Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

I sucked in air: not as easy as it used to be. “You said a few minutes ago that you just love a good murder mystery. But you’re wrong. Max didn’t kill his wife. Is that good enough for you?”

The corners of her mouth curved down. The crestfallen expression made her look about nineteen; a man could easily be taken in by it and tell her more than it was safe to disclose.

“You were his friend, of course you believed in him. But even at the time, there was gossip. Rumours that the accident was too convenient.”

“Lorna was pretty, and she died young. It’s the stuff that myths are made of.” I made a show of stifling a yawn. “If she’d been a little more talented, a little brighter, people would still remember her name.”

“Some people still do. That’s why I have to mention her in my book.”

“There isn’t a story. She had too much to drink one evening, fell down the stairs of their Long Island mansion, and broke her pretty little neck.”

Alice touched my hand, grazing the palm with her nails. I felt her warm breath on my cheek. “There is a story if her husband murdered her.”

“You haven’t done your homework. Max was innocent. He spent the evening with us. He’d never have had time to get over to the house and kill Lorna.”

She didn’t blink. “Trust me. I always do my research very thoroughly.”

I burst into a racking cough and within a minute the nurse was pulling the curtains around my bed, shooing Alice away. I shut my eyes. I wasn’t ready to step through death’s door. I needed a little space, a little time, to decide what to say and do. Alice was so focused on making sure she got what she wanted.

In my mind, I saw Max again. A July afternoon in ’sixty-eight. The first time we had met since Lorna’s death. He hadn’t attended the funeral. Too sick, too eaten up with grief, so the story went. I sat in the front row at the church, not blinking, just remembering. There was an empty space beside me. Patty was still in shock after what had happened.

Max and I had been keeping our distance. He didn’t call me, I didn’t call him. When I showed up at his apartment on East 61st Street, unable to stay away any longer, I was shocked by the change in him.

He still dressed like Joe College. Plaid pants, baggy crew-neck sweater, white socks, and white US Keds. But his hair was different. Thick as ever, but with patches of grey that hadn’t existed six months before. He kept glancing past me, as if any moment he expected Lorna’s ghost to slink into the room.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

A smell of burnt toast hung in the air. At least it was better than cigarette smoke. The Colts and Packers were playing, but he switched off the set and started bustling in the kitchen. The refrigerator was packed to overflowing with lemons and Pepperidge Farm bread. He kept his gaze away from me as he threw raw eggs and coffee ice into the blender.

“How have you been?”

“Oh well, you know.”

Silly question. I suppose we both must have felt nervous. Were my hands shaking, or is that just an illusion of memory? I kept quiet while he made the coffee milkshake and fiddled with cheese and chopped liver for a Dagwood sandwich.

A baby Steinway sat in an alcove. On the shelves lay half a dozen score pads scooped together with rubber bands. I hazarded a guess that all of the pages were blank.

“Written anything lately?” I asked.

“Not a note,” he said. “You?”

“Uh-uh.”

I sipped the milkshake. “So you and Chrissie aren’t writing together at present?”

He stared at me. “I haven’t seen Chrissie since Lorna died.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” His cheeks, pale until that moment, suffused with colour. “I don’t think so. Everyone believes that they see. Truth is, they see what they want to see. Something bad.”

I swallowed hard. “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch.”

“Why should you have? I was the one who dumped you. Found another lyricist.”

“I couldn’t blame you. Chrissie’s ten years younger and a thousand percent sexier than me.”

“What you aren’t saying is, she never wrote a hit song in her life.”

I shrugged. “Fashions change. The stuff we wrote, it doesn’t make the charts anymore. You were right, we needed a break from each other. Needed to freshen up.”

“Lorna hated me for it. She told me you were worth ten of Chrissie. She was right, but what the hell? Sorry, Steve.”

Awkwardly, he stretched out a hand and I shook it.

“People are whispering, aren’t they?” he said quietly. Not meeting my eyes. Maybe he feared what he might see there.

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Steve. We’ve known each other a long time. We’re old friends.”

“The best,” I said fervently. Despite everything, I meant it.

“Then tell me. Everyone thinks I killed Lorna, pushed her down those stairs. Isn’t that the truth?”

“No.” The flat denial startled him, made him catch his breath. “Okay, okay, there are one or two people who love to think the worst.”

“More than one or two. Chrissie’s among them. As usual, she flatters herself.” He paused. “She’s stupid enough to believe I killed Lorna, just to be free for her.”