Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

Eleanor leaned closer towards the motel bathroom mirror and rubbed one cheekbone with Frosted Passion. The little sparkles really did enhance the undertones in her brown eyes — at least Eleanor was pretty sure they did, she just wasn’t sure what undertones were. She smoothed the cream blush on her other cheekbone and leaned back, turning her head critically, as far to each side as she could and still see her reflection. She puckered her lips — Rose Diamonds — and blew a sultry kiss at the mirror. Look out, Lenny.

Quickly Eleanor rolled her kilt and blouse together and stuffed them in her knapsack alongside her homework. Her mother’s black dress didn’t hang the same on Eleanor’s gangly frame, but at least it was black, and everyone knew black was so It.

“You don’t know as much as you think you do, missy,” her mom would say. Hah, Eleanor knew plenty. And she didn’t like being called missy.

Her mom was always treating her like a little kid, the same as a lot of uptight grownups did. Lenny didn’t. He treated Eleanor like an adult and shared his cigarettes with her.

She had met Lenny at the bus stop twenty-seven days ago. He was so cool. He was tall and slim, with a black leather jacket that was scuffed just the right amount. And the amazing thing was that he had been interested in Eleanor right off. They had so much in common and they talked for ages, or at least as long as Eleanor could risk hanging around. She didn’t like to admit to Lenny that she had to be home from school before her mom got off work. Twenty-seven days and now here they were, my God, at the Traveler’s Inn Motel.

“Don’t you go getting in over your head,” her mom would say. “If I find out you’ve been misbehaving...”

Well, her mom wouldn’t find out. She didn’t give Eleanor credit for the brains her daughter had, that was her mother’s problem.

Lenny was at the little kitchenette table when Eleanor came out of the bathroom. His head was bent over his diagrams and he was squinting, as if he needed glasses. Maybe he hid them, the way Eleanor hid her retainer when she didn’t want to be seen looking like some little dork.

The diagrams were the ones he had made of the jewelry store where Eleanor’s mom worked. Mrs. Korda was top salesperson at Zamphir’s Fine Jewelry.

Eleanor leaned her hip against the table the way she’d seen the sexy Italian detective do on the television show NYPD Blue. Her mom did not approve of television.

“Television rots the brain, Eleanor Louise. Pay attention to your books and you’ll go a lot further in this world.” Hah, look who was going further now. And Eleanor didn’t like being called Eleanor Louise. As a name, it sucked.

“So,” Eleanor said, and waited for Lenny to notice the new Eleanor in the black dress.

“Hmm,” Lenny said, but he didn’t even look up. He was still intent on his diagrams. The keys Eleanor had taken from her mother’s purse that morning were on the table, along with a pack of cigarettes, the half-full ashtray, Lenny’s two pairs of surgical gloves, and a little headlamp from the outdoors shop.

“Should I make a reservation for us?” Eleanor asked. She reached across Lenny and pulled a cigarette from the pack.

“What for?”

“The fancy restaurant. You know.” Eleanor lit the cigarette and narrowed her eyes as she inhaled. Both the criminals and the detectives did that on Homicide: Life on the Street when they smoked.

“Huh?” Lenny looked up now but he didn’t seem to notice the change in Eleanor. “What restaurant?”

“You said we’d celebrate. After... you know.”

“Oh, right. Sure. But not a restaurant, that’s too risky. I’ll bring some pizza on my way back. We’ll celebrate here.” In the harsh overhead light Eleanor noticed for the first time the angry red pimples in the faint stubble on Lenny’s chin.

Eleanor was disappointed. She had practiced raising one finger to call the waiter, had practiced laughing at the wonderful conversation in the candlelight, practiced leaving the last bite of her cheesecake on the plate as if she ate it all the time.

“You’re sure this is the right code?” Lenny said.

“Of course. It’s Mr. Zamphir’s birth date.” Eleanor rolled her eyes. How stupid could Mr. Zamphir be? Everyone knew you shouldn’t use your birth date as a security code. Didn’t he watch TV? Even the old Fletcher biddy on Murder, She Wrote could crack a code by figuring out birth dates.

Eleanor sat down in the other chrome and vinyl chair, crossed her legs, and let the hem of her mother’s dress ride up. She picked up the keys to Zamphir’s and twirled them around her finger. She couldn’t smoke while she was doing this because it was too much like patting your head while you rubbed your tummy — you were bound to screw up. Today was only Saturday, and she would slip the keys back into her mother’s purse on Sunday. No one would ever know.

“Why do you need such a large duffel?” Eleanor asked.