Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 43, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1998

(“Yes, that’s right,” sly Ginny had said to the postmaster, “At 218 Elm Street I’ll always have a stamped letter. I write to dear Mother in Florida every single Saturday.”)

Perfumed (she’d gone with Unbridled) and pulchritudinous, posturing and prancing provocatively, she was a sight to behold. And when the breathtaking performance was over, Thelma grabbed the phone, called Emily.

“You shoulda seen her. It was just like one o’ them hootchy-kootchy numbers Theda Bara used to do in the silent movies at the Lyric. Huh? Whaddaya mean you don’t remember Theda Bara? Who you kidding? You’re as old as I am. Now, do you want to listen or not?”

Emily listened. Then she telephoned Olive, who couldn’t wait to call Alice. As the titillating tale wove through town, it eventually reached Martha, a well-meaning quidnunc phoning her on Sunday evening.

Poor Martha, she felt like crying. But she didn’t cry, she swore. Damn that creature, damn her. Not satisfied with having had two husbands, she’s trying to steal my dear Walter. Damn her, damn her.

Seventh heaven at 146 Chestnut Street became a little less ethereal after Ginny wriggled front and center. Oh, Walter still told Martha that she looked nice — and she did, she redoubled her efforts to make the best appearance — and they still talked of the weather, books, her novel. They managed to accomplish a lot in sixty or seventy seconds. But an uncertainty in Walter seemed to be developing.

Martha knew why (the gossip grapevine kept humming). Walter reached Ginny’s house on Elm Street at eleven forty-five, a half hour before he arrived at 146 Chestnut. And he was having a tough time. Before Ginny appeared, he had been dreaming of how wonderful it would be married to Martha. He would be doubly blessed, the rapture of the nuptial chamber and the intellectual stimulation before, after, and maybe even during.

They would have hundreds of books. They would help one another with their writing, for after the wedding he would have the courage to tell her about Murder on the Route, the mystery he was writing, and about his dream of a mailman protagonist who saw more of the swirling undercurrent of small towns than anyone. She would tell him it was a wonderful idea. They would be so happy.

Then he would remember her mother. Oh boy, it wouldn’t work. But there was still time. She could still marry, she was an attractive woman for her age.

Then Ginny Barnes appeared. Poor Walter, he began having nightmares, Ginny flaunting her copious bodily charms, then Martha taking the floor, discussing Hardy and Jane Austen, Helen hovering nearby, seemingly rooting for Ginny. No wonder an air of uncertainty engulfed Walter.

And Ginny kept applying the pressure. Late in November a library volunteer phoned Martha to tell her Ginny had checked out three books that evening.

“One Hardy, Jude the Obscure,” the volunteer reported, “two Jane Austens, Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility. It’s the first time she’s been in the library since high school. I had to make out a new card.”

Poor Martha, she thanked the volunteer, put down the phone, snarled, “That insidious creature, resorting to something that fraudulent, trying to impress Walter. Is there no end to her despicable tactics?”

Much later that night, tossing and turning in bed, she attempted to rationalize. Why, it could backfire, allow Walter to see what a sly, sneaky person she is. He’s simply too intelligent to fall for something so transparent. He’ll be able to see through that flimsy subterfuge.

The poor distraught girl, she wasn’t thinking straight. It would have taken a blind man not to see through Ginny’s flimsy subterfuges. The weather didn’t matter, frost on the pumpkins, thermometer plunging, wind howling, out she pranced, coat open, attired in another breathtaking flimsy subterfuge.

Walter was in such an emotional state that he had to stop work on Murder on the Route, words like “decolletage” and “diaphanous” being exchanged between the victim and the protagonist.

With dear nibnose Thelma’s eagle eye focused on the escalating drama at 218 Elm Street, keeping the pipeline humming, the betting at Lil’s by early April 1991 had Ginny a three-to-one favorite to capture the brass ring.