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!”
A Cleverly Rearranged Murder
by Richard Purtill
Yes, I suppose they are marvelous gadgets and I could probably afford to get one, but I have rather a prejudice against them; I’ll tell you why. It happened last spring when I was in San Diego looking for picture subjects. I don’t know if you realize I’m a poet. I suppose if you do you wonder, like most people, how I make a living at it.
It started when I made a birthday card for a friend with a photograph I’d taken myself and some lines of my verse inside. At the party everyone exclaimed over the card and someone said I should go into business making them.
She was probably joking, and it wouldn’t have gone much further if I hadn’t had a cousin with a print shop. But Harry, my cousin, liked the idea and we hunted through vacation pictures until we found some that I could fit verses to. Harry made up the cards and we managed to place a few at local gift shops. The demand grew slowly, but eventually I was able to give up my job at the shoe store and spend my time looking for picture subjects. Since I’m not a professional photographer, I take many pictures for every one we can use, and the best pictures don’t always inspire me to verse.
So I spend a lot of time wandering around new places, snapping away and jotting down ideas for verses. I probably travel more than I need to, but since I can deduct my photo trips as business expenses I feel I might as well enjoy my occupation and see a bit of the world.
The trip to San Diego had been a good one. I’d walked from the Embarcadero to the Zoo and was on my way back with some pictures and some ideas. On that trip I got the pictures of the old men in the park that went with my verses on loneliness: that’s sold very well. Some pictures of young people on roller skates sold well for a while, and I’ve reused the verses on youth that I wrote for them.
The sun was getting low and I was beginning to get hungry, so when I came to a little restaurant with the sign AUTHENTIC LEBANESE CUISINE, I decided to give it a try. I like all kinds of ethnic food. When I went in, though, all of the tables in the small room were empty, and I nearly left. Then I heard what sounded like a television news program coming from an open door at the back of the room. I hesitated, but I was tired and hungry; perhaps whoever was watching, the television would be as glad for my business as I would be for some food and a place to sit. I walked over to the door and peered in.
The first thing I saw was a large color television set on top of a bookcase. I had been right; it was a news program. For a moment my attention was caught by something the announcer was saying about tomorrow’s weather. There was a big reclining chair between the door and the television set with such a high back I couldn’t be sure whether someone was sitting in it or not. Clearing my throat, I said, “Excuse me.” Then I saw the foot.
It was sticking out at the bottom of the chair at a strange angle and I noticed automatically that the shoe it was wearing, though well worn, was an expensive one. I took a few steps toward the chair and then stopped when I saw the huddled shape sprawled in front of it, a heavy-set man with a bald head wearing a white shirt and dark trousers. With vague thoughts of first aid I bent toward the man. Then something hit me a vicious blow on the side of my head and I fell fathoms deep into dark, disturbing dreams.
I woke to find a rugged face with a stern, accusing expression close to my own. “You want to tell me about it, buddy?” said a voice.
I shut my eyes and opened them again. The face was still there. I tried to move my head but that hurt too much, so I moved my eyes from side to side to get my bearings.
I was back in the main room of the restaurant, sprawled on a chair that had been pulled away from a table. The room with the television set and the sprawled body seemed to be full of men and I saw the intermittent glare of flashbulbs out of the corner of my eyes as I looked back at the stern-faced man.
“Who are you?” I asked. “What happened?”
“Detective Cominski, San Diego Police Department,” he said, and I realized that some of the men in the other room were wearing police uniforms. The man before me was wearing slacks, a sportjacket, and a colored shirt with a rather lurid tie. He was as big as a football forward and looked rather like one. He went on, “What happened is what I want to know. We found you in the back room with the proprietor, George Klouri. It looks like there was a fight. Klouri’s dead. You want to tell me about it?”
I touched the side of my head very carefully. There was dried blood there. I tried to gather my wits. “I came in for a meal,” I said. “The place was empty but I heard a TV. I went toward the room with the TV and there was a man lying on the floor. When I bent over to look at him, something hit me on the side of the head.”
Cominski’s expression didn’t change. “O.K., that’s your story,” he said. “Now let’s have some details. What time did you come in here?”
I shook my head and winced at the pain. “I don’t wear a watch, and I hadn’t really noticed the time,” I said. “But, since the news was on, I suppose it must have been some time between five-thirty and six-thirty. I saw a local weather forecast when I first looked in.”