Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 134, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 817 & 818, September/October 2009

Murder in Black and White by Mignon F. Ballard

Author of an award-winning children’s novel, South Carolina’s Mignon Ballard has also been delighting adult readers with a series featuring guardian angel Augusta Goodnight. The seventh book in that series, Hark! The Herald Angel Screamed, was published by St. Martin’s Press in November of 2008. The first in a new Ballard series, Miss Dimple Disappears, is due in the fall of 2010, and Bella Rosa Books recently reprinted two of Ms. Ballard’s earlier novels, Final Curtain and Cry At Dusk.

She didn’t remember when she first began to feel afraid. They were such little things: the open window she was almost sure she’d closed; the Boston fern moved a few inches from its usual place on the porch; the fragile lilac she’d pampered all year snapped off at the ground. But when Marty Vaughn saw the broken whiskey bottle in her driveway, she knew it had to be him, and the old terror came rushing back like acid in her veins.

“It’s only a bottle,” her neighbor said, mopping her damp face. Cora Lundy paused in her pruning to shove a strand of graying hair from her eyes and darted a look over her shoulder. “You’d be surprised at the broken glass I’ve picked up out here. Riffraff! What do they care? Now, your husband... what’s his name?”

“Paul. Paul Rydell, and he’s not my husband anymore.”

“Well, let me tell you, honey, he’s not the only one who drinks.” Cora glanced briefly at the large house across the street where bikes and skateboards littered the overgrown yard, and dropped her voice. “Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if it wasn’t that oldest Crutchfield boy — the one with the crazy haircut. Can’t say I like the looks of some of his friends. That bottle likely came from Ed Crutchfield’s liquor cabinet.”

“Not this brand. It’s the cheapest kind of sour mash, but Paul got to where he actually preferred it.” Marty was dismayed to see her hands were shaking.

Her neighbor noticed it, too. “Come on, now,” she said, and with a firm hand led Marty to a bench in the shade. “Don’t let this get you down. You gonna be okay?”

Marty took a deep breath and nodded. “It’s just that I felt so safe here. I didn’t think he’d find us.”

Cora shook her head. “How long has he been out?”

“A little over two months.” Marty knew exactly how long: two months, two weeks, and four days. “But I left no forwarding address, and I’m using my mother’s maiden name. Cora, how does he know?”

Her neighbor’s round, flushed face was solemn. “Maybe he doesn’t. You can’t be sure, you know, and I wouldn’t let on to Lynn. You don’t want to frighten the child.” Her voice took on a hearty tone. “Guess she’s all excited about going camping?”

Marty smiled. “Can’t wait! Sleeping bag’s all rolled up and packed — and that blessed camera, too. She should finish her badge requirements this weekend — and won’t we all be glad?”

Cora laughed and pretended surprise. “You mean I won’t have to put on lipstick when I go out to empty the trash? I can hardly wait!” Her expression became serious again. “Marty, what does Lynn really know about her father?”

Marty stared at the grass at her feet. It needed mowing. “She thinks he died. What else could I tell her? She doesn’t remember, and I’m glad. Her father is a crazed alcoholic who struck me once too often. He would’ve hurt Lynn, too, if I hadn’t come between them... and she was only three.” The vile words seemed to swell in her throat. “Sometimes, Cora, I honestly wanted to kill him.”

Marty leaned against the staunch oak and looked at the quiet street of older homes. Revived with new paint and hard work, they housed a pleasant assortment of families and provided what she had hoped was a peaceful environment to raise her child. Just looking at her own house, a cheerful yellow with dark green trim and narrow porch, made her want to smile. It was hers — hers and Lynn’s, finally, after moving from one apartment to another, bouncing from town to town every time Paul Rydell had served his puny term in jail, every time the phone rang. The last time he’d been put away for five years for assaulting someone in a bar. It was time enough for Marty to save the down payment while working as an executive secretary, and to be on her way to becoming established as a freelance artist. Her amusing cartoon sketches were especially popular with the greeting-card market, and she was at last able to work out of her own home.

Her home. And she had earned it. This time neither Paul Rydell nor anyone else was going to ruin her life!

“Hey! Why the big frown? I didn’t bring any bills today.” Brad Myrick, their jovial postman, paused to delve into his bag and bowed as he presented his findings to the two women. “Looks like invitations to the big library fund-raising gala...” He dealt the mail like a poker hand. “Catalog for you, Ms. Lundy... and, oh my! Looks like payday for the Vaughns!” He gave Marty her check with a flourish. “Now you can buy a good-looking outfit for that gala — like that little black job in Addisons’ window.”

Marty smiled and shook her head. “Not this time, Mr. Myrick. I’m afraid that’s not in my budget.”

“You should see what Arlene Harrison ordered,” he said. “Kelly green with a handbag to match. Came in yesterday from California. Now that cost a pretty penny!”

Cora rolled her eyes and directed his attention across the street. “Are the Crutchfields on vacation? That grass is as high as the cost of living, and it’s been awfully quiet over there.”

Brad Myrick wiped his moist face with a large handkerchief and shook his head. “It’s Doreen’s mom. Fell and broke her hip — close to eighty, you know. She took the little ones up to Ohio with her. Oughta be back sometime next week though.”

With a weary sigh he shifted his bag and turned to go, pausing at the end of the walk. “How’s my girl coming with that photography badge?” He laughed. “Must be hard up for subject matter. Even took a couple of me. Hope it didn’t break her camera.”

“She should finish the requirements on their camping trip over the weekend,” Marty told him. “Lynn’s really worked hard on this one. She’s only using black- and-white film and some of her photographs are impressive.” She shrugged. “Or at least they are to me, but I guess I’m a bit prejudiced.”

The postman waved as he resumed his walk. “Well, you tell her I’ll be dropping by that book I promised — the one on photography. Maybe it will help.”

Cora turned away to make a face. “Silly old fool! It’s obvious he has a crush on you, and him old enough to be your father.”

Marty laughed. “Oh, he’s harmless enough. Nosy, though. Probably knows everybody’s secrets.”

Cora watched the wiry figure make his way down the street. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said.

He couldn’t possibly know mine, Marty thought as she dropped her daughter off at the Scout Hut after school that day. The inquisitive Mr. Myrick thought she was a widow who, with her ten-year-old daughter, had moved into the house on his route the year before. Or at least that’s what she hoped he thought.

Lynn gave her mother a parting kiss as they collected her belongings for the trip. “Is something the matter, Mom? Don’t look so sad. I’m coming back, you know.”

Marty returned her hug. “Are you kidding? I’m planning a wild party — can’t wait! Here, don’t forget your camera.” She helped load her daughter’s bulky gear into the van and waved as they pulled away.

What was she going to do with herself? It was only four o’clock and she had the entire weekend to spend as she liked. Alone. Any other time Marty would have looked forward to the luxury, but not now. She felt threatened, vulnerable.

And she was even more intimidated when she saw the dead bird on her front steps.

“A cat. Marty, calm down. It was only a cat. It’s the nature of the beast, you know, and there are several in the neighborhood.” Her friend Pam O’Keefe put a cold glass of water in her hand. “Here. Now, drink it slowly and tell me what’s going on.”

Marty glanced out the window of Pam’s small gift shop a block from her home. Nothing bad could happen to her here where the tree-shaded street seemed welcoming and friendly. Seemed. She took a sip of water and a deep breath. “It’s Paul. I know it’s Paul, Pam. It’s just like something he would do!”

Pam was one of the few who knew about Marty’s past and of her fear of Paul’s returning. Now she looked at her watch and grabbed keys from a hook by the door, pausing only to put a Closed sign in the window. “Come on! Let’s walk. The air will do you good.”

The two women had become friends when Pam agreed to sell some of Marty’s watercolors and often walked together in the afternoons after work. Pam was one of the few people she had trusted with her secret, but Marty could tell her friend thought she was overreacting.

Now Pam’s voice was light. “Since Lynn’s deserted you to rough it with the Scouts, I’m treating you to pizza tonight. We’ll start with a glass of wine.”

“But what about your family? Really, Pam, you don’t have to—”

“Just hush! Scott can take the kids out for burgers.” Pam linked her arm through Marty’s and picked up her pace. “After all, we deserve a break now and then, don’t you think?” She lowered her voice as they walked past the Crutchfields’. “I don’t like to sound like a prude, but Doreen shouldn’t have left those kids alone like that even if they are in their teens. Their dad’s gone all day, and that oldest one’s a poor excuse for a sitter.” Pam covered her ears as rock music blasted from a room upstairs. “I’ll bet it was that middle boy who put the bird on your steps. Didn’t you tell me he and Lynn had an argument on the school bus last week? You know how vindictive kids can be.”

Pam grinned. “Now, tell me, has the shutterbug earned her badge yet? When’s my picture going to be in Vogue?”

Marty laughed. Maybe Pam was right. She needed to lighten up, forget about the broken bottle, the dead bird, and all the other trivial annoyances, and enjoy her brief respite from responsibility while her daughter was away.

Later, driving home that night, Marty thought of Lynn’s excitement on receiving the small camera for her birthday. She had zoomed in on earning the photography badge with enthusiasm, recording outings, making photos that told a story, and had even photographed their street at different times of day to achieve variations in light and shadow. Marty smiled. Maybe Lynn would become a skilled photographer someday.

It had begun raining before they left the restaurant, but now it was coming down in earnest and the house was dark as Marty pulled into the driveway. Keys in hand, she dashed for the porch, wishing she’d thought to leave a light on, and barely noticed the bulky object propped against the front door. Marty paused to pick up the bookand hurried inside to switch on the light. She smiled when she saw the title, Plains, Prairies, and Pioneers: Photographs of the Old West, remembering the friendly postman’s promise.

She knew something was wrong as soon as she stepped into the hallway. Nothing was out of place — at least nothing she could put her finger on. Everything seemed rigidly in order; even the comforter on Lynn’s bed was folded neatly at the foot. Had Paul Rydell been in this house? She was certain someone had.

The police wouldn’t believe her. What could she tell them? That she thought someone had been here. She had called them once before when shrieking winds sent branches bumping outside her bedroom and had been embarrassed when they found no intruder. Marty checked doors and windows, then turned on a late-night television talk show for company. She would get very little sleep that night.

Yawning over coffee the next morning, Marty was watching Cora water her flowers next-door when Pam appeared, white-faced, at her kitchen door. “Thought I’d better tell you in person,” she began. “Your friend the postman was killed last night. They found him on a street near his home early this morning. Said it looked like a hit-and-run.”

Marty put her head in her hands. Not poor, silly Mr. Myrick! Paul had always been jealous, but surely he hadn’t been envious of the harmless, middle-aged postman! Then she remembered the book. Did Brad Myrick see who had been in her house the night before?

With unsteady fingers she phoned the police.

“Have you heard anything yet?” Cora asked as they sat on Marty’s porch in the waning twilight.

Marty shook her head. “The police are trying to get in touch with Paul’s parole officer. They have no idea where he went, of course, but I know. He came here.”

Cora had offered to stay the night and Marty accepted, glad of her neighbor’s comfortable presence. Pam had been with her all day, but Pam had her shop as well as her own family responsibilities. Across the street, Ed Crutchfield yelled at one of his boys as the lawnmower struck an object in the grass. Earlier, when he heard about Paul, he had come over and offered to keep an eye on her house, and Marty was grateful for the suggestion. Just then she didn’t care how unkempt his yard became.

“How did Lynn’s pictures turn out?” Cora asked over after-dinner coffee. “Am I on display in the post office yet?”

Marty laughed as she put down her cup. “I’m not sure the ones of you have been developed yet. They might be still in her camera, but I know she has some in an album. It’s in a box in her closet. I’ll get it if you’d like to see them.”

“Never mind! You’ve been through enough. I’ll find it. You just sit there and rest.”

Cora had already started upstairs before Marty could protest and she heard her open the door to Lynn’s room and close it behind her. How did Cora know which room belonged to Lynn when she had never been inside their house before? she wondered.

The telephone rang as her neighbor came downstairs, and she perched on the arm of the sofa thumbing through Lynn’s photos as Marty talked.

“Not bad news, I hope.” Cora glanced up as Marty replaced the receiver. “Why, you’re as white as a sheet, honey! What’s wrong?”

“It’s Paul.” Marty stared at the dark street outside. She mustn’t break down. Not now. “He knows we’re here alone.”

“But how? Are you sure? Where is he?” Cora let the album slide to the floor.

“Somewhere nearby. Watching. Don’t leave me, Cora. Please!”

“No, no, of course not.” The older woman patted her shoulder. “But what about Lynn? Isn’t she in danger, too? One of us should warn her.”

“You’re right. I’m not thinking straight. Oh, Cora, would you?” Marty gripped her neighbor’s plump, freckled hand. “I’ll be fine — really. I’ll call Ed Crutchfield — the police — just hurry!”

“Yes, yes, but where?” Cora quickly gathered her belongings as Marty rushed her to the door, spouting directions all the while.

She had the receiver in her hand as her neighbor’s car pulled away. The same officer answered who had just telephoned her about Paul’s death. Police had found him earlier in some distant fleabag hotel, dead of alcohol poisoning, he’d told her.

“Please send someone out to check on my daughter at Camp Daisy on Red Bridge Road,” Marty told him, “and I think you might want to look into the background of my neighbor, Cora Lundy, as well. If you’ll take a good look at that dent in her bumper when she gets back from her wild-goose chase in the next county, I believe you’ll learn who killed Brad Myrick last night.”

“How in the world did you know?” Pam asked after Cora was handcuffed and led away. “Sweet little gray-haired Cora! I never would’ve suspected.”

“Sweet little Cora just about had apoplexy when she thought Lynn had taken her picture,” Marty said. “We teased her about it — said we were going to put it on the bulletin board in the post office.”

“Come to think of it, I’ve never seen her photo in the newspaper, even with all the clubs she belongs to,” Pam mused.

“And then I said that about wanting to kill Paul,” Marty continued. “Honestly, I never guessed she’d done away with three husbands before coming here. They’ve been looking for her for years.”

Pam sat on the living room floor sipping tea. “Then it was Cora who moved the fern and broke your lilac. But why?”

“By accident, I think. She must’ve been trying to see if we were at home so she could get inside and find that film.”

Pam frowned. “But why the dead bird, the broken bottle?”

“When I started asking questions, she needed someone to blame,” Marty explained. “She knew I was terrified that Paul might find us, so he made a natural scapegoat. And I’d said something about Paul’s fondness for sour mash earlier. Remember the neighborhood Christmas party? Somebody was drinking it and I mentioned to Cora that I couldn’t stand the smell.”

Pam stared into her cup. “And poor Mr. Myrick probably saw Cora prying about here last night when he came to leave Lynn the book.”

Marty nodded. “I think so. And this morning when I thought she was watering her flowers, Cora was actually washing his blood from her car. I wondered why she’d be watering after that big rain we had last night.”

Pam looked at her in silence for a minute. “But Marty, when did you really know?”

“Not until the police called to tell me they’d found Paul. Cora had gone up to Lynn’s room, and it all came together. If it wasn’t Paul, then who was it? It was obvious that Cora wanted that film.

“Lynn was in danger, and so was I, but I couldn’t let her think I suspected a thing.”

“So you made her think he was really out there watching.” Pam smiled. “Cora must’ve been scared to death.”

“Not half as much as I was,” Marty admitted. “And if she only knew, it could all have been avoided.”

Pam frowned. “Only knew what?”

“I should’ve mentioned it earlier, but she made such an issue of it, I was afraid I’d hurt her feelings, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.” Marty began to laugh. “When Lynn took those photos of Cora, she forgot to put film in the camera.”

Copyright © 2009 Mignon F. Ballard