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

Jack and Chrissy pulled the white sheet taut against the couch and sat down. The room was darker, as the storm clouds from the other end of the lake had headed in the direction of the house. There was another low rumble of thunder. Clay handed over the toy revolvers, conscious of the bare feeling of having his turtleneck sleeves rolled up.

“Hold the guns in your hand, but limp-like,” he said. “Remember, you’re dead. Okay, now lean back, let your bodies rest. Lean your heads back, as well.”

Chrissy spoke up, her eyes closed. “So, what’s it going to look like? Something like the two of us shooting each other at the same time?”

Jack laughed sharply. “Yeah, you wish,” and Clay noticed that his voice was now slightly slurred. That beer back in the kitchen certainly hadn’t been his first drink of the day.

“Sure, something like that,” Clay said. “I’m going to use the food coloring now.”

He picked up the food-coloring tube and just looked at the scene for a moment, running possibilities through his mind. Chrissy on the left, Jack on the right. Bodies look okay, toy revolvers are visible. Only thing left to do is to make them look dead. The room lit up as a flash of lightning struck somewhere out on the lake. The low rumble of the thunder made a couple of the knickknacks on the shelves tremble.

Go on, he thought. Another half-hour and we’ll be done, and this bill will be so high, it’ll make their eyes pop out.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” he said. “Jack, I’ll put some food coloring on your forehead, to make it look like you got shot there. I’ll also spray some on the sheet behind you, so that it’s more realistic, like the bullet went out the back of your head. Chrissy, I’ll try the front of your dress, but it’s so dark I’m not sure—”

“My chest,” she said, interrupting. “Just below my throat, put some on my skin. I don’t mind. I’m not shy.”

Another slurred comment from Jack. “Yeah, she sure as hell ain’t shy. The Fourth of July pool party, where you took off—”

“Shut up,” she said sharply, and Clay noticed how Jack swallowed and his face turned red.

“Okay,” he said. “Head and chest wounds.”

He did Jack first, dribbling some of the red food coloring on his forehead. With his head leaning back, it looked impressive, though the color was all wrong. Not ruddy enough. Clay then squeezed some of the food coloring onto his fingers and snapped it on the sheet, making a spray pattern. Idiots, he thought. You’d think they’d wonder how and why he knew so much about wounds.

Now, Chrissy’s turn. He noticed the slight smile on her face, the way her neck was quivering. Just below her throat and above the swell of her exposed cleavage, he made two dribbles of the red food coloring on her skin. She seemed startled for a moment at the sensation, and then eased back and smiled wider.

“Guess I’ll be ready for a nice long shower when this is over,” she murmured.

Clay didn’t say anything in reply.

Back at his camera gear, he picked up the Polaroid again for some test shots. Again, the reassuring click-flash-whir. “How’s it going?” she asked.

“In just a minute, I’ll show you. But don’t get up from the couch. If you decide that they’re good enough, I’ll switch right over to the thirty-five millimeter.”

He held the pieces of developing paper in his hand, and after they had focused into sharpness, he went over to the couch. “Here you go,” he said, handing them to Jack and Chrissy.

Then it went wrong, very quickly.

Jack sat up and exploded, tossing the photos across the floor. “Are you kidding me? Showing us those pieces of crap? They look worse than the other ones! It looks like we’re dressed up for Halloween, never goddamn mind Christmas! It doesn’t look real at all!”

“Jack, listen to—” his wife started, her eyes wide and open, but he wouldn’t let her speak.

“No, you listen, you stupid witch! You’ve made us waste half a day sitting around for this stupid idea of yours, and for what? So this nitwit you found in the phone book, some guy fresh out of prison, can cheat us with a bill when we’re through?”

Clay felt his knees begin to tremble with nervous energy. “Mr. Tate, I don’t cheat anyone. That’s not how I do my business.”

Tate laughed again, face quite red. “Man, I deal every day with guys a hell of a lot sharper than you, minute by minute. I could smell you a mile away. Thought you could razzle-dazzle us with all this photo-gear crap and then get enough cash to buy a boat or some damn thing. Well, it’s not going to work! Clean up your trash and get out of my house!”

Chrissy tried again, but it was Clay who interrupted. “I have a deal for you.”

There. The man looked interested. “You do? What kind of deal?”

The only type you’ll understand, he thought. Clay looked around the room. “Here’s what I’m offering. I’ve got another idea of how to make this work. If that happens, and you agree, then I’ll charge you just materials. No labor. And if the idea doesn’t work, then I’ll leave, free and clear, and you won’t owe me a thing.”

“How long?” Jack demanded.