Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018

“What?” He hoped they couldn’t see his heart ticking at his throat.

Found dead. They told him what they’d heard so far, which wasn’t much. Just that she was found on the floor by Fred Johnston, who noticed the lights still on and the door open at two in the morning. The state police were still there, the sheriff too, the yellow tape was still up — Rosemary had driven down to see — they were still investigating. The urge to ask them whether or not the surveillance camera still worked had hooked Donnie by the mouth and was reeling him in, but he resisted, wriggling and splashing and fighting for all he was worth. He was determined not to make the same mistake Monica had made, though when they’d talked in whispers walking out to the car, Monica saw nothing wrong with her question, futile though it had been. Nellie hadn’t even known there was a camera in the store. And no — she didn’t think it should have made Nellie suspicious, not at all.

“What happened? Do they know? Was it an accident, or what?”

“I don’t know why they’d be there all night if it was an accident,” Rosemary said.

“Well, they have to be thorough,” said their mother.

“Yes, Mother,” Rosemary said. Through the sliding-glass door, Donnie could see a pair of neighbors talking between their mobile homes, then, down the other way, three more on a stoop engaged in eager chatter. Rosemary and Mother both took large bites of waffles, as if they were in a hurry to get the chore out of the way. They offered none to Donnie.

“Well, if it was a robbery or something, they must have it on the surveillance camera.” Damn! Reeled in!

“Shit, that camera—” Rosemary said.

“Rosemary!” said Mother.

“Pardon me, Mother,” she said. “That camera hasn’t worked in years, if it ever did. It was only there for show. Andrea used to dance in front of it, the old soft-shoe — auditioning for Ed Sullivan, she said. She thought it was a riot.”

Donnie grasped the back of a chair to steady himself. “Oh. Well, that’s too bad. I guess they’ll never know then.”

“Oh, they’ll know,” his mother said. “They always get their man. Crime doesn’t pay.”

“Mother,” Rosemary said, stabbing another waffle chunk. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. They get away with it all the time.”

“Who? When?” said Mother, indignantly. Indignancy was part and parcel of her personality, a proud part and parcel. “Name one time.”

“I’m not going to argue with you, Mother,” said Rosemary, which was what she always said as a prelude to arguing with her mother. Donnie made his way to the sofa and sat, leaving them to argue the efficiency of law enforcement, the history of crime and punishment. He closed his eyes again. He was tired, there’d been little sleep, his mind was buzzing, his skin tingling, buoyed up to the clouds and beyond by relief. Down below, he was a tiny speck, him, the trailer park, the whole village, Matson’s. And Andrea lying there dead. “What’s the matter with you?” It was Rosemary, standing before him.