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

Suddenly I jumped up, realizing that I wasn’t the only person with a key to Mr. Hornton’s house. Jake could stop by any time, and if he’d found out there had been a real threat to — or an attempt on — Mr. Hornton’s life, he’d probably have a court order, or my mother’s permission, to look around inside. He’d start going through Mr. Hornton’s personal papers looking for threatening letters, things like that.

So I went into the bathroom to wash my face, refusing as I did to look in the mirror. I felt so stupid. If anything, Jake needed me to be alert, sharp, and on the ball, not a blubbering idiot who couldn’t hold his emotions together. And though I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do, or how, I knew I had a few problems to solve first.

Number one, find out where Mr. Hornton had put his paintings. It was possible he’d taken some to the library for this weekend’s exhibition. I could check that out easily enough. But he had completed at least twenty paintings in the two years since he’d taken up the hobby. Where were they? And where was his work table? And the shelf he’d built to hold his finished work?

Two, figure out who or what the dreamers were. Or Dreamers with a capital D. (Or however else it might be spelled.) I reasoned it would be okay for me to flip through Mr. Hornton’s address book to do that. He also kept a ledger in his workshop with the names, addresses, and job descriptions of any boats he was working on. Jake and I should have looked out there last night. Maybe it was beyond the scope of what Jake could legally do, but I could look, couldn’t I? Since I was Mr. Hornton’s helper, his right-hand man, it would be perfectly legitimate.

And then there was number three: ask around the neighborhood and find out if anyone had seen anything strange or suspicious over here yesterday morning or early afternoon. Did anyone see a truck or car drive up? Were any deliveries made about that time? Was Mr. Hornton in his yard or in his driveway talking to anyone? What about that lady with the dog, and the tree crew — they’d been farther down the street yesterday, but they might have noticed something.

Especially if someone went barreling out the front door, which I checked. It was just a regular wooden door, kind of old fashioned, with an ordinary lock on it, not a deadbolt. In the middle of the doorknob was a button you pushed to lock or unlock the door. But it was strange that Jake had found the door open. Mr. Hornton never used this door. He always went in and out the back. And that crack about the flies was true: if you left your doors open around here long enough, the house would fill up with flies from the marsh across the street.

Even though Jake had warned me about talking to people, I felt some of them might feel more comfortable telling me, a local kid, rather than a cop if they’d noticed something suspicious.

I hated to use that word; it throws a curve on things right away. People are suddenly thinking “Perry Mason” or “Ellery Queen” suspicious. I preferred to use the word “unusual,” or maybe even just plain “usual.”

Yeah, if someone saw Mr. Hornton talking to one of his usual friends, people might not even think to mention it to the police. And Mr. Hornton had a lot of friends; he called them his buddies. He had fishing buddies and clamming buddies and poker buddies. He also had war buddies, whom he hung out with at the VA Club, as well as just plain old buddies whom he saw at the hardware store, the post office, and the doughnut shop. That added up to a heck of a lot of buddies. I’d have to be careful about how I phrased my questions. I hoped Jake would do the same.

As I was washing my face and thinking all this over, I heard a sound, a buzzing sound, then a couple of clicks. It was followed by a voice. Mr. Hornton’s voice.

For a moment I was surprised: was Mr. Hornton home? No, it was the answering machine, but why would Mr. Hornton be calling his house? I went to the bathroom doorway and stood there for a moment, just listening.

“... at the beep, thanks.” Mr. Hornton’s message, followed by an empty silence, and then:

“Elmer? Elmer? Well, I guess you’re not there. This is...” A pause. The voice was a woman’s and, from the sound, very elderly, the words slow and drawn out. “...Mildred Hunt from the library.” Another pause; I moved into the kitchen, washcloth still in my hand. “It’s Thursday, Elmer, about eight fifteen. I’m calling to confirm your exhibition of four paintings this Saturday, the sixth. We’ve given you a nice spot just as we promised, the upper gallery toward the front.” Her voice picked up. “It’s a lovely spot. I’m sure you’ll be very pleased. Now, these are the paintings we have listed for you. Sand and Water, Number One; Sand and Water, Number Two. Like I told you, we’ve given your untitled works names, for our records. And then there’s Boy with Dog, and of course that lovely picture you were so kind as to show me yesterday, The Dreamers.”

I froze. I didn’t react in time. Some people would have dived for the phone and picked it up. I just stared stupidly at the machine as it went on recording.

“I really adored that one. Two young lovers, so simple, so perfect, staring at the sunset. And what a lovely spot you found; I’m surprised you thought of it. I haven’t been there in years.” A soft, girlish laugh. “I’ve heard it’s quite a different place from when you and I were young.” A pause. “So this is just a formality, and please excuse the length of this message. I’ll be in the library at seven Saturday morning to help you set up. Goodbye.” A click and a buzz as the machine dutifully stored the message.