I really laid it on, he would even see me. Resigned that I could do nothing about my situation that night, I trudged upstairs. The bathroom was reassuring, at least. I lived in an old house and the bathroom was all white — white tile, white porcelain, and white plaster. The toothpaste and soap were white, too. All completely normal. The only off note was my toothbrush. Usually lavender, it was now — surprise, surprise — a dull gray.

In the middle of brushing my teeth, I stopped. What had that grocery clerk said? That my toenails were as “black as the ace of spades.” It couldn’t be my eyes, if my nails looked black to him, too. Unless he was pulling my leg. Having fun at the expense of an old woman.

I left the bathroom and went down the hall to my bedroom. When I stepped in, I was struck by how much it resembled the bedroom in the film Laura. I half expected Gene Tierney to step out of the closet in one of her satin and lace negligees. Or Bogart, as Sam Spade, to sit on the edge of the bed, putting together one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. Or Cary Grant to rush in and rescue me from Claude Rains. I wouldn’t mind Cary Grant showing up, but as I crawled between my gray sheets (they had been lilac this morning) and turned out the light, the room became peopled with less charming characters: Claude Rains’s scary mother; Mr. Gutman, a.k.a. The Fat Man; and that creepy housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers. I was becoming like the heroine in Rebecca, played to perfection by Joan Fontaine. She was afraid of everything, expecting a bogeyman under every bed and a ghost around every corner.

Get hold of yourself, I said aloud. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this. Some of these eye conditions could come on suddenly and disappear just as suddenly. Maybe in the morning, when I was rested, everything would be back to normal. With that comforting thought I turned out the light and snuggled under the covers. At least in the dark, everything was the same as the night before.

I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, the clock said one-thirty. I stretched my legs, hunting for Sophie with my toes. She wasn’t there. She always slept at the end of my bed. I switched on the light and the gray room burst upon me, more startling than if it had become neon pink or orange. I reached for my robe, slid into my slippers, and went to look for her.

“Sophie?” I called from the top of the stairs. Usually, when she heard my voice, she came swiftly, padding up the stairs, and wrapped herself around my legs. The stairs remained empty. I started down. On the third step, I heard something. Not a noise, exactly, but a definite sound. A sort of soft shuffling. Cautiously, I descended three more steps. That sound again. I stood, rooted to the step — afraid to go up or down.

Crash!

I jumped. There was nothing soft about that! It was a relief to hear a real noise. Sophie must be into something. The noise had come from the kitchen. She must have knocked over a pot or pan. I hurried down the rest of the stairs. As before, I flicked on the lights as I passed through each room. And, as before, the illumination was weak due to my eye condition — or whatever it was.

“Sophie?” I stepped into the kitchen and switched on the light. A pot lay upside down on the floor near the stove. But no cat brushed my bare ankles. Instead, I felt a cold draft. The back door was ajar. I was sure I had locked it before I went to bed. Oh dear, maybe the cat had gotten out. Or maybe someone else... had gotten in. I stood riveted, wondering if I should call 911.

I lifted the receiver. Hands grabbed me around the throat and began to squeeze. The phone slipped from my hand. I struggled, gasping, clawing at the hands. Their pressure increased. I felt dizzy. I stared at the blank, gray kitchen wall (which had been yellow that morning). As I stared, two words slowly emerged in the center — in dark type — just as they had at the close of all those noir movies long ago — except for one thing: This time the words were backwards, and — who were all those strangers on the other side, staring up at me...? DNE EHT

Copyright ©; 2005 by Robin Hathaway.