Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

Vern Lanyon had always said that he knew only two things, boats and I babes. Though babes had sometimes created trouble, boats had done okay by him. He owned a nice yacht brokerage and a busy Connecticut marina which appreciated in value when the Pequots went shopping for shore-front property. Pretty soon Vern had a waterside condo, a really nice Bertram 54 dubbed Lively Lady, a Lexus in his garage, and lots of five-figure credit-card bills. The rise in his net wealth was so steep that Vern began to think himself rich enough for politics.

His mistake in this happy situation was venturing too far from his base of knowledge. Vern sank more money than he should have in a hedge fund and then some more into a “sure thing” currency speculation. The currency deal got killed when the Thais blocked conversion of the baht in the Asian financial crisis, and the hedge was hit when the market turned bullish against all reason.

One morning Vern woke up to find himself not just overextended and temporarily embarrassed, but in a major cash-flow crisis. To put it bluntly, he was broke. That’s when he thought of Sandy.

Not that he didn’t often think of Sandy, who was a genuine babe: tall, slim, and nicely assembled, with beautiful cornsilk hair and brown eyes. Smart girl, too, a legal secretary with a good firm, but a babe just the same. Sandy’s hobby was the theater, and seeing her perform planted the idea which blossomed out of Vern’s cash-flow nightmare.

Wakening to disaster, he remembered the play. The venue was nothing fancy, just a school auditorium with friends, family, senior citizens, and high-school drama students corralled to see The House of Bernardo Alba. Vern, personally, had gone prepared for the worst, but he agreed to attend because he liked Sandy. She was a big girl who looked good in cutoffs and a windbreaker; a woman who belonged up on deck in bright weather with her hair blowing round her face. Vern could almost get romantic about Sandy — or, at least, about the look of Sandy.

So, there he was, being a good guy and swelling the crowd, when she walked on stage: black lace, collar to her chin, skirt to the floor, talking fancy talk as this Spanish spinster, a Spanish virgin, for God’s sake. What was astonishing to Vern was that she was completely believable. Completely. She’d become someone else.

He was impressed at the time, but though he recognized an unsuspected talent, that’s all he saw. Protected by a good cash flow and a favorable position in the market, Vern had been safe from ideas. When calamity changed that, one thought blew up like a mushroom cloud. At first, of course, he dismissed it, put it aside, recognized the lunacy of it. But the idea lingered around the edges of his mind, teasing and pestering him with the hope of a solution, until one night he broached the subject to Sandy.

They were at the Oyster House, a marble, mahogany, and cellphones bistro with the best clam chowder south of Boston. The Lexus was gone, and the bank owned the condo, but as long as he had plastic, Vern intended to eat well. “I got a proposition for you,” he said.

She made a small, salacious joke and they both laughed.

“Not that kind of proposition.”

“Is there any other kind?” she asked. Sandy had acquired the cynical edge romantics get when they’re disappointed in love. She’d spent five of her prime years on an affair with a handsome Coast Guard officer who was married with three children.

“This proposition is all business,” Vern said.

“I thought this was a date.” She pursed her lips and her brown eyes darkened. Sandy was ready to be serious about someone. She wanted a house and a garden and small children. It troubled her sometimes that Vern might be her last really good chance.

“It is, it is a date. An important date.” Vern took her hand. Though he’d always believed that Sandy was more attached to him than he was to her, he would have to exert himself now. “Every date with you is important,” he said.

She watched him, bright-eyed, playful but alert. In his nervous state, Vern was picking up on all sorts of irritating and distracting vibrations. He was going to have to be careful.

“So,” she said.

“So, listen, you know my situation at the moment. ‘A vulnerable position in the market’ is how my broker puts it. Temporary, of course, strictly temporary, but worrisome at this moment, with the way things are between us.” He looked at her eyes and hoped that was the right note.

“How are things between us?” Sandy asked. The thing with legal secretaries is that they’re inclined to cross the t’s and dot the i’s, especially ones like Sandy who’d had their hearts in pieces.

“Interesting and becoming serious,” Vern said. He thought he could say that safely, suspecting, as he did, that Sandy hadn’t quite gotten over the man she used to see. She’d mentioned him one night after a few too many margaritas. Sandy had gone on about how she wanted to make a “fresh start.”