Stolen Goods

Stolen Goods

By Donald Olson (excerpt)

(Ellery Queen, Mystery Magazine, September 1993)

White carnations. Hope’s favorite flowers, delivered by a florist with a card from Paul, a gesture he hasn’t made in years. Hope could cry, sitting there in her elegant living room with its ivory walls set off by jade and cinnamon fabrics chosen to complement Paul’s collection of Chinese porcelain and his wife’s still-arresting beauty. She arranges the flowers in an Imari vase by the window overlooking the park, gazes unseeingly at the view, then wanders into the bedroom and picks up the letter where Paul has left it.

Last night, my dearest, taught me the meaning of the word ecstasy. This morning I tremble in fear of losing you. Let me die before that happens.

The words recall to Hope’s mind the face of the man to whom she wrote them, that brutally handsome face with its smoldering eyes and sensuous smile. His ruggedly virile charms had eased for those precious stolen hours the depressing effect upon her spirits Philip’s debilitating illness and perpetual crankiness had produced. How different her life might have been if Denny hadn’t been arrested for armed robbery and receiving stolen goods.

And hadn’t she been guilty, she’d told herself, of the same offense? Hadn’t she been a receiver of stolen gods? Wasn’t that what infidelity amounted to?

Poisoned by guilt, her passion had died as swiftly as it had been aroused; she’d burned Denny’s letters from prison without even reading them.

Paul seems in a reflective mood that night as they go to bed. Taking Hope in his arms, he says : “My dear, I know for a while there how it was, but the lines of communication are open again now, don’t you agree? I don’t need any more letters to make me realize how neglectful I’d become.”

Hope has never found the bed less comfortable. “It wasn’t all your fault,” she whispers.

“Were you really afraid I might leave you?”

“No, of course not.”

Stolen goods. Photo by Elena

“I got that impression from today’s letter. What was it you wrote? – I can’t bear the thought of losing you. I’d take any risk, I’d even kill, if I thought that might happen.” He laughs softly. “pretty strong words.”

Hope feels suddenly frightened, too confused to know what to say. It was ten years ago, she can’t be abolutely certain, yet she can almost swear she’s never written those particular words.

Hope calls Alice next morning and makes a date for lunch at the Four Seasons.

“The guy must be wacko,” says Alice. “Prison must have sent him around the bend. He is out, by the way.”

“Oh, no!”

“Dickie couldn’t tell me where he is, just that he served his time and was released two months ago. But why should he forge this latest letter? He must be good if it fooled Paul.”

“Alice, it fooled me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I’d written it.” She recalls the feeling of stunned disbelief when she’d taken the letter from Paul’s dresser and read the whole thing.

“That’s when you should have come clean,” says Alice. “Why in heaven’s name didn’t you tell him the truth?”

“I tried. I really did, but then I lost my nerve.”