Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (82 page)

We got back in the car. “Did you really believe that Maman Boutin would come all the way into town to buy a doll, Renoir?” I said. “If she wanted to send a doll she'd have made one herself and put her own magic in it.”

“I guess so,” he muttered, still contrite.

“So what are your thoughts?” I asked.

“My thoughts, sir?” He sounded surprised at being asked.

“This is your case as well as mine.”

“The maid, sir. She did get out in a hurry, didn't she? And she didn't sound like she was going back.”

“What's the first thing they taught you in detective training?”

He frowned. “Who benefits?”

“And who does?”

He kept on frowning. “The maid doesn't. She's just lost her job.”

“And she's not mentioned in the will.”

“The wife has just lost her husband.”

“And has become a rich widow.”

“Oh!” His eyes opened wide. “You don't think—his own wife? She seemed to be distraught.”

“Let me give you one piece of advice, Renoir. Women are universally good actresses. Any woman I've ever met can cry on demand.”

“But why, sir? What would the motive be? She's a little old to have another guy waiting for her, and she was plenty rich before he died.”

“Maybe she wanted to be rid of a domineering bully and the voodoo threat suggested an easy way out.”

“How do you mean, sir? I thought Torrance didn't believe in voodoo.”

“She helped him along with an overdose of his medication. She might even have found a way to weaken him first.”

“Will we be able to prove that, sir?”

“The overdose of medication? Probably not. She can say he was forgetful, he was sick with the virus and didn't know if he'd already taken the medication or not. But let's just see what the tissue samples turn up, huh?”

I was right about that hunch, too. They called from the lab the next day. There were traces of arsenic in the tissue. Not enough to kill, but enough to make someone plenty sick. I expect she thought she'd been clever, stopping the arsenic two weeks before he died, not realizing, of course, that arsenic stays around in tissue forever.

I took Renoir with me when we went out to arrest her. He had that perplexed look on his face as he drove.

“What is it, Renoir? You feeling sorry for her? A policeman can never have emotions about a case. You know that.”

“I do know it, sir. And I can't say I have any feelings either way. What I can't understand is why she called us in. Her own doctor had signed a death certificate. It would have passed as a heart attack. There never would have been an autopsy. She would have gotten away with it, no questions asked. What reason could she have had?”

“She might have had a personal vendetta against Maman Boutin,” I suggested. “She was a New Orleans native. Maybe Maman Boutin's mother had put a hex on her mother. Vendettas tend to linger on around here, don't they?”

Renoir shrugged.

“On the other hand,” I said, “maybe she wanted a chance to tell the world what her charming philanthropist husband was really like and what he put her through. She might even have wanted to enjoy the limelight for a change, after always being in his shadow. You never know with women.”

Mrs. Torrance never did give away the slightest hint of a motive to us. She remained silent and genteel right up to the day of her court hearing. But she wore a smart, two-piece outfit, with high heels and pearls, to the arraignment, and she actually paused in the doorway and smiled as the flashbulbs went off around her.

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copyright © 2006 by Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine

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