Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

Carlotta Green was the office whiz at Nabor, Boyle & Grind,
A firm of three male lawyers with one chauvinistic mind.
She typed their briefs, soothed client beefs, filed mail and sent out faxes,
She brewed their coffee, kept their books — she even did their taxes!
In Lotta Green, the partners knew, they’d truly found a pearl
And so were always fulsome in their praises for “our girl,”
Except when bonuses were due or other plums numerical,
When Lotta’s role was understood as being “strictly clerical.”
Thus made aware that no one else would fend for “li’l ol’ me,”
Carlotta used her expertise to found a company:
As president of “Lilolme, Inc.,” she bogus bills submitted,
Which as bookkeeper for the partnership she efficiently remitted.
For 20 years she kept their books, for 20 years she cooked them,
Chuckling at “the silly sheep” as she routinely rooked them.
And then one day she’d had enough (of slavery and

of plunder)And so retired abruptly on a red-eye flight Down Under.
Today she basks beside the pool at a South Pacific spa,
Beyond the sound of dictaphones, beyond the reach of law.
A waving palm, a gentle breeze, an ice cold gin and tonic,
You’d think our Lotta had it all, and yet — oh twist ironic!—
Her world is far from paradise beneath that tropic sun;
Without her foolish flock to fleece, Carlotta’s shorn of fun.

Evelyn Lying There by Anne Wingate

The authenticity of Anne Wingate’s police stories is a legacy of the seven years she herself spent in law enforcement before taking a PhD. in English literature and pursuing her dual career as professor and writer. The author now lives in Salt Lake City with her husband and four children...

* * *

When you see an FBI agent and two detectives coming in the door of the police station, you figure they’re working on something.

At least, I did, and I said, “Hi, Steve.”

For a minute he looked as if he didn’t even recognize me — no wonder, in this dumb uniform, and after all, I knew he was here but he didn’t know I was here. He’d had no reason to know. But it had only been seven months, and after a moment his eyes focused on me and he said, “Lorene?”

Then he stopped, so suddenly one of the detectives bumped into him, and said, “Are you working here now?”

I started to say yes, but before I quite got the words out one of the detectives growled, “Come on, Hallett,” which didn’t sound too friendly to me, and Steve and the detectives went on.

I headed for the master room to sort out my paperwork, angry tears stinging the back of my eyes. Seven months ago I could have said, “What’ve you got?” and he’d have told me and we’d have talked it over. Or, more likely, he’d have said, “Lorene, come help me with this, would you?”

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, and no use reminding myself that life isn’t usually. Then I’d been a detective myself, four hundred miles away, but Allen had been transferred, and after all, I was Allen’s wife even if I was beginning, off and on, to wonder if I really wanted to be. So I’d come here, too, and started over as a rookie in this two-bit department, doing routine door-shaking and writing parking tickets, because I was the first female officer this small town had had and they didn’t know what to do with me, never mind that it had been eight years since I’d written a parking ticket or shaken a door.