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

He literally had no idea what to say next, and was saved when there was a clumping sound from the stairs at the far wall, and Mr. Jack Tate came into view. Clay stood up as the other man strode over. He was a few inches taller than Clay and had on summer clothes that said he was well-off and enjoying himself mightily: light pink polo shirt, khaki shorts with a thin leather belt, gold watch on one wrist and gold chain on the other, and deck shoes that looked a week old. His face was unlined and tanned, and he had a thick moustache. His black hair was cut short and was sprinkled with gray; his wife squealed a greeting and stood up and kissed him on the cheek.

“Jack Tate,” he said, holding out his hand, and Clay resisted an urge to say, Oh? I thought you were Raoul, the local gigolo. Clay shook hands and let the other man win the fist-clenching, knuckle-popping contest. Jack had a pleased grin, thinking that he had just out-squeezed the photographer, while Clay kept his grin to himself, knowing that if he wanted to, with an extra squeeze, he could have taken him down to his knees and broken that fine-looking nose with a jab from his elbow.

Jack Tate put his arm around his wife. “Did Chrissy tell you about her crazy idea?”

“Yes, she did at that.”

“Oh, hon,” she protested, “it’s not such a crazy idea.”

Oh yes, it is, Clay thought. He spoke up. “Just so I’m straight on this, you want a Christmas-card photo showing the two of you dead, on this couch. In color.”

“That’s right,” Chrissy said. “Will that be a problem?”

Problem? He thought about bringing these two back to reality. He thought about telling them that about a mile or two from this home — hell, mansion! — were families living in house trailers and cottages that could fit in this living room. That these families didn’t have to pretend at playing dead, because death was always about, always visiting. Whether in the form of a late-night visit from police officers describing a drunken drive home gone bad, or an emergency room visit after a chainsaw accident working in the woods, or a funeral-home visit because somebody’s dad worked with asbestos at the shipyard for twenty years, death was always around. And it wasn’t a playful companion.

“No,” he said. “It won’t be a problem at all. First, what did you have in mind? How exactly did you want to set this up?”

And Jack brought him right down to earth with a sharp look. “Hey, now,” he said, lowering his arm from his wife’s shoulder. “We’re the ones paying you. That’s the deal, right? If you can’t come up with a good idea or two, then we’ll find someone else. Clear?”

Clay held his hands behind his back as he clenched his fists. He knew Jack’s type. Lived and played in a world where hammering the other guy meant stealing his money. He wondered how long Jack would last in a world where hammering the other guy literally meant dropping him to the ground and going after his ribs and testicles with heavy workboots. He let out a deep breath, relaxed his hands.

“Clear. I have a couple of ideas already. I didn’t know if you had anything particular in mind.”

Chrissy smiled, trying to defuse the tension. “No, we’ll just follow your lead. Pretend we’re your models or something. Okay?”

He nodded. “Sure. Let me set up my gear and we can get started in about ten to fifteen minutes.”

Jack dismissed him with a nod and went into the kitchen with his wife, and once again, Clay felt like the Invisible Man. He bustled around the wide living room, laying out power cables, setting up light stands and flash shields, opening up his tool box so he would have ready access to the spare bulbs, screwdriver, tiny hammer, duct tape, and anything else he needed. While he worked, Jack and Chrissy stood by the counter in the kitchen, both of them now drinking from tall glasses. It was muggy, and Clay felt sweat running down his back, and he looked enviously at the drinks Jack and Chrissy were holding. Not once did they offer him a drink, and not once did he think of asking. He wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t beg.

All the while he worked, he heard snippets of conversation from the couple.

He: “...want to get this wrapped up so we can get over to the club...”

She: “...but try to stay away from the Morrisons’ daughter, you’re just embarrassing her and infuriating me...”

He: “...if you didn’t drink as much as you did...”

She: “...at least it’s done in private, and at least I don’t paw teenage girls...”

He: “...for the last time, I wasn’t pawing, her neck hurt and I was...”

Clay straightened up, his back aching a bit from bringing in the rest of the gear and from doing the setup work. He cleared his throat and Jack and Chrissy looked over. The Invisible Man was now visible.