Free Pushing Murder by Eleanor Boylan Page A

over. Shall I stop at your place and get the mail?”
    â€œOh, Sadd, would you? I’ve been such a nuisance to everybody, I didn’t dare ask.”
    â€œLet’s hope I don’t suffer the same fate as the last person who opened your box.”
    The fifth call was from Paula. Mercifully, news of the murder in St. Victor’s Hospital in New York hadn’t reached Boston. We chatted, she rejoiced at my progress, and we agreed she’d bring the family to New York for Christmas.
    I hung up, pulled my salad forward, and reached for the fork. At the third bite the sixth call came. “Clara, this is Dwight. Feeling better?”
    Down went the fork, and up came the bite. He went on briskly, “I’ll try to be brief because I know you’ve been under strain, but it’s important that we understand each other before you make any wrong moves.”
    I found my voice. “You’re making one now. I’m not alone.”
    â€œOf course you’re alone. I just walked past your door. I’m in the booth down the hall.”

9
    It was his proximity, his close, calm, creepy proximity that filled me with horror. Not fear. I felt almost no fear, only horror—then rage at the deadly arrogance of the man.
    He went on matter-of-factly, “That young man outside your door with the cast on his arm—I presume he’s watching out for you? Glad to hear it. Now, Clara, regarding the point that I’m sure has been disturbing you most, you may put your mind at ease. I’m leaving New York on Christmas Day. I won’t be back. Ever. That’s a promise.”
    â€œGood God!” broke from me. “A promise from you? ”
    He ignored this outburst. “I’m glad I’m leaving Sal in good hands. I’ve grown very fond of her. She’ll need lots of support and consolation, and I’m sure you’ll—”
    â€œIt’s a pity”—I made my voice steady—“that Janet Folsom isn’t here to help with support and consolation.”
    â€œWho? Oh, you mean that poor woman who was murdered in the hospital? Wasn’t that ghastly? We heard about it on the late news, and Sal said you both knew her. We assumed she was there to see you, which must make you feel doubly bad. Really, New York is getting worse and worse. I’ll be glad to get out of it.”
    My stomach turning, I said, “Will you take all of Sal’s money when you go, or will you leave her enough to keep the store?”
    He sighed. “Unfortunately, having to leave so precipitously, I’ll only be able to avail myself of—”
    â€œâ€”lay your hands on—”
    â€œâ€”the Christmas cash. But it will tide me over.” His voice became businesslike. “Now, Clara, listen to me carefully. If you in any way attempt to contact the police or prevent me from leaving, or hint at anything to Sal, it will be the worse for her. You must keep that firmly in mind.”
    And this creature was standing fifty feet from me and Dan! Oh, where was a shred of evidence that would enable me to leap from my bed shrieking, “Murderer!” I told myself not to be dramatic, and as he went on I only half listened. Defeat and anger. That’s what I must project. He must believe that I feel licked. He was saying, “—and we have a great idea for the store on Christmas Eve. Punch and cookies in the children’s section, and yours truly will be Santa. I can’t wait! I rented the costume yesterday.”
    The utter desecration of it. I said, “Dwight—since that’s the only name I know you by—”
    â€œAn elegant one, don’t you think? I like it the best. And I was a great admirer of President Eisenhower.”
    â€œSince you appear to hold all the cards, I guess the only thing I can say, with all my heart, is this: go to hell—literally.”
    â€œNow, don’t be a poor loser, Clara. You’re a