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

I push the door open, step into the dark entrance, and smell Cat. Her scent. Not a perfume she wore, her scent. The lamp in the living room is lit. The first thing I see is her legs. Her long legs as she crosses them seductively, the hem of her black dress hiked up, inviting my hand, any hand that wants, to touch a knee, stroke a thigh. Her hand, long fingernails painted that plum color, a hand that caressed, that flirted, that touched the arm, the face, of any and everyone, a hand that beckoned, enticed. Hand to her dark hair, her eyes still in shadow, and there’s her mouth. Lush, ripe lips always offered for a kiss, a kiss from Richard, from Craig, from freakin’ Freda, anyone who came along. A blown kiss to that panhandling S.O.B. in the subway. Cat’s soon-to-be someone else, my replacement, couldn’t I tell. Except I put a stop to that.

Those lush lips purse... then whistle. Whistle the tune to “The Cat Came Back.”

“You can’t be Cat.” In a way I’m surprised that I say this out loud. Who do I think I’m talking to? “Cat’s dead. I killed her. I scattered her body in so many places, no one will ever have a piece of her again. She’s mine. She belonged to me.”

For a moment, there is only silence, a deep, still silence that a voice finally breaks.

“You always whistled that tune, Mark. So full of yourself, so certain Cat would always come back to you. It drove me crazy. But you didn’t whistle it after you said that Cat was in Seattle. You didn’t, and I told you so. Remember?”

I burst out laughing. It’s freakin’ Freda got up in disguise.

Freda slips the black wig from her head, dangles it in her hand at her knee, and leans forward until her eyes gleam in the light.

“I don’t think you know all the lyrics to that song, Mark. The cat keeps coming back, but in the last stanza as a ghost. In a way, I’m Cat’s ghost.”

“Whatever you say, Freda.”

Then I notice the glint of the little revolver Freda has pointed at me from the cradle of her lap. Good old Freda.

I throw up my hands. “You got me, Freda. What now? You going to call the cops?”

Freda leans back in the chair, concealing her eyes in shadow again.

“My word against yours, Freda. And there ain’t no corpse. Not so you can find one, anyway.” It occurs to me, then, that Freda’s recording.

“Taping this, are you, Freda? Evidence? Then let me explain that I knew all along you guys were setting me up. You, Richard, Craig, and little Julie. So I turned the hoax back on you, I played the big bad killer you expected me to be. Ha, effin’ ha. Do you hear that, all you cops reviewing this tape? Big practical joke! As far as I know, Cat’s still in Seattle.” I shrug my shoulders — hands still in the air — at Freda.

The foot of her crossed leg begins to bounce. Who knew Freda had such great legs? She doesn’t look half bad when she’s dolled up.

“Evidence? Perhaps proof is a better word.”

“Sorry, Freda, I don’t think any law-enforcement agency will accept this as proof of anything.”

“The thing is, Mark, we — me and the rest of Cat’s friends — don’t have much confidence in the justice system dispensing justice. We agreed that if I proved you killed Cat — and I think your confession is good enough — I should go ahead.”

“Go ahead with what?” If freakin’ Freda thinks she’s scaring me...

“We all loved Cat, you know. Really did love her.” She leans forward again. Her eyes have a set look that says whatever she’s planned, in her mind, it’s already over. I feel a sudden chill.

“You’re finished yourself, Freda, if you kill me with your own gun. Evidence, after all.”

“The thing is, Mark, this isn’t mine.” I notice, then, that Freda’s wearing a surgical glove on the hand holding the gun. “It’s Cat’s.”

I snort. “Cat would never own a gun.”

Freda smiles. “Don’t I know.” She turns the gun slightly, looks at it almost reverently. “I think she agreed to buy it only to please me. She was never convinced it was such a dangerous world. I selected a model of handgun suitable for her, helped with the paperwork, got the gun licensed in her name. But Cat’s heart wasn’t in it.” Freda releases a breath.

“I went with her when she took possession of the gun. She didn’t want to take it to her apartment — maybe you were there — but to mine.

“When we reached my apartment, I wanted her to take the gun out of its case, her to hold it, get accustomed to it, attached. She handled it for less than a minute — she did try. But then she returned the gun to the case, secured the lid, and pushed the case across the table to me. ‘I’m sorry, Freda. I can’t. Could you return it for me, please?’ ”