Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 130, No. 1. Whole No. 791, July 2007

The Problem of Suicide Cottage by Edward D. Hoch

A scroll winner in the 2006 EQMM Readers Award competition, Edward D. Hoch has provided countless hours of entertainment for this magazine’s readers and editors. The Dr. Sam Hawthorne series, to which this new tale belongs, gives us a tantalizing glimpse of the beloved series sleuth on his eightieth birthday. More than thirty years after the first Dr. Sam case appeared, it’s not only the masterful impossible-crime plots but the series characters that continue to surprise us.

It was a sunny day in 1976 and plans were well under way for Dr. Sam Hawthorne’s eightieth birthday party. He’d grumbled about all the fuss, preferring to spend the day quietly, but that was not to be. His visitor was a familiar one, always a joy to see. “You tell stories to old friends but never to me. Now it’s my turn. You promised me one for your eightieth birthday and this is it. I want to know about that summer of nineteen forty-four.”

He smiled and said, “I usually supply a bit of libation to go with my stories. How about a glass of sherry?”

“I’d prefer scotch if you don’t mind. Scotch and water would be fine.”

It was an exciting summer (Dr. Sam began, after he’d supplied the refreshments). The Allies had stormed the French beaches on June 6th, landing in Normandy at dawn following an airborne attack further inland. Despite heavy casualties, the landings were successful and a second wave of troops quickly followed. Back home in Northmont things were relatively quiet as I awaited the birth of our first child. Annabel’s baby was due in late July and she’d already decided if it was a boy it should be called Sam Junior. I wasn’t too happy with the idea and it was still under discussion.

Annabel had turned over the daily routine at the Ark to her assistant when her pregnancy reached the eight-month mark in late June, though she insisted on remaining on call for any unusual veterinary problems. I readily agreed with her suggestion that we wait out the final month at a cottage on Chester Lake just a few miles from town. It was peaceful there, though I still made a few house calls and my nurse April knew how to reach me in an emergency.

Chester Lake was a placid body of water about a mile wide and five miles long, named after an early landowner in the area. I’d spent a summer there in 1929 when I’d solved a mystery involving some people who vanished from a houseboat and it was there, at the age of 33, that I’d fallen in love for the first time. Her name was Miranda Grey and I often wondered what became of her.

We’d barely unloaded the car for our month-long stay before Annabel started kidding me about her. “Too bad we couldn’t have rented the cottage where Miranda Grey stayed with her aunt and uncle. I’ll bet it would have brought back fond memories.”

All I could give her was a sigh. “I should have known better than to tell you about Miranda. It only lasted a few months.”

All the small one-story cottages at Chester Lake were similar, and as soon as I entered the one we’d rented I was transported back to 1929. The entire front half of the house was given over to the living room with a small fireplace. There was a single bedroom in the left rear. The kitchen and bathroom occupied the right rear, with a back door leading out to the gravel driveway. If there were more than two people staying overnight someone had to sleep on a foldaway bed in the living room. It was a perfect place for the two of us since it discouraged unwanted visitors.

“I guess it’s like a second honeymoon,” Annabel said, settling in. “Or it would be if it weren’t for this bump.” She patted her stomach fondly and gazed up at the living room ceiling. “I wonder what that hook is for.”

“Probably a hanging plant. I doubt it’s for any erotic activity.”

“Sheriff Lens mentioned there’d been some burglaries up here last summer. If we catch a thief we can hang him by his wrists.”

“You should be thinking only nice thoughts these days,” I suggested.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And the sheriff did tell us they’d installed new locks on all the cottage doors this season.”

That was when we heard a knocking on the screen door and I went to answer it. A smiling man of about my age stood there, wearing bathing trunks and an undershirt. “Dr. Hawthorne, you probably don’t remember me.”

“Well, I—”

“Raspin, Jerry Raspin. I was one of the trustees at Pilgrim Memorial Hospital a few years back.”

“Of course!” I told him, because I did remember him then. He had a real-estate business that had been fairly profitable before the war.

“Probably didn’t recognize me without my suit on. I have the cottage next-door.”

“Come in,” I urged, trying to make amends for my hesitation.

He followed me in, as Annabel hurriedly wrapped a robe around her bulging belly. “I hope I’m not intruding, Mrs. Hawthorne,” he said. “I’m your neighbor for the month of July. The wife and I have the next cottage.”

“How nice,” Annabel said.

“We may not be here the entire month,” I explained. “My wife is expecting our first child in a few weeks.”

“Well, congratulations! That’s great news.” He helped himself to a seat on our sofa.

“Do you take a cottage here each summer?” Annabel asked.

Jerry Raspin nodded. “The wife likes it, and there’s nowhere else to go with this gas rationing. I sure hope the war ends soon. My old clunker of a car won’t last much longer.”

“The news is pretty good,” I told him. “The Allies are advancing on all fronts.”

Raspin nodded. “We have a son who just got drafted. I’m hoping the war ends about the time he finishes his basic training.”

Annabel glanced out the side window. “Your cottage looks pretty much like ours.”

“They’re all about the same on this side of the lake. Yours has one distinction, though. The regulars here call it suicide cottage.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“Each of the last two summers there’s been a suicide here. In ‘forty-two it was an elderly man and last year it was a young woman whose husband had been killed by the Japanese in the Solomon Islands. A terrible tragedy!”

“I remember both of them,” I said, “but I hadn’t realized they were both in this same cottage.”

“I’m sure you two will break the jinx,” he replied with a smile, trying to make light of it.

Annabel snorted. “Two instances hardly qualify as a jinx, Mr. Raspin. I’d call it a coincidence.”

About that time he must have decided that his visit had been ill-timed. “I’d better be getting back. We’ll talk again.”

I saw him to the door and then returned to Annabel. “Can we stand a month of him in the next cottage?” she asked.

“I remember that his wife was nice. I met her once at a hospital function when he was a trustee.”

“All this talk of suicide—”

“There’ll be none here this month. I promise you that.”

On the night of July 4th the Chester Lake residents marked the occasion with a display of railroad flares that ringed the shoreline. A few cottages even fired skyrockets and small firecrackers, but these were hard to come by in our area. The following morning was a Wednesday that year, and the day dawned bright and sunny. Already before breakfast there were children splashing in the water. Annabel watched them fondly from our porch.

“One of those could be our Sam a few years from now. We’ll have to come back here again.” Later in the morning she even went wading herself, with me standing nervously behind her in case she started to fall.

We had a telephone in the kitchen and every morning I checked in with April at my office. But it was a quiet July and the most serious case she had to report was one of the Walker boys being stung by wasps. He was one of those kids who were always getting into trouble and I remembered last summer when he’d gone missing from his parents’ cottage and been feared drowned at Chester Lake. After a day of dragging the lake they’d found him hiding in a tiny crawlspace behind the kitchen sink.

The following Monday I drove Annabel in to see her obstetrician, our old friend Lincoln Jones, and he reported that all seemed to be going well. “Another two weeks at most,” he predicted.

Back at the cottage we became acquainted with another of our neighbors. Mrs. Spring was a petite woman in her late forties who'd been a nurse in Boston. She lived two doors down from us, in the opposite direction from Jerry Raspin and his wife. “I’m right next to Judge Hastings,” she told us, pausing in her stroll along the water’s edge to chat. “You know the judge, don’t you?”

I did know Hastings, a popular man around town, but hadn’t realized his cottage was next to ours. I’d seen no activity there since we arrived. After Mrs. Spring had continued on her walk, I said to Annabel, “If the judge is really next-door I should call on him to say hello. I’ll take a walk over there.”

At first I thought my knocking at the door would be met only by silence, but after the second knock I saw movement behind the curtains and Judge Hastings himself opened the door, as tall and formidable as he appeared on the bench. “Well, Sam Hawthorne! What brings you here?”

“Annabel and I have had the cottage next-door since the first of the month and I only now found out you were here. I didn’t see anyone around and assumed it was empty.”

He seemed hesitant about inviting me in, and finally compromised by motioning toward the porch chairs. “Maud hasn’t been feeling well,” he explained. “That’s why you haven’t seen us out.”

I chose one of the two Adirondack chairs and settled into it. “I hope it’s nothing serious. If she needs a physician, I’m right next-door.”

“No, no.” He rejected the possibility with a wave of his hand. “It’s not serious. Is this your first summer here?”

“The first since our marriage. I visited here years ago, but somehow with my practice I never had time for a real vacation till now. Annabel’s expecting our first child this month and I wanted to be with her as much as possible.”

“There’s nothing like a first child, Sam. I can still remember when Rory was born, though it’s close to thirty years ago now.”

“How's he doing?”

“Air Force lieutenant. We’re very proud of him.”

“You should be. He’s helping to win this war for us.”

The door opened, surprisingly, and Maud Hastings came out to join us. She was a decade younger than the judge, but just then she seemed older. She wore no makeup and she’d put on weight since I last saw her. I suspected her problems were more emotional than physical. “Hello, Doctor,” she addressed me with some formality. Perhaps she thought her husband had summoned me in my professional capacity.

“How've you been, Maud?”

“Better. I’m on my feet again, at least.”

Judge Hastings seemed as surprised as I was by her unexpected appearance. “Shouldn’t you be resting, dear?”

“I’ve had enough resting to last through the summer. I want to see what’s going on out here.”

“Nothing much. Sam and his wife have the next cabin.”

She glanced over at it. “Suicide cabin.”

“Didn’t know that when we rented it,” I told her.

Judge Hastings cleared his throat. “We were here last summer when that young woman took an overdose of sleeping pills. She couldn’t go on after her husband was killed.”

“How'd the first one die?” I asked. “The old man.”

“Shot himself. The place was a mess after that. Owner had to hire people to wash away the blood and repaint the living room.”

“Any doubt about either of them?” I asked, because that was the sort of question I always asked.

“Sheriff Lens was called out both times, but the cottage doors were locked and bolted from the inside.”

“Windows?”

“Those too, Sam. Don’t worry, you’d have heard about it if there was anything suspicious.”

About then I saw a familiar figure strolling along the rocky shoreline. It was Jerry Raspin, my new friend from the previous week, and I assumed the woman with him was his wife. When he saw us on the porch he changed his route and walked over. He nodded to me and then addressed the judge’s wife. “Good to see you up and about again, Maud. Feeling better?”

“Very much better, thank you.”

“This weather would make anyone feel better.” He turned to me. “Dr. Hawthorne, this is my wife, Susan.”

I smiled and shook her hand. “I believe we met at one of the hospital functions some years ago.” She was a large woman, about her husband’s size, and I imagined they made a matching set on the local social scene, where Annabel and I rarely ventured.

Our mailman, a little fellow named Cally Forbes, had appeared at the next cottage, the one rented by Mrs. Spring. Since the cottage mail in this section was usually left in a row of boxes on the street, I assumed he must have some sort of special-delivery item for her. “I’d better go see what Cally wants,” I decided, when his knocking on the door yielded no response.

He turned as I approached. “I have a special delivery for Mrs. Spring. Do you know if she’s around?”

“I was talking to her earlier, Cally. She probably just drove into town. Is it something you can leave with me?”

“No, she has to sign for it. Thanks anyway, Dr. Hawthorne. I’ll try again later.”

“I saw her yesterday,” Susan Raspin volunteered when I returned to the porch, “but not to talk to. She was going somewhere in her car. I think she has problems.”

After a bit more chatting about the weather and the beauties of Chester Lake, Raspin and his wife moved on and I returned home too. Whatever the cause of Maud Hastings's illness, she seemed to have recovered now.

The following day, Tuesday, President Roosevelt announced he would run for a fourth term, bringing further grumbles from those who felt there should be term limits for the President. But the nation was behind him and few thought New York’s Governor Dewey would be able to defeat him.

Annabel’s assistant had phoned earlier with an emergency involving a dozen undernourished cats being kept by an elderly widow. “I have to go in to help her for an hour or two,” she told me as she grabbed the key to our old Buick. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“You’d better be! I don’t want my son delivered at Annabel’s Ark.”

It was early afternoon when Mrs. Spring appeared at our door, wondering if anyone was home. “I’m right here,” I called out, going to greet her. “My wife had to go in to the Ark.”

“Was the mailman looking for me?” she asked.

“Cally Forbes? He had something yesterday you had to sign for. Said he’d be back later and try again.”

“I must have been at the grocery store and missed him.”

“Maybe he’ll try again today. I haven’t seen him yet this afternoon.” I invited her in and offered her a cup of tea, which she accepted.

“That’s very kind of you,” she told me as I poured hot water over the tea bag. “Please call me Grace. I feel like an old lady having tea in the afternoon. Because I’m a widow, everyone feels sorry for me.”

“Did your husband die in the war?”

“Nothing so dramatic. He died of cancer in prison. He’d been drinking and he killed a teenage girl with his car.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill myself like last year’s widow.”

“I hope not.”

“This tea tastes good.”

I smiled and said, “I should have offered you a beer, but I’m not sure we have any.”

I told her about my visit to Judge Hastings the previous day. “Apparently his wife had been ill, but she’s better now. She came out on the porch and talked a bit.”

“Maud imagines all sorts of things. She’s no sicker than you or me. She’s just looking for pity from her husband.” She hesitated and then continued, “One night I caught her peering in the window of my cottage.”

“Why would she do that?”

Grace Spring sighed. “Perhaps she thought I was entertaining the judge.”

“Oh.”

“I wasn’t. I’d never do anything like that.”

“I believe you.”

Just then the telephone in the kitchen rang and I went to answer it. Annabel was on the phone, saying she’d be another hour at the Ark. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“Fine. I’ll be home in an hour.”

“Okay. Maybe we’ll go out for dinner.”

We chatted a few minutes longer and I heard Grace Spring call out, “I have to go now. Thanks for the tea.” The screen door opened and closed before I could say goodbye.

Annabel came home shortly after five, and I could see she was a bit tired. “Do you want to just rest?” I asked.

“No, I’m hungry. I just don’t have the energy to make dinner for us.”

“That’s easily solved. We’ll drive in to Max's Steakhouse. We haven’t seen him in a few weeks anyway.”

“Sounds good to me. He always has something I can eat. Call him and make sure he’s got a table.”

The night had grown cooler and I decided to wear a jacket. While Annabel changed her clothes I locked and bolted the front door and made sure all the windows were latched, remembering Sheriff Lens's warning about burglaries. As we were exiting out the back door she spied the teacup and saucer I’d put in the sink. “What’s this? Have you become a secret tea drinker?”

I chuckled. “Forgot to tell you, Grace Spring stopped by and I gave her some tea. She’s had a hard life.” I locked the back door as we left and I told her about Grace’s visit as we drove into town.

“You’re on a first-name basis with her now, I see.”

“Yeah, Grace Spring is my secret lover.”

“You never know. Things happen at summer cottages.”

“They sure happen at ours. People commit suicide.”

I swung into the Steakhouse parking lot. Max was glad to see us, as always, and asked if he could send over his usual bottle of wine. Annabel demurred and I settled for just one glass. It was a pleasant meal, and only Annabel’s condition had us leaving earlier than usual. We drove by our house and stopped to pick up any mail that hadn’t been forwarded to the cottage. It had just gotten dark by the time we returned to Chester Lake. I pulled up and parked behind the cottage, then helped Annabel out of the car and slid my key into the lock. It turned, but the door didn’t open.

“What’s the matter with this?” I asked.

“The inside bolt must be on.”

“How could that be unless there’s someone inside?”

We went around to the front door with the same results. “I threw the bolt on that myself,” I said, “but the back door couldn’t be bolted. The cottage was empty when we left.”

There were no lights on and we could see nothing inside the darkened cottage. I went back to the car, took out the flashlight I carried in the glove compartment, and shone it through the glass in the kitchen door. I could see nothing unusual and went around to one of the living room windows. Annabel started to follow me but I made her get back in the car and lock the doors. I didn’t like the looks of this at all.

I took a moment to peer into the living room by the flashlight’s glow, then shut it off and walked quickly next-door to Jerry Raspin’s cottage, where a light was burning. “May I use your phone?” I asked Susan when she came to the door. “It’s an emergency.”

“Of course,” she said, looking puzzled.

“What is it?” Jerry asked, but I didn’t answer.

I gave the operator the sheriff's number and when he answered I spoke quickly. “I’m at our cottage. You’d better come out right away. It’s locked but I looked through the window and I can see Grace Spring’s body hanging from a hook in our ceiling.”

Behind me, Susan Raspin screamed.

Sheriff Lens arrived with two deputies within fifteen minutes. “What is it, Doc?” he asked grimly.

“I’ve checked both doors and all the windows. They’re all locked from the inside. I wanted you here to do the break-in. I could see from the angle of her neck that she’s dead.”

“Another suicide in this cabin?”

“That’s what we’re meant to think. But how did she get in?”

The sheriff smashed the glass in the kitchen door and pulled open the bolt so I could unlock the door with my key. Annabel was out of the car now, standing by my side, but I wouldn’t allow her into the house. Once inside, I turned on the lights and confirmed that Mrs. Spring was dead. “Probably more than an hour ago,” I guessed. I gave the sheriff a timetable of when we’d left for dinner and returned, then told him about the dead woman’s visit that afternoon. Her teacup still sat in the sink.

“Nobody here,” one of the deputies reported, finishing his search of the cottage. He even glanced in the tiny crawlspace behind the kitchen sink, removing a little stepladder I stored there.

Sheriff Lens looked over the scene, examining a footstool placed some three inches below her dangling feet. “Get some pictures of this before we cut her down. And fingerprints of the doorknobs and bolts, if I didn’t smudge them too badly.” He turned to me. “What do you think, Doc?”

“It’s a poor attempt to make it look like suicide. The rope was one I had in the kitchen. She’s too short to have stood on that stool and put the noose around her neck. Besides which, she assured me just this afternoon that she wasn’t going to kill herself like last year’s widow in this cottage.”

“But how did she get in with the doors and windows locked, and if it’s murder how did her killer get out?”

“I assume there are no tunnels in the basement,” I replied.

“Heck, Doc, these cottages don’t even have basements!”

I went over the locks carefully. They were the latest Yale models, each with individual keys, and Sheriff Lens assured me there was no chance of someone else’s key opening my doors. Likewise, a careful inspection of all the windows showed no cracks or defective locks. I turned my attention briefly to the fireplace, but the flue was barely large enough for a squirrel. I know of trickery involving thread or fishing lines used to pull bolts shut from outside the room, but there was no space around the tight-fitting doors to allow such a stunt. I even considered the remote possibility that the hanging body itself might have been used to pull a string and slide a bolt closed, but there was no string in evidence and those door bolts didn’t slide easily.

“I’m stumped,” I admitted.

“Come on, Doc,” the sheriff chided me. “You’ve solved cases a lot tougher than this one.”

“Maybe it'll look better by daylight.”

I watched while Grace Spring’s body was cut down and removed for the autopsy. Only after the sheriff and his men had departed did I call next-door and allow Annabel to return from her safe haven at the Raspins’ cottage. “Is it all right to stay here tonight?” I asked. “Or would you rather go back home?”

“I’ll be fine here.”

“When I phoned the sheriff to tell him about Grace’s body, Susan Raspin screamed. She seemed to take the news very hard.”

Annabel nodded. “She was still pretty shook up. Apparently she was close to Grace Spring. She said someone had been sending Grace threatening letters, almost like blackmail letters.”

“Interesting.” I thought about that bit of information. “But as the mystery writer Raymond Chandler once noted, blackmailers don’t shoot. They have nothing to gain from killing off a source of income.”

“What could a woman like Mrs. Spring have done that would cause her to be blackmailed?”

“Almost anything, I suppose. She told me her husband died in prison after a drunk-driving accident.”

I checked all the doors and windows again, making certain they were locked and bolted before we went to bed. But sleeping wasn’t easy. I kept thinking of Annabel at my side, only a week or so away from giving birth. Perhaps suicide cottage wasn’t the best place for either of us.

I was up before eight, wandering around the little cottage, going through the kitchen to use the bathroom, and Annabel joined me a short time later. As I fixed breakfast for us, she remarked, “Maybe we should have slept at home. All I could think of was that woman hanging there, even though you wouldn’t let me see her. I guess this really is the suicide cottage.”

“That wasn’t suicide. Someone killed her.”

“Even with all the doors and windows locked?”

“She got in here somehow, and if she could get in, the killer could get out.”

Sheriff Lens arrived a bit after nine o’clock, looking as if he’d been up most of the night. “We have a preliminary autopsy report. Doc’s still working on it, but there are finger marks on her throat. She was strangled before she was hanged.”

“How terrible!” Annabel said with a compassionate tremor in her voice. “But why pick this cottage? Just because of its reputation for suicides?”

“Apparently.” I told the sheriff, “Susan Raspin in the next cottage thinks Grace was being blackmailed.”

“Her husband was convicted of drunk driving a few years back, but some folks thought he took the blame for her. Then he died in prison.”

“She mentioned her husband when she was here yesterday, and apparently she told Susan Raspin she’d been threatened.”

“I’ll dig out the records and look into it. Are you two staying around here, Doc?”

“For now.”

He left us then and I saw Judge Hastings coming over from his place. “Did he have any new information, Sam?”

“Not much. She was strangled before the killer hanged her, so it certainly wasn’t suicide.”

We sat on the porch for a bit discussing it while Annabel remained inside. “If there’s a killer on the prowl, none of us are safe,” he told me.

“Do you have any idea why someone might have been blackmailing Grace Spring? Maybe something about her husband’s accident?”

He thought about it, rubbing his lean jaw. “I heard that case in my courtroom. There was a suspicion she’d been driving, but he took the blame and we had to accept that. A girl was killed and I had to give him prison time. We discovered later he knew he was dying of cancer and maybe that’s why he was willing to take the blame.”

A mailman came by carrying a leather sack. “Does your mail get delivered right to the cottages?” he asked us.

The judge shook his head. “There’s a line of boxes across the road. You must be new to this route. Where’s Cally Forbes?”

“He called in sick this morning. Long as I’m here I might as well give you the mail.”

Judge Hastings accepted a couple of letters but the only thing for Annabel and me was a doctor’s bill that I’d told Lincoln Jones to send us. “I’d better be getting back to Maud,” the judge decided. “She’s having a bad day.”

“Anything I can help out with?”

“No, no. It’s just—”

“Change of life?”

“Yes. Some women like Maud really suffer through it.”

“There’s a new medication that might help. Ask her to make an appointment with April at my office. I’d be happy to come in and examine her any time she wants.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

After he’d left I went back inside. Annabel was resting in one of the easy chairs when the phone rang. The cord was twisted awkwardly and it took me a moment to unwind it. Sheriff Lens was on the other end. “I don’t have much on Grace Spring, Doc. I tried to track the parents of the girl who was killed in that accident but they live in Chicago. They were just here visiting the wife’s brother when it happened.”

I barely heard his words. I was staring at the telephone cord, trying to remember the last time we’d used it. I thought it was last night when I phoned Max's Steakhouse for a table. “Sheriff,” I said quietly, “I think you’d better come over here.”

“Who was that?” Annabel wondered, following me outside when I returned to the porch.

“Just Sheriff Lens. He had some new information about the dead woman. I suggested he take a ride over here.”

“Are you getting anywhere with this?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

I shifted the conversation to the weather, commenting on the cloudless blue sky and the comfortable temperature. She was so close to delivery that I didn’t want to upset or frighten her in any way. When I saw the sheriff's car pull up behind the cottage I suggested she might go over to visit Susan Raspin, who'd come out onto her porch.

“What is it, Sam?” my wife asked. “Why don’t you want me here?”

“I just thought you’d be more comfortable there.”

“I’m staying,” she said firmly. Annabel could be stubborn at times.

Sheriff Lens entered through the kitchen door, an expectant look on his face. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you, Doc?”

“I think so.”

“Well, tell us!” my wife demanded. “Why are you so nervous about it?”

“All right,” I said. “I think we’ve shown that Grace Spring couldn’t have killed herself. And we’ve also shown that her killer couldn’t possibly have left this cottage after he killed her. I think it was Sherlock Holmes who once remarked that when you’ve excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

“What are you saying, Doc?”

“The killer was here, and couldn’t have left through the locked doors or windows. Therefore, the killer is still here.”

The sheriff's hand dropped instinctively to the butt of his holstered revolver. “That’s impossible.”

“Is it? My first problem was how Grace Spring got in here in the first place. And why. I thought I’d heard her leave yesterday afternoon while I was on the phone with Annabel. She’d been drinking a cup of tea, but she called out she was leaving and I heard the screen door open and close. I noticed this morning that our phone cord was oddly twisted. Someone other than Annabel or me had used the phone after we left. That’s when I started suspecting that Grace hadn’t left at all. She’d hidden here and phoned her killer after we left for dinner. She’d heard me tell Annabel we’d probably go out for dinner and realized suicide cottage was the perfect setting for what she had in mind.”

“And what was that?”

“She was going to kill her blackmailer and make it look like one more suicide.”

“But where could she have hidden?” my wife asked. “This place isn’t that big. Even the crawlspace behind the sink was too crowded with that ladder in it.”

“She was a small woman. It only took her a moment while I was on the phone to partly open the foldaway bed in the living room and slip inside.” Their eyes went to the sofa and I kept on talking. “Once we were gone she came out and phoned her blackmailer, arranging for him to meet her here on some pretext, probably promising him money. While she waited, she may have slipped out the back door and gone over to her cottage for a weapon. She was ready when he arrived, probably with a gun. That would be the most likely weapon to fake a suicide.”

“You’re saying the blackmailer killed her?” Sheriff Lens asked. “But if she had a gun why didn’t she shoot him?”

“They must have struggled over it and he choked her to death. Once he’d done that, he strung her up to the ceiling hook in hopes we’d miss the finger marks on her throat. It would have been one more death in suicide cottage.”

“Are you telling me that the killer took her place in the foldaway bed, that he’s still there now?”

“That’s just what I’m telling you. He figured we’d never spend the night here after finding the body, and once it was established as a suicide he’d simply walk out the back door. Only we stayed and he was trapped here.”

That was when Sheriff Lens walked over and lifted the sofa seat to check inside. Maybe he thought my idea was too crazy to be true. Maybe it didn’t occur to him that if I was right the killer might be in there with Grace’s gun. As the foldaway bed opened and he came into view, he pointed the gun at me and Annabel did the craziest thing she’d ever done. She launched herself at him like a fury, baby and all...

Old Dr. Sam finished his story and his drink. Looking into his listener’s eyes, he said, “You were born that night, Samantha, one week early.”

“And the killer was...?”

“Our postman, Cally Forbes, of course. He was small like Grace Spring and able to hide in there easily. He’d even gotten out of bed early that morning to use our phone and call in sick. He couldn’t just leave, though, because we’d have discovered the unbolted door and known he’d been hiding. He was the uncle of the girl killed in the accident, and he was convinced Grace had been driving. She started paying him money, maybe out of a guilty conscience, but finally she decided she’d have to kill him. She lured him here after we went to dinner and was waiting with the gun. Most postmen have strong arms and he got the gun away from her, strangling her in the process. Then he found the rope, tied it around her throat to cover the bruises, and lifted her up to that hook with the aid of my stepladder. He put that away and only realized at the last minute she’d have needed something to stand on. He placed the stool there, not realizing in the near-darkness that it was too low.”

Samantha shook her head in wonder. “Mom could have killed herself jumping at him like that. She could have killed me!”

“I guess that’s why we never told you about it till now. You want another scotch?”

She pushed the long dark hair from her beautiful eyes and smiled. “No, let’s go join Mom and the grandkids.”

© 2007 by Edward D. Hoch