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

After taking a break from his series work to write a “big book,” a thriller which imagines bow the world might have been different had JFK lived (see Resurrection Day), Brendan DuBois is back at work on his Lewis Cole mystery novels. EQMM takes pride in the New Hampshire author’s accomplishments, for he debuted in our Department of First Stories in 1986, and now writes for many other magazines, including Playboy.

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About ten minutes after Clay Wilson backed his van up the gently curving driveway to the large house on the lake, he knew it was going to be a long and dreary day, due to two things.

The first was that when he started unloading his photo gear from the van, the lady of the house — Chrissy Tate — refused to help him. Oh, he wasn’t expecting her to hump in the long, heavy cardboard boxes with the tripods and light gear, but it would have been nice if she had been at the door, opening it up for him while he trooped in and out of the home. Instead, after a quick and bubbly handshake and hello, she had gone back to the long granite counter in the well-lit kitchen, where she sipped a tall glass of orange juice and leafed through a thick Ethan Allen furniture catalogue. Even with her back to him, he knew the attitude. He was invisible, he was hired help, he didn’t count. And hired help can wrestle with the front door on their own, thank you very much.

The second was what he saw when he got into the wide living room with the floor-to-ceiling windows that boasted a grand view of a thick green lawn that ran down to the lake’s edge. Down on the black-blue waters was a dock that had a moored powerboat and sailboat bobbing in some slight swells, adjacent to a white-shingled boathouse. In the living room the furniture looked like it had been purchased and placed by five-hundred-dollar-an-hour consultants. The flooring was beige carpeting by the entryway and tan tile by the window, where a brass telescope rested. There was a television set the size of a Buick on the far wall, along with a fully-stocked wet bar and shelves that held knick-knacks, trophies, and photographs, and not a single book.

Then Clay spotted the well-lit artificial Christmas tree near the couch. The dark green tree looked fine, with lots of tinsel and garlands and blinking lights, and around the base was a collection of decorated gifts, complete with ribbons and bows. But it made him stop and take notice, and to know that it was going to be a dreary day.

It was, after all, the second week in June.

Chrissy came over from the kitchen, a big smile on her face, a smile from the customer to the hired help. She had on tight stone-washed jeans, white high-heeled shoes, and a red, sleeveless pullover blouse that was filled out nicely up top. Her arms were quite tanned and the sunlight captured the fine hairs on the back of her arms.

“I see you’ve noticed my props,” she said, giggling. Her teeth were white and perfect, and her blond hair hung back in a simple ponytail. It was the simplest thing in the whole damn house, and when Clay had stepped in, he’d started pricing everything he saw, and knew within ninety seconds there was a million dollars’ worth of home here, on a couple million dollars’ worth of land, and God knew how many gadgets and such. Hell, the damn place had a three-car garage, and that boathouse by the water was the size of some homes in town.

“You’re right, Mrs. Tate, I did notice that,” he said, putting down a box of camera gear and accessories. “Is that what you want, a portrait of you and your husband with the Christmas tree in the background?”

She strolled across the living room with the self-confidence of a woman who knows she’s being watched and doesn’t mind it a bit. She sat down on the couch and picked up a leather-bound volume and gestured Clay to come over.

“Please, you can call me Chrissy,” she said. “And my husband’s name is Jack. He’s upstairs in his office, working. Even on a Saturday, he’s working, checking on his investments, his stocks. Look, this is what we want for your time and trouble.”

He sat down next to her, conscious of his own worn sneakers, his old jeans that had been stained time and time again with darkroom chemicals, and his black long-sleeved turtleneck shirt. It was a warm day but he kept the sleeves down. He always tried to keep the sleeves down.