Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999
Guest Editorial
by Joe Michael Feist
The following photograph and story, from the January 31, 1999, edition of the Bryan-College Station (Texas) Eagle, was sent us by J. F. Peirce, a frequent Mysterious Photograph winner and runner-up. Joe Michael Feist, is the Eagle’s managing editor. — Ed.
I just love a good mystery. Like what’s in Spam, and would you eat it if you knew. Or why it’s illegal not to wear a seat belt, but it’s OK for women to apply mascara at 70 mph.
But boy, there’s a much better puzzler going on right now in the Bryan-College Station area. Seen those billboards all over town? You know, the ones out on F.M. 2818 and on Texas Avenue, with a big red lipstick smooch and the words “Your Wife Knows.”
Ever wonder about those signs? You’re not the only one, believe me.
Now the best thing about being a journalist for me — and this is a dirty little secret — is that I get to stick my nose where it don’t belong. (English teachers: I know that should read “where it doesn’t belong,” but it sounds better to my ear to say “where it don’t belong.” Save your stamps, please, unless you’re praising.)
So, the other day when I was trying to avoid real work, I decided to look into those smooch signs. I thought it might be the opening act in a teaser campaign, or the work of some church with a moral message. Or it might be saying that your wife knows you love her or something like that. Could be something nice. Or maybe not.
Anyway, called Ed Staples, the general manager of Advantage Outdoors, and asked for the scoop. He was a bit hesitant at first but, under my relentless questioning, honed by many years of being nosy, he relented. To a point.
The signs, which went up in early December, are not teasers and weren’t bought by any church, Staples said. The real story is a whole lot juicier. And baffling.
“Evidently, some ladies around town know that something is going on,” Staples said. Something? Well, you know, that kind of something.
Staples doesn’t know any specifics, or won’t reveal any, but said that four women have paid for the signs. And being relatively new in town, he knows the four, who obviously don’t want their names known, “by signature only.”
The signs, according to Staples, have caused quite a ruckus among the married, male population.
“It’s a wide open playing field,” Staples said. “That’s the problem. It could be anybody. Somebody may have gone to a club and danced with somebody and got a little out of line and somebody found out about it. Or something else.”
He said he gets as many as a dozen phone calls a day from married men who always ask the same questions: The wife knows WHAT, exactly? and Who put those signs up?
“Right after the weekend is when we get the most calls,” Staples said, inviting me to put two and two together.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said, “and I’ve been in the business 14 years. It’s a funny little situation, but it’s probably not so funny if we all knew the truth.”
Staples said he called a couple of florists around town and was told that business is up considerably over this time last year. He sees a connection, and I see his point.
Any husband who drives by that billboard and feels the least bit guilty about anything will be drawn to a flower shop like a june bug to a bug zapper.
One thing is for sure, Staples added: The four women are serious about getting their message across.
“Those boards aren’t cheap,” he said. “We’re talking about $2,200 a month, plus paper. They’ll have about $7,000 invested before it’s all over.”
The signs are scheduled to come down in the next 30 to 45 days, but I’m hoping the mystery somehow continues. This sure beats working.
You May Already Be a Winner
by Ron Goulart
She showed up on crutches.
Night had just closed in around his cottage, and a hot wind was rushing through the darkened streets of the beach town.
“I’m completely and totally reformed,” announced Casey McLeod an instant after he opened his front door. “From this moment on, Wes, I intend to tell you nothing but the absolute truth.”
Wes Goodhill meant to shut the door in her face despite the fact that she looked terrific standing there in a candy-striped blouse and a short dark blue skirt. But, as usual, he found that he couldn’t bring himself to close the damn thing. Instead, he opened the weathered door wider and frowned out at her. “Where have you been for the past five months? You disappeared out of my life that night in Santa Monica and left me—”
A powerful gust of wind hit her in the back, causing Casey to lose her balance on the wobbly wooden crutches. She dropped one crutch, stumbled forward. “Yikes,” she commented.
Wes lunged ahead to catch her. “Easy now,” he cautioned, getting hold of her beneath her arms.
The other crutch fell away, and she and Wes went staggering into his small living room.
He managed to hold onto her and remain upright. He guided her — she was limping, favoring her left leg — over to his sofa. “Sit,” he suggested, untangling himself from her and letting her topple back into a seated position. “Before you explain — or rather, before you spin some incredible falsehood to account for your whereabouts since last we met, Casey, tell me about these crutches.”
“I sprained my ankle.”
“How?”
“Jumping out a window.”
“Um.” He brought the crutches in from where they’d fallen on his porch, shut the door, and laid them out side by side against the living room wall. “And what tall tale have you concocted to account for jumping out a window? How high up was it, by the way?”
“Two stories,” she answered, frowning up at him. “Listen now, Wes, I really am a changed and reformed person. I admit that in the past, in spite of the lovely times I had while living with you here in your cosy little place in Santa Rita Beach, I tended on occasion to stretch the truth a bit. But, and it’s ironic that the very man who helped me to reform and turn into a morale person, is the very same one who—”
“Moral,” he corrected.
“Exactly,” she said, nodding and then bending to massage her bare right ankle. “What I’m attempting to convey is that while I may’ve fibbed some in the past, I don’t do that now.”
“Fibbed is hardly an adequate word to describe the monumental lies and downright falsehoods you’ve told me during the various times we’ve lived together, Case,” he told her. “You are a master of duplicity and deceit, a world class prevaricator, a—”
“But basically we love each other and that’s why I always return to—”
“Return to the scene of your crimes,” he cut in. “And granted you may love me, Casey, but there have also been dozens of other fellows who also—”
“There you go, exaggerating.” She held up her left hand and began ticking off the fingers. “There can’t have been more than five or six men I was unfaithful to you with during our whole and entire relationship to date. Let’s see, there was Roy, Carlos, Scott, and that—”
“Never mind,” he said, scowling at her. “Fidelity isn’t a matter of quantity anyway. Even one clandestine affair is sufficient to — who the hell was Scott?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I thought you knew about him,” Casey said. “No matter. Let’s move on to the serious stuff. I want to explain why I’ve come back to you — come back to stay.” She tried a small smile on him.