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

She laughed. “Oh, nothing like that. I figured that instead of just lying on the couch with our eyes closed we could pretend to be strangled or something. It’d make it look more realistic.”

“It sure would,” he said carefully.

Then came the sounds of feet on the stairs and Jack joined them, his face still flushed. Clay looked at him and kept his face neutral. No use pissing off a paying customer. Jack had on polished black shoes, black trousers, white shirt, and wide and loud suspenders that showed Santa Claus, reindeer, Christmas trees, and gift boxes. He also had on a bow tie made from the same pattern.

“All right,” he grumbled. “Let’s get this over with. I tell you, I’m not doing this again next year, even if Blake and Terry send us a Christmas card with the two of them aboard the goddamn space shuttle.”

They sat down and Chrissy looked up at him, handing over the ties. “Why don’t you set us up and tell us what to do.”

He held the soft silk ties in his hands, looked down at the two of them, his mouth quite dry. He wished he had snuck a drink while they were upstairs. “Okay, if you’re going to pretend you’re dead, you’ll have to do it right. Why don’t you both settle in on opposite sides of the couch. All right, like that. Now splay out your legs. You’re not sitting up, sitting nice. No, you’ve got to remember, your body’s not moving, it’s slack. Um, you’re dead. Okay?”

Clay stepped back, looked through the 35 mm camera’s viewfinder. Jack was on the right side of the couch, still looking pretty stiff as he lay back, his legs outstretched. His hands were folded in his lap. That will have to change, he thought. The man’s wife, on the other hand, seemed to be getting into it. Her legs were splayed out wide, showing a lot of black pantyhose, and her arms were stretched out dramatically on the side of the couch, her face looking up at the ceiling, eyes closed.

He went back to the couch and said, “Okay, I’m going to put the neckties around your necks. Tell me when it gets too uncomfortable, all right?”

“Sure, sure,” Jack said, his voice grumbling again. Clay went to the rear of the couch and looped the first necktie around Jack’s neck and made a simple loop knot. He slowly drew it closed and Jack raised a hand, “Okay, that’s fine.” Clay stepped forward and adjusted the tie so that it wouldn’t block the bow tie.

“Raise your head, just a bit,” Clay said. “Now, look up at the ceiling. Good, that looks good.”

He then went over to Chrissy, surprised that his hands were trembling slightly. Must be getting tired, he thought. Plus dehydrated. He looped the necktie around her slim neck and gently pulled it taut. “Is it too tight?”

A slight giggle. “Not tight enough. Don’t worry, I can take it.”

He wiped his hands dry on his jeans and then went back to the camera. He bent down and looked through the viewfinder. Out from the lake came the distant rumble of an approaching thunderstorm. The air was now thick, warm, and still. He blinked his eyes and looked through the viewfinder again. Jack and Chrissy Tate. Playing at dead. Must be nice to have the time and money to waste on such things.

Clay picked up the Polaroid camera. “These will just be some test shots, that’s all. So please don’t move.”

The camera felt good in his hands as he moved about the living room, taking about a half-dozen pictures. With each click-flash-whir, a square of slowly-developing paper was spewed out and he fanned the pictures across the coffee table. He tried not to think of the increasingly oppressive heat, the dryness of his mouth, or the sweat trickling down his arms and back. He just focused on what was in the tiny viewfinder, trying to get the best picture he could.

After a few minutes he said, “All right, folks. Let’s take a look at what we’ve got.”

The Tates got up from the couch, and while Chrissy kept the necktie around her slim neck, Jack made a production of tugging his loose. They clustered around the coffee table and Jack said, “It looks fake.”

Clay agreed. “That’s right. It looks like the two of you are lying on the couch with neckties around your necks.”

“What else can we do?” Chrissy asked, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

“Something bloody,” Jack murmured, looking down at the photos.

“Excuse me?” Clay asked.

He picked up one of the developed prints, let it fall to the table. “C’mon,” Jack said. “If we’re going to waste time doing this, the least we can do is to make it right. We can make it bloody. Make it look like we got shot or something.”

Chrissy spoke up, her voice no longer disappointed. “See, I told you that you’d get into it, Jack. We can use some fake blood, like food coloring, and those toy guns.”

Clay spoke up. “Guns?”

“Yeah, we have a couple of nephews who come up and raise hell every now and then. We have a couple of .38 revolvers that are cap guns but look pretty realistic.”

Guns, he thought. Now we’re playing with toy guns. I’ve got to get this wrapped up and finished. This couple is driving me nuts.