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

Chrissy opened the book wide so that one side of it rested on his lap, and Clay was sure that didn’t happen by accident. It was a photo album of sorts, with glassine pages holding in postcards. Actually, he noted, looking closer, they were Christmas cards, the ones that show photos of couples or children or happy homes. He saw Chrissy and a tall man with a thick moustache who he supposed was her husband on one page, and another couple, about the same age, on the other. The other woman had bright red hair and the other man was hefty, a guy who looked like he gained lots of pounds sitting behind a desk. Dueling Christmas cards, side by side.

She tapped the other couple’s photos with a long red fingernail. “This is Blake Emerson and his wife Terry. Blake and my husband Jack were in the same frat at MIT, and they’ve been friends ever since. And very competitive friends as well; Blake never lets Jack forget that he was the first to make a million, and that he had the bank and brokerage statements to prove it.”

Clay, who had a hard time imagining a hundred thousand dollars, just nodded. “And the competition never lets up. Ever. Whether it’s sailing or riding or running, Jack and Blake have to constantly outdo each other.” She laughed, very easily, and Clay wondered if orange juice was all that she had been drinking this morning. “It’s even gotten to our Christmas cards. Here, let me show you.”

She pointed out the first set of cards. “Here, this is when it was easy. Here they are, with a picture in front of the State House. Here we are, a year later, Jack and me, in front of the White House. Here they are, on a Hawaiian beach. Here we are, in the Swiss Alps. There they are, last year, at a base camp below Mount Everest, if you can believe it. Now that one got Jack plenty steamed, I don’t mind telling you.”

Clay wondered, as he looked over the photos, if there was anything she minded telling him. He had lived in northern New England all of his life and had been to Boston exactly seven times and New York City once. The two couples in the exotic pictures looked rich and content and very happy, and even Clay was surprised at how quickly and deeply he now disliked them.

He looked over at the brightly lit tree. “I’m sorry, I still don’t get it. You want me to take a Christmas-card photo, and not a portrait?”

She made a production of closing the photo album while the back of her hand brushed his right thigh. “That’s right, and we want it to be a... um, well, it’ll all sound so silly, but we’re looking for something... unique.”

He nodded. He knew what was coming. About ninety-nine point nine percent of his portrait work was straightforward enough. The happy bride and groom uttering low insults to each other while maintaining their wide smiles for the camera’s benefit. The proud mom and dad with the newborn who either puked or howled during the studio time. And the ever-popular family portrait, trying to line up twenty-three aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, and sisters, some of whom hated to be in the same time zone as their closest blood relatives.

Then there was the other point-one percent of his work. Glamour photography, some called it. Others called it soft-core or low-rent porn. Whatever. If this young woman wanted a picture of herself and her husband in boots, leather gear, and Christmas ornaments in front of an artificial tree, for the benefit of their rich friends, so be it. He would still make a pretty good bundle today, and would probably get to see this empty and pretty young thing out of her jeans and tight sleeveless blouse. Maybe it wasn’t going to be a dreary day after all.

Then Mrs. Tate surprised him.

“Oh,” she said, smiling widely. “I bet you thought we wanted something naughty, right? Like me in a nightie and Jack in a jockstrap or something.”

“Uh, the thought did occur to me,” he said, feeling slightly embarrassed and not enjoying the sensation at all.

She laughed again and quickly touched his leg. “Oh, nothing as plain or droll as that. It’s just that I wanted to put Blake and Terry in their place. I had this idea, a theme really, of what to put on our Christmas card. You see, I wanted something that said ‘Christmas Was a Killer This Year,’ and have a picture of the two of us on the couch. Dead.”

“Dead?”

An enthusiastic nod. “Dead, yes. The two of us on the couch, next to the tree and the gifts, and quite dead.” She giggled. “Nice and still and dead. Don’t you get it? ‘Christmas Was a Killer This Year.’ Let’s see if they can top that one.”