Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

“I think he means ‘assured,’ ” Sally Sue said when we met at her place to rehash the show. I didn’t dispute her because Sally Sue used to be a proofreader before she took five years off to write a romance novel. When she finished it, Billy was supposed to grow his hair to his shoulders and pose for the cover. Each of us tucked the Bruno card into our wallets.

Watching the video of the Ricardo Show, I mean, the Billy Show, was traumatic for Sally Sue. She sobbed all during the part where she lassoed the lights, camera, and Ricardo.

“I look like a crazed cowgirl,” she wailed.

Although her self-analysis was more on target than her roping, I told her she did fine. She returned the compliment by saying how slender I looked during the seventeen seconds I spent on camera. Over hot-fudge sundaes, we both agreed that Billy, oh that Billy, had roped them all in. We clicked our sticky sundae dishes in a toast to our good taste.

“We found him first,” I mumbled as I attacked the whipped cream.

“You don’t think Billy will get conceited from all this attention, do you?” Sally Sue asked.

“Never,” I said.

“Never,” Sally Sue echoed.

Billy called several times during the next week to apologize for not coming home before the Maurice Show. What with the spread in Viewer magazine and The Billy dance video he was making, his agent, he told us, just didn’t think Billy could spare the time.

“Agent?” Sally Sue squealed.

“Yes, agent, hon,” Billy replied. “We’re really hitting the big time. Now, you girls, I mean, women, just keep to your routines. Sally Sue, you read the R’s in that old phone book, and Ruth Anne, you stay on friendly terms with the parsley and the prunes.”

“Yes, Billy,” I answered.

“Good. Now I’ll meet you in the green room two hours before the taping of the Maurice Show next week. Love ya, hons.”

“Love ya too, Billy,” we chimed.

Grimly, Sally Sue picked up the phone book. More grimly, I started dicing prunes. By the eve of the Maurice Show, I had lost four more pounds, and Sally Sue had rasped her way to Rzyardich, Ronald, 212 Pine St., 555-2318.

When Sally Sue and I entered the green room of the Maurice Show, we didn’t see Billy, only a stylish young woman who looked amazingly like Yvette of the Ricardo Show. Actually, she was Yvette.

“Oh, you work on this show too,” roared Sally Sue, all those R’s making her resonate resoundingly.

“Of course not,” she snapped. “I quit my job and now I’m Billy’s agent. He’s got a great future in this business. I’m just in here waiting for you two.”

“Where is Billy?” Sally Sue rumbled.

“Where he can’t be disturbed. He likes to meditate before he performs. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Then she flounced out of the room. Yes, flounced. All my life I had wanted to see a flounce and I instinctively knew that the swish of the hair when in synch with the swish of the clothing is a definite flounce.

“She flounced,” I said admiringly.

“Who cares!” Sally Sue bellowed. “She won’t let us see Billy.”

“No one keeps us from Billy,” I said, as I marched boldly down corridors, Sally Sue in tow, scanning nameplates on doors. When I saw an unnamed door sporting a handmade star, I knew we had found our man.

“Open up, Yvette,” I yelled. “We know you’re holding Billy against his will. He wants to see us.”

The thought of Billy as prisoner enraged Sally Sue. After thrusting her right shoulder against the door as they do in movies, she let out a howl of pain as she bounced from the door to the wall. Discreetly, I turned the knob and kicked open the door so that Sally Sue wouldn’t think her injury had been in vain.

The “prisoner” cooperated with our attempt at freeing him by unwrapping himself from the embrace of Yvette and croaking, “Hi, hons.”

“Our names are Ruth Anne and Sally Sue, not hons,” I said frostily.

Spotting a box of pastry on the desk, I flounced over and took a jelly doughnut, careful to lick every granule of sugar off my fingers.

“Now, now, hon, I mean Ruth Anne, you’re breaking training.”

“And you’re breaking hearts, Billy. I think the TV viewers should learn of your treachery.”

Billy paled, but brightened after Yvette squeezed his bicep and said we wouldn’t dare, which, of course, we wouldn’t. He was wearing the biker outfit. A close inspection revealed that the decal H-O-N-S had been washed off.

“Don’t worry, Billy,” she cooed, “I’ve orchestrated the show so that these two won’t be able to say a word.”

Oh, that Billy. He tugged at his cowlick and shrugged so boyishly that Sally Sue and I knew immediately he was a victim, just like all those other TV talk-show victims. Yvette must have forced him to change the decals and to embrace her. Poor baby. I threw the second doughnut into the trash and received a thumbs-up sign from Billy for my resolve. Knowing we were back in his camp gave him the strength to sprint onto the set and acknowledge the applause that was much louder for him than for Maurice.