Night Call and Other Stories of Suspense

by Armstrong Charlotte

  Forget? thought Sarah, bristling within. Even poor Alice deserved better than to be forgotten as fast as possible. Furthermore, it isn’t possible. Alice was what she was, and she will remain a part of our lives as long as we live.

  “Oh, I say a good many things,” she admitted. “For better or for worse, I have always been one to trot out what’s on my mind. Well, then, right now, I keep having this nagging feeling that there is something that

  I ought to say. Or do. Or know.”

  “All you have to do is be yourself,” said Jeff, somewhat fatuously. He patted her hand. “It’ll be nice to see Del. She doesn’t mind three hundred miles in one day, and the same again tomorrow.”

  “That sort of thing doesn’t bother Del,” said Mrs. Brady lightly, seeing clearly that her nephew was getting rid of her.

  She refused Jeff’s offer to send her home in a cab, insisting that she enjoyed the bus ride. On one of her good days, the truth was, she certainly did. But she wasn’t feeling as well now as she might.

  When Jeff kissed her brow goodbye and said, pseudo-gaily, “Don’t you worry about a thing,” Mrs. Brady was contrarily convinced that there was something she ought to worry about.

  She stood on the sidewalk and listened to one word turn into another in her mind. “Handled?” No, she was being “spared.” Well! She, Sarah Brady, was not going to stand for being “spared!” Not yet and not ever—not if she could help it.

  Mrs. Brady walked back into the drug store to look in the phone book, but there were several Dr. Clarkes. She had no clue. Then the druggist hailed her. “Anything else I can do for you, today, Mrs. Brady?”

  “Please, Mr. Fredericks, do you happen to know which Dr. Clarke took care of my sister?”

  “Surely. Dr. Josephus Clarke. You want his phone number?”

  “I want his address,” she said thoughtfully.

  “He’s in the same building where your Dr. Crane used to be.”

  “Oh, is he? Thank you.” Now Mrs. Brady had her bearings.

  Then the druggist said, “I was sure sorry to hear about your sister. A long illness, I guess.” Was he, too, delicately implying cause for rejoicing?

  Mrs. Brady came into the doctor’s waiting room, feeling like a dirty spy. The girl who took her name seemed totally confused to hear that she wasn’t a patient. Mrs. Brady had to wait out the doctor’s appointments for almost two hours.

  So she sat and turned the leaves of old magazines, and watched the people come and go, and pondered how to ask a question, when it was the question that she wanted to find out. Or whether there was one.

  At last she was given her five minutes. “I am Mrs. Conley’s sister, Sarah Brady.”

  “We met,” the doctor said, “in sad and unfortunate circumstances. What can I do for you. Mrs. Brady?” He was benign.

  “I don’t know. You could tell me, please, why my sister died on Monday.”

  “Why? I . . . don’t quite understand.”

  “I mean, should we have suspected?”

  “Oh, no. Certainly not,” said the doctor. “I see. I see. You have been feeling that you should have been at her side? That’s a very common feeling, Mrs. Brady, but it really isn’t rational. I’m sure you know what

  I mean.” He was tolerant, gentle.

  “You took care of her, as they say, for a long time?” She was groping.

  The doctor said, with a sad smile, “I did all I could, Mrs. Brady.”

  “Of course you did,” she burst out. “I’m not here to hint that you didn’t. But what did my sister die of? Maybe that’s how I should have put it.”

  “How shall I tell you?” He seemed to be countering. He was watching her, quite warily. “In a lay term? Heart failure? . . . I don’t quite understand what troubles, you, Mrs. Brady. But if you like, I can assure you that there is no need for you to be troubled—no need at all. We must accept these things.”

  “Dr. Clarke, I am not like my sister.”

  He made no direct response to this. “It is very easy to imagine things, in grief,” he went on. “But when you have a bit of a heart problem, as you do, it is wise to learn serenity.”

  “I have a very good doctor,” she snapped, “who has taught me to deal with my heart.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “Perhaps you know him? Dr. Crane?”

  “By reputation. A very good man,” he purred. “You are looking well.”

  Mrs. Brady shook her feathers. She was making a fine mess out of this interview. But the doctor was not. He was “handling” her expertly. In fact, he was getting rid of her. Expertly. Like Jeff.

  Mrs. Brady found the old familiar bus stop. She supposed she must have put his back up, as the expression goes. I, said Sarah Brady to herself, am a terrible detective.

  Well, it wasn’t her way, to go snooping around corners and behind people’s backs. It just never had been her way and she didn’t really know how to do it. She, too, was what she was—a vinegary old soul—and her whole past wasn’t going to let her be anything else. In the meantime, she hadn’t found out a single blessed thing.

  Wait. She had. Dr. Clarke had been told that she, Sarah, had a heart problem. Now, why was he told that?

  Ah, now she was sure that she was being “spared” and “handled” and it was beginning to make her good and mad.

  She almost trotted the three blocks to the house, brisk with anger, and had steam left over to pack her things with great dispatch. Then Del roared into the driveway. And when Del came, in her long-legged still puppylike way, there was a lift in the atmosphere. Something about Del. She was a young mother now, with a house of her own to run. But Del refused to be anything but cheerful. She didn’t have to be tactful. It was impossible to be offended by her—Del was as open as the day.

  “Sorry I couldn’t make it to Aunt Alice’s funeral,” she said, “but Georgie was down with chicken pox. Sally isn’t due to get them till Tuesday. So here I am. Hi, kids!”

  Bobby and Suzanne regarded Del with a kind of suspicious delight. Dinner was almost easy.

  Afterward, Del began to yawn. She said she went to bed with the sun these days. Why fight it? Her kids were up and roistering every dawn.

  But Mrs. Brady didn’t want Del to leave her side until she had said what she was going to say. She would still tear some veils. There was that anger still in her, still energizing her.

  She said, rather abruptly, to the assembly in the living room, “I won’t have another chance. So I want to ask you, right here and now, what’s going on in this house? I’ve been poking around all day, trying to find out what’s been hanging over my head. But I’m no detective. So now

  I am asking. Why are you keeping secrets from me? What have I ever done to make you insult me by keeping the truth away from me?”

  “Why, Mama!” said Del, with nothing but surprise.

  Jeff looked at Mrs. Brady with a reddening face. The others seemed to hold their breath. “I am sorry,” Jeff said stiffly, “if you feel we’ve been insulting you, Aunt Sarah. That’s the last thing any of us would want to do.”

  “Oh, Aunt Sarah,” said Karen with gentle woe, “how can it be an insult to try not to keep talking about unhappy things?”

  “I don’t want to talk about unhappy things because they are unhappy,” said Sarah. “I know how Alice trained you all—to keep unhappy things outside her door. But I don’t like things kept outside my door—any things. And, as far as I know, I don’t deserve to be treated this way.”

  Jeff was looking stricken and his wife put her hand on his knee. “Oh, Aunt Sarah, dear,” she said softly, “you mustn’t, you really mustn’t.

  I’m so sorry that you feel as you do. I wish you didn’t. Del?” She looked to Del for help.

  But Del said, “I don’t know what Mom’s talking about.”

  “Neither do I,” said Suzanne abruptly, from the heap she was on a floor cushion.

  Mrs. Brady kept sternly to her course. “I want to know why you are al
l handling me with kid gloves. In fact, I think I want to know exactly what happened here on Monday.”

  “Children,” said Karen, “she’s had a shock. She’s—”

  But Bobby sat up in his chair and used his spine. “I know what she means,” the boy said.

  Mrs. Brady nodded to her unexpected ally. Karen’s hands were moving in a protective flutter, but now Jeffrey said, “The fact is, we can’t be quite sure what did happen. If we chose not to tell you of a certain possibility, that was because it is very distressing to think about, and it certainly need not be true.”

  “There,” said Karen. “Now, surely, that is no insult. When is it an insult to be kind? Del, dear, would you like something to eat or drink, before bed?”

  Del said cheerfully, “You won’t brush her off that easily.”

  And Jeffrey said painfully, “No, I guess not.”

  Karen said, “Oh, Jeff, this is too bad. Oh, please, all of you. Let it go. It’s all over. There is nothing anybody can do or even really know.”

  But Bobby said, “I guess you’d better tell us, Dad.”

  And Suzanne said, with a burst of anger, “Don’t you think we can take it?”

  And Mrs. Brady was nodding and sparkling her approval. These kids will do, she thought.

  So Jeffrey lifted his head and spoke in a blurting way. “All right. There is a possibility that my mother took her own life.”

  “Doesn’t the doctor know that?” asked Del, breaking the silent moment of shock with an air of intelligent interest.

  Karen said, “No, No. That is, he suspects that she may have had too much of her medicine. By accident. Or just in ignorance. He doesn’t know, you see, that she happened to be feeling rather upset and hurt that day.”

  Bobby was on his feet. “Oh, come on, Dad! You know darned well Grandmother never would have cared that much. So you told her you were taking off to Europe—so what? Listen, she knew she’d have a ball, bossing a crew of nurses and telling everybody how you ran out on her. Well, it’s the truth!” He looked around, belligerently.

  Suzanne said, “She was spoiled rotten—we all know that. But nothing was going to get her down.”

  Karen said, “Oh, my dears. Oh, I don’t think this is very kind. You are making your father feel very bad. None of us want him feeling any worse. Please?”

  Del said, “I don’t see what you’re all so upset about.”

  And Karen said, “There now. That is very sensible. Isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is,” snapped Mrs. Brady. “You haven’t said a word so far that was worth keeping secret. You think she might have, in one of her moods, taken too much medicine on purpose? But the doctor thinks not? I can’t see anything in that worth lying to me about.”

  “But we can’t know,” said Karen, “and why should you be worried?”

  Mrs. Brady answered in ringing tones. “Why not? I’m alive.”

  Her nephew looked at her and said, “I beg your pardon, Aunt Sarah. We should have told you. I think you knew that your heart medicine is the same as hers? And you knew that her pills were very much weaker than yours—almost placebos, in fact? Karen spoke to you of that, didn’t she? The day you unpacked.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, my mother evidently crossed over to your room on Monday, took your bottle of pills, got back into bed, and then swallowed enough to be too many for her. She took them herself—no doubt of that. So it just seemed—after the doctor had gone—”

  Jeff began to flounder. “When we found—we didn’t want to—we felt—” He put his hands over his eyes. “For Bobby’s sake, who didn’t notice that she crossed the hall, and for your sake, Aunt Sarah, who did encourage me to tell my mother I was going away—well, we saw no reason, since we can’t be sure of the truth, why you should be tortured by this doubt.”

  “By which you are being tortured?” said Mrs. Brady. Then she closed her mouth and set herself to manage her treacherous heart.

  “It is perfectly possible—in fact, it is probable,” Jeff said, straining to believe, “that she forgot. Or never realized that your pills were so much stronger. It may have been just that her own supply was low—”

  Del said alertly, “Mama?”

  Sarah Brady had shrunken in the chair. She was hunched there like a little old monkey, and the agitation of her heart was now visible

  to all.

  Her daughter came to her and said again, “Mama?”

  “Get my handbag—pills,” Mrs. Brady mumbled through numb lips.

  Karen said, “Oh, Aunt Sarah!” She clapped her hands and called, “Henny! Bring a glass of water—quickly.” She stood by Mrs. Brady and her nurse’s fingers felt for the pulse. Sarah kept breathing as slowly and as deeply as she could.

  Bobby said, “Listen, everybody! If I’d seen her, which I didn’t,

  I wouldn’t have known to do anything. It’s a lot of malarkey! Keeping stuff from me.”

  Suzanne said, “Listen, if Grandmother had wanted to kill herself she’d have done it. What’s the difference how? But I’ll never believe she did do it.”

  Henny was there and Del ran up with the handbag. Del grabbed the glass of water, pushing Karen away. Mrs. Brady swallowed a pill, then some water, and sighed.

  In a few moments she said, “How do you know she took my pills?”

  “Oh, Miz Sarah,” wailed Henny, “Why did you have to find out about that? It was me who saw your bottle under her bed—after the doctor went.”

  “And who,” said Mrs. Brady, lifting her voice a little, but not looking up, “put it back in my room?”

  “Me,” said Henny. “Miz Karen, she recognized it. And she said—and Mr. Conley, he felt so terrible—so they both said, Well, the least said the better. I didn’t want you to feel bad, either.” Henny was ready to weep. “Listen, you got to pray Miz Alice didn’t sin, not that way.”

  Mrs. Brady shook her head. “Jeff, did you see this bottle, my bottle, on Monday?”

  “Yes, I saw it.” Her nephew bent forward, alarmed for her. “Now, don’t worry, Aunt Sarah—forget it. We shouldn’t have told you.”

  Mrs. Brady could feel her blood beginning to flow less turbulently.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t forget it. My bottle was downtown when Alice died—I know it was!”

  “Why, no,” said Jeff. “I’m sorry, Aunt Sarah, it couldn’t have been—it was under Alice’s bed.”

  “I was surprised,” said Mrs. Brady in a stronger voice, “to see so many of my pills gone at noon. But I carry Dr. Crane’s prescription with me all the time, so after Karen left me and went to the dentist, I dropped into Mr. Fredericks’ drug store.”

  In the silence that followed, she looked only at Karen.

  “Oh, but then she must have—” said Karen. “Poor Alice must have—”

  Mrs. Brady sighed again. No. Definitely not. Alice, dead, had put no bottle under her deathbed.

  She said, without anger, “I guess you wouldn’t have talked them quite so desperately into ‘sparing’ me if you hadn’t finally noticed

  Mr. Fredericks’ name and Monday’s date on this label? Oh, Karen, I told you I had an errand to do on Monday!”

  No one spoke.

  “When did Henny find it where you put it?” Mrs. Brady pressed on. “After I’d brought it back from Fredericks’ drug store, of course. But by that time Alice was already dead of what you’d given her. At noon, was it, before we went downtown, when you took away her tray?”

  “No,” said Jeff. “No. No!”

  “If there is another secret around,” said Aunt Sarah sadly, “please trot it out.”

  In a moment Karen said sullenly. “She’s buried. Now we can go to Europe. We can all live, for a change.” The skin of her face was suddenly mottled, and her eyes had clouded over. “She was going to raise such a fuss. Jeff wouldn’t have stood up to it—he’d have given in, the way he always did. She wasn’t any good, even to herself. You all know that.

  I had to take
it, all day, every day. You can call it mercy.”

  But no one was calling it mercy. The two children had drawn close to their father. Henny went to stand behind them. Jeffrey Conley stared at his second wife with wide and terrified eyes.

  “You can do what you want,” whined Karen viciously, “but you had all better stop and think. What good will it do to let the truth out now?”

  The room was still, without an answer.

  Mrs. Brady took another sip of water, although her heart felt steadier now as she sensed the old familiar comfort that always sustained her.

  “The quality of truth,” she said, “is that it’s really there. Poor Alice taught me that.”

  It was Del who said, “I’ll call the police—it has to be done. I’ll do it.”

  Poor Karen.

  A retired librarian, alone and new to a strange city, is accused of a crime she did not commit, yet both Armstrong and her protagonist seem delighted that the police detective can produce no certain evidence to clear her—only the probability that she could not have done it based on the accounts of her character given by strangers who know her better than they can imagine. Miss Peacock, a delightful misnomer, first appeared in EQMM in 1965.

  THE CASE FOR MISS PEACOCK

  Miss Mary Peacock, wearing her old black coat over her second-best blue dress, and holding her purse very tightly, looked forward to a pleasant afternoon. To be walking in the February sunshine with her white head bare, to be looking into the shop windows with a delicious sense of power, was most delightful.

  A tall form came up behind her on the right and did not pass. Another tall form loomed on her left. “Ma’am?” Miss Peacock’s feet faltered, her heart jumped. They were uniformed policemen.

  “What? What is it?” she gasped.

  “Wonder if you’d mind coming back with us a little way? A couple of questions?” The voice was in no way cross, but it wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer.

  “But . . . if you please? I don’t understand.”

  “Help us out. A police matter.” The voice wasn’t telling much; it wasn’t pleading, either.