Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 769 & 770, September/October 2005

Naked Flame by Cheryl Rogers

Five years ago, Australian Cheryl Rogers won a summer fiction contest sponsored by the English magazine Woman’s Realm, and her winning entry was published. Normally, this would exclude the author from our Department of First Stories, but her contest winner was a romance, not a mystery, so we’ve made an exception. She’s created a fireball of a heroine for her mystery debut. Be prepared for lots of Aussie slang.

Mix a new squeeze with an old flame and you risk creating a lethal cocktail.

’Specially if it’s your new squeeze. And his old flame.

And ’specially if the bitch has bad habits.

Like showing up when it’s least convenient.

Like when you’re sharing Death by Chocolate, warming up for the real dessert.

Like dying in your house — and bleeding all over your recently steam-cleaned white shag-pile.

Take Joylene, my partner’s ex-significant other. Almost everyone calls her Joy, and I use the term loosely.

V-e-e-e-e-ry loosely.

She’s a Botoxed blonde with big hair and an even bigger attitude. The sort who eats men for breakfast. Preferably with lashings of tomato sauce and a plate of fries on the side.

Tasty? Maybe.

Once.

Tasteful? Oh yeah, a real class act: lower class.

Before the split, Joy worked for Nino, my hair stylist, doing manicures in a haze of acetone at the front of his salon.

Nino, despite his faux-European accent, loved taking the mick. And Joy, with her well-developed internal focus, was easy bait.

“Don’t you go lighting no cigarettes, Joy-lene.” Nino always used her full name. Real loud. He knew she hated it. “Else you’ll blow this place sky high.”

Nino had a point. All those solvent-based nail treatments. Those acetone-soaked wads choking the bin. And Lord only knows how much lacquer supporting that enormous swelling of hair.

Joy’s reaction — a one-finger salute and a tart smile that was pure Starlet Frosted Ice — was conveniently reflected in the mirror at Nino’s work station.

He was giving me the once-over with a blow-dryer. I was pulling out all the stops to make a big impression at a job interview that afternoon.

Ed Gillespie, chief-of-staff on the daily rag where I’d cut my teeth as a journo, was scouting for a new crime reporter. And after two years on the women’s-interest pages, I was baying for blood.

This is all history now, but I remember the incident clearly. Partly because it was later the same week that Joy scarpered with one of Nino’s talented young apprentices, an accessory barely half her age. The same day I heard I’d got the job I’d coveted for longer than I cared to remember.

Nino was a mess when I turned up that afternoon with a magnum of brut to thank him for the blow-job. Hair all over the floor. He was usually such a stickler for cleanliness.

“It’s that Joy-leeeen!” He screamed the name when I forced him to open the solid brass security door and let me in. “She’s had her sights on Troy for weeks! Been making eyes at him in my mirrors!” He ripped a scented tissue from the box I offered and dabbed his eyes. “Now I’ll have to train up someone else for next month’s State Crowning Glory Championships.”

Ever the pragmatist, I cracked open the champers, found two coffee mugs in the staff kitchen, and helped Nino get blind.

Which is how I came to have a jackhammer in my head on my first morning in crime.

“Gottacaseforyadowntown.” Ed Gillespie doesn’t talk — he aims and fires. Like a machine gun. He thrust a piece of paper with an address into my hand.

“Somepoofterhairdresserlookslikehetoppedhimself.”

It’s not the best way to hear that one of your principle confidants is dead.

I guess my pallor may have deepened a shade, because I felt Gillespie’s miss-nothing grey eyes crawling all over my face. Wondering what’d possessed him to hire a Goth, maybe.

“Cops’reontheirwaynowsogetyourprettyassdownthereseewhatfacts-youcanfind.”

Did I have the stomach for it? You bet. A misspent youth watching old gangster movies wasn’t a total waste.

I swallowed a couple of Panadeine and hit Nino’s salon in record time.

The place was already crawling with cops.

A big slab of beefcake in a tailored suit was up back near the wash basins, sharing a joke with a swarm of uniformed officers. And a guy in a blue boiler suit was showing a lot of interest in the empty magnum Nino and I had shared the previous day.

I grabbed a uniform as he pushed past with a bin liner. “Who’s your chief?”

“Lou Pirelli.” He indicated towards the suit up back.

I did a mental shuffle of the files I’d memorised for the interview with Gillespie. “Flash” Lou Pirelli. New Homicide chief. Ex-Drugs Squad. 190cm. 95kg. Drives a red Mercedes sports — very, very fast.

Mama did warn me about fast men. So my alarm bells would’ve been ringing even if the Armani-clad lump of muscle hadn’t been carrying on as though he was at a joke fest. And poor Nino barely cold.

If he’d been up-front I might’ve blamed the solvent haze still clouding the atmosphere around the manicure table.

My mouth hardened as I relaxed my grip on the uniform. “Thanks.”

I sashayed towards the circle of jokers. The group fell silent. Works every time.

“Hi, boys,” I breathed, and offered Pirelli my press pass.

He glanced at the plastic without looking at me, then read my name aloud. “Sig-our-ney Dunlop.”

There was a ripple of laughter as the jerk deliberately mangled my French Christian name.

“Sigourney,” I corrected. “Rhymes with horny.”

I saw the guy’s nostrils flare — just enough for me to pitch my question.

“What’s the theory here, boys? Accident? Murder?”

“Suicide,” Pirelli said, regaining his bonhomie. “Electrocuted.” He was tinkering with a screwdriver and a Black & Decker Commander with optional “finger dry” attachment.

“Not possible!” I spat.

The beefcake’s eyebrows tilted upwards, the bonhomie racked down a notch.

“Hey, I knew Nino. Only yesterday we got drunk together.” I explained about the magnum.

Pirelli put down the dryer and picked up a big bag of peanuts off the counter. He began cracking shells, tossing peanuts and catching them in his mouth.

Eventually he spoke. It was kind of garbled, due to the nuts. “So you got drunk together?”

“Nino had a couple of... personal issues. Nothing serious.”

“But serious enough to get seriously drunk...”

“Listen, the guy was making plans for next month’s State Crowning Glory Championships. He wasn’t about to top himself.”

Pirelli cracked another load of peanuts. “So, you think it was an accident?”

“Hardly. Nino was a stickler for safety.”

“So what is your theory, Dunlop?”

“I think someone else was involved.”

Pirelli’s good humour flagged momentarily. Those big jaws slammed down hard on the fistful of nuts, then he spoke.

“Why don’t you get on and do the job that chip-wrapper employs you to do, and leave the theories to us.”

“Sure,” I summoned my most professional smile as I retrieved a card from my bag and handed it over. “This is my direct line. I’d appreciate a call if there’re any developments.”

Then I made a dignified exit. Or tried to. Given the ripple of laughter that tailed me across the salon.

I cornered the guy in the boiler suit as I made my escape. “The monkey always so cheerful on the premises of the recently deceased?”

“Nah.” The boiler suit grinned. “He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

He lowered his voice. “Wife left yesterday...”

There was another burst of laughter from up back.

Some joke about burning rubber.

I left with one fact.

Of which I was certain.

Pirelli was a pig.

In every sense.

Pirelli and I were married in a civil ceremony ten days after his “decree absolute” from Joylene came through.

Okay, so let me explain. Sure, the guy’s humour is maybe a little offbeat. He’s addicted to peanuts. And in private he calls me Bunnikins — sheesh! But if you like your beefcake wrapped in Armani, then you have to admit Pirelli is one attractive package.

Besides, from my point of view, the union was one helluva career move.

“WassamattawithyouSigi?” Ed Gillespie wanted to know when I announced I’d be marrying the chief superintendent. “Most-girlsjustwannamarryf’money.”

Joy had her own booth in a city department store by this stage. I saw her when I travelled up to choose a suspender belt to match my scarlet stilettos for the wedding.

But she didn’t acknowledge me. I’m not even sure she remembered me as one of Nino’s clients. I blamed the solvents.

Things might have been different had I ever asked her to do my nails.

We spent the honeymoon giving his house a makeover. He wired up the study to accommodate my computer, scanner, and printer, leaving me to repaint the Joylene-inspired kitchen.

Not that I’ve got anything against cerise.

Or mauve.

As such.

I also had the job of bundling up “the children” — three apricot French lop rabbits — and dispatching them by courier to Joy’s new address.

I’d barely started scraping the walls for the paint job when the first nuisance call came. There was a strangely empty silence when I picked up the receiver.

Several times after that I let the phone ring out and ran a *10# trace. It matched the contact details the lawyer had given us with the instructions for dispatching the rabbits.

A few weeks later a call came one night when Lou was out on a case. This time the caller spoke.

“Is...” There was the barest hint of hesitation. “Lou-ise there?”

“No one of that name here, honey.”

“I must’ve dialled the wrong number,” the caller’s voice oozed. “I’ll try again.”

But she didn’t attempt to hang up. So I purred back, “You do that — Joy-lene!”

There was an audible gasp before the line went dead.

The calls stopped for a while after that, until the night of Lou’s next birthday. We’d planned an intimate dinner at home.

He’d turned and nibbled my left earlobe as he left for work that morning. “Don’t wear yourself out,” he warned. “Just you on a plate’ll be fine.”

It was my regular day off, so I went uptown and bought him a Versace black silk shirt, then treated him to some matching satin lingerie for me.

Afterwards, I chose the night’s meal from a gourmet food hall. Smoked salmon, avocado, a little Thai stir-fry with noodles, and two portions of Death by Chocolate. Oh, and a big bag of roasted peanuts.

Lou’d saved his dessert for later, and was sharing my slice with me on the couch. His right hand was spoon-feeding mocha mousse while his left traced warm circles of pleasure on my inner thighs.

My appetite for chocolate was fading fast when the phone rang.

My thigh muscles slammed tight on his paw. “Let it ring.”

He tried to pull away. “But it could be work, Bunnikins.”

Those adductors locked on. “Let... it... ring!”

“Your work, Bunnikins?”

I was off that couch and on the phone quicker’n you can say “deadline.”

“Hello?”

“Put Lou on.” There was no attempt to disguise the toffee-brittle voice this time.

“Flash’s... occupied,” I giggled. It was true. He’d begun massaging my shoulders with the hot, hard balls of his fingers.

“Just put him on, ’Lop, I’m freezin’ my arse off here.”

“It’s hairself,” I said, and held out the receiver.

He snatched it. “Joy?”

After that Lou did a lot of listening. “You’re what?... But I don’t think... All right... all right, gimme forty minutes, okay?” He slammed down the receiver.

And then, to my amazement, he reached for the Merc keys.

“Where’re you going?”

“NeverforgettoaskthebleedingobviousSigi.” Gillespie’s words buzzed in my ears.

Lou held out his arms in appeal. “She’s got a flat,” he said.

“You’re not going to fix it!”

I could feel myself heating up again, for all the wrong reasons.

“What about her handbag?” I wanted to know.

“Huh?”

There are few things more irritating than a man who fails to see a big lump of irony when it smacks him in the face.

“Troy? Joy’s toy boy?” It galled me to have to spell it out.

But not as much as the response.

“Aw, Bunnikins.” I caught a stab of sympathy in those Latin eyes. “The kid didn’t last more’n a few weeks.”

He stooped and gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before shrugging his big shoulders into his jacket and stashing the bag of peanuts under one arm.

As soon as the Merc was clear of the drive, I did the sensible thing. I went straight to the refrigerator and, bit by bit, consumed Lou’s portion of Death by Chocolate.

There was a perceptible weakening in the frisson between Lou and me after that. For starters, I threw out the black satin in favour of a six-pack of Bonds cottontails.

Shortly afterwards, he e-mailed me from the station. The message was elegant in its conciseness. “Rabbits arriving tonight.”

My cue to head straight to Kmart and buy two new nightgowns.

In passion-killer flannelette.

So what if Lou was always telling me to curb my spending? Our bank balance ran on empty thanks to his extravagance.

When I got back, I consigned the message to the Deleted Items basket.

While I was at it, I decided to permanently delete some of the messages that Lou and I accumulated because we often work from home.

I wasn’t prepared for what I was about to find.

“Pay by Saterday or The Lop gets it!”

The e-mail address was a nail-fashion business in one of the city arcades. Not that I needed it. That spelling was a dead giveaway.

And with a name like Sigourney ‘Bunnikins’ Dun-lop, I had every right to feel twitchy. Should I be bracing myself for a bullet — or a scoop?

Whenever Mama was stressed she’d clean the house.

Which probably explains why I found myself wielding an armload of anti-stat cloths that afternoon, moving faster than any hostess before an Enjo party.

By the time I’d swiped the floors, wiped the bench tops, and polished the wall oven, my enthusiasm was flagging.

So when I reached Lou’s collection of old home-recorded videos I collapsed on the shagpile to read the labels.

Like I said, I was raised on a diet of B-grade movies. Low-budget thrillers mainly, with a few spaghetti Westerns on the side.

But I’d never touched Lou’s collection before.

I ran my eye down the badly spelled titles scrawled in Joy’s handwriting — An Afair to Remember, Star Treck, Revenge of the Killer Tomartoes. I smiled, imagining Joy demolishing a mega-pack of popcorn, glued to this classic.

Curiosity made me open the box.

But inside there was no tape.

Just a lock-top plastic bag containing enough amphetamines to keep the local high school high for a month.

I reinserted the bag and slammed the box shut.

Just in time.

Moments later, I heard the Merc turn in.

I quickly shoved the box back in place.

By the time Lou walked in, I was Enjo-ing dust off the TV screen.

He walked over and brushed the hair away from my eyes. Since Nino, I haven’t been able to find a decent stylist.

“You okay?” he said.

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“That pugnacious tilt of your chin is a dead giveaway, Bunnikins.”

He’d been like this ever since doing an in-service course on body language.

He went on. “Get my message?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t mind having the girls, do you? Joy’s got a nail conference.” He was already heading back out the door.

He reappeared carrying a bag of rabbit muesli.

“How long will she be gone?” I heard myself ask. I was trying to calculate what kind of injury a 50kg woman could inflict on a 95kg man with a 30kg bag of rabbit muesli.

“Week, maybe.” He slung the muesli in the corner. I felt my blood fizz as a small cloud of mixed grain settled on recently swiped ceramic. “What’s for dinner?”

“Whatever you’re cooking,” I replied. “Rabbit sounds good.”

I noticed his shoulders stiffen — and I hadn’t even done the body-language course.

Despite his appetite for fine wine and good food, Lou’s no gourmet chef.

So it shouldn’t have surprised me to sit down to a plate of peanut butter sandwiches followed by peanut-brittle ice cream and coffee with — you guessed it — chocolate-coated peanuts.

“You genuinely like peanuts, don’t you?” I pushed the ice cream aside and reached for a toothpick.

“Sure.” He wolfed down the half sandwich I’d left on my plate. “That’s one of the things I like about you, Bunnikins.”

I braced myself.

“Joy would never let me eat peanuts. She didn’t like cleaning up the shells.”

He drained his coffee and disappeared into our home office.

“Will you be long, Flash?” I’d promised Gillespie a look at a first cut of a story I was working on by morning.

“About an hour. That okay?”

“Fine,” I said, and flicked the taps to treat myself to a long, hot bath.

I was working on Ed’s draft when the phone call came.

Lou was in bed. I heard the sleep in his voice evaporate.

“When?”

He poked his head around the door. “You decent?”

Happily I was. A vision in crisp new flannelette.

“That was a tip-off. We’re about to be raided.”

No sooner were the words out than there was a rap on the front door. A flashlight flickered outside the office window.

I had to move. Fast!

Lou appeared too stunned to budge as I pushed past him.

I was still breathless when the Tactical Response Group burst through the laundry door.

“Hey, no need for that, guys,” Lou pleaded. “We were just coming.”

One of the wits in the pack glanced at my flushed complexion and heaving chest and nodded. “Yeah, we can see that.”

A trio of German shepherds came out of nowhere to fill the room. They strained at their leads, yelping like crazy.

The noise reverberated around the turquoise and flame walls in the open living area I’d yet to paint.

But it was nothing to the din when those hairy monsters hit the shag-pile.

I grabbed a poker from the fire surround, preparing to beat off the dogs. “Get the dogs away from the rabbits!”

The handlers took one look and knew I meant business. The “girls” were quivering up the back of their hutch, just out of reach of the inquisitive noses sniffing their safe house.

“Okay, lady.” The TRG chief gave the order and the dog team disappeared into the living area.

Lou’s praise was memorable.

“Hell, Bunnikins.” He was looking at the rabbits. “I didn’t know you cared.”

He went to open the door of the hutch, but I stopped him.

“Not now!” I hissed. “Make sure these turkeys don’t destroy the rest of this place.”

The raid was thorough.

And fruitless.

It was an hour before we had the place to ourselves.

As the yelping from the dog van grew fainter in the distance, I turned to Lou.

“About the ’Lop.”

Lou shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ll show you.”

I walked over to the hutch and opened the door. Then I reached inside the box where the girls were still quivering, and shoved my hand into the straw litter.

Lou stilled as I extracted the secreted video case and displayed the contents.

“Where’d you find that?” His voice was cop-mode flat.

“Where you hid it.”

“I didn’t hide it.” His denial was so spontaneous, I almost believed him.

“Then who did?”

Lou didn’t speak for several moments.

“Joy had some bad habits. She must’ve left those behind.”

He dragged his hand through his hair and headed for bed.

Case closed.

It was late. But Ed was still expecting my story. And I had some Internet research to finish.

I headed for the kitchen. The excitement had given me an appetite. I hadn’t exactly overeaten at dinner.

Thanks to the dog team, the kitchen looked like a war zone. I retrieved a peanut-butter-smeared knife from the table, loaded it with margarine, and spread two slices of Hi-Fibre white.

I found a packet of ham in back of the fridge, checked the use-by date, peeled off a slice, and laid it on top. I grabbed a fistful of leaves from a ready-made salad pack, squirted mayo over the result, and clamped the bread over.

Then I cut it into four triangles and poured myself a glass of milk.

It was ten-thirty when I went back into the home office to finish the draft. But my mind was too stirred up to work.

I downed three of the sandwiches and the milk, took the leftovers back to the wreck of a kitchen, and settled back at the computer at eleven P.M.

Next morning was Sunday. Sunlight was already streaming through the gap in the bedroom curtains when I woke up.

I did a slow roll and felt for Lou. His space in the bed next to me was cold.

So was the scene in the deserted kitchen when I hit the deck to heat water for coffee. No sign of Lou. And no note explaining where he’d gone, either.

My leftover sandwich had disappeared, but that was the only tidying he’d done. So as soon as I’d downed the coffee, I started clearing up.

I’d just pushed the “heavy cycle” button on the dishwasher when there was a knock at the door.

“You gonna let me in, pagan?”

I recognised the holler as belonging to Maggie Tate, witch and longtime friend.

I pulled open the door to see her holding a big bunch of red roses in one hand and a bag of croissants in the other.

Maggie’s been writing horoscopes for our daily since I was a cadet reporter.

“Make it up!” I remember her hoot of laughter when I questioned her sources. “But of course!”

We’ve been friends ever since.

Lou calls Maggie “a character.” He loathes her.

Maybe because she drives a two-ton truck and works an occult tent at agricultural shows around the country to supplement her income.

Maybe because there’s a sign on the side of her truck saying: Caution: Witch on Wheels.

Or maybe because she’s my one true friend.

Which is why it didn’t really surprise me to see Maggie, replete with gifts for soothing a battered soul.

“I heard about the raid.” She shoved the croissants into my arms and scanned the dishevelled house. “Where’s The Incredible Bulk?”

Did I mention that Maggie doesn’t like Lou, either?

“He’s out.” I reached for the roses. “These’re gorgeous. I’ll put them in water.”

Maggie hung on. “You start the food. Let me do this.” She was already moving away in her not entirely sensible shoes towards the laundry. “Make mine decaf. Black.”

I’d just loaded the oven with croissants when I heard the sound of cut-glass impacting on ceramic.

Then silence.

“You okay, Mags?”

There was no answer, so I went to investigate.

We met halfway.

Maggie delivered the news with her usual measure of understatement.

“How long you had a dead woman on your carpet?”

I don’t know how long we stayed staring at the body slumped across the white shagpile.

One stiffened hand was still clutched to her shoulder bag.

And one of my best bread-and-butter plates lay smashed on the hearth where she’d apparently also hit her hair.

Despite the disarray, there was no mistaking that coif.

“It’s Joy.”

Maggie groaned. “Oh. Joy.”

She’d grabbed her mobile by this stage. I could see she was poised to dial triple 0.

“Wait.” I had to think fast. “I should let Lou know.”

“Something tells me he already knows, pagan.”

She punched in a zero.

I snatched the phone.

“Just give me a couple of minutes, okay?”

Maggie relented. She slipped the mobile back in its holster.

“Okay, pagan.” She rolled her kohl-rimmed eyes. “What d’you want me to do?”

I grabbed a pair of latex gloves from the laundry. “Help me put these on.”

Slowly, I reached forward and looped the strap of Joy’s shoulder bag off her arm. Her hair jerked violently as it came free.

I tipped the contents onto the carpet — lipstick, nail varnish, condoms, wallet, one silver key on a chain, a bunch of keys on a plastic finger key ring.

I picked up the silver key and walked to our front door.

The lock gave no resistance when I tested it.

So chances were she’d let herself in. Just as I suspected she’d let herself in earlier to plant those drugs in the cassette box.

But why try to set up Lou?

I knew from my Internet research that he’d been making regular payments out of our bank account. He’d told me it was going into a high-interest Dreamsaver. And I’d been so pleased at his initiative that I hadn’t bothered to check.

But last night I’d discovered he’d been paying money to Joy.

It could only mean one thing.

Blackmail.

The key felt cold in my hand as I walked back to Maggie and returned it to its place inside Joy’s shoulder bag.

“You look preoccupied, pagan.”

“I’m thinking,” I said.

I picked up the bunch of keys and carefully looked through them.

At last I held up an aged brass key and smiled.

“You’re my witness to this, Mags.”

“Where we going?”

“Nino’s.”

“If you’re looking for a wash and trim, you’re too late.”

I was already grabbing my jacket. I hoped I sounded reassuring. “I need your truck.”

Nino’s Hair Salon was now “Dreadlocks.” But apart from the name, little had changed.

Being Sunday, the place was empty. I got Maggie to pull the truck up right outside the door. Then, under cover of Caution: Witch on Wheels, I tried the key.

After a few seconds I felt the lock give. I didn’t risk pushing open the door, for fear of setting off the security alarm. I relocked it and headed for the passenger seat.

“Where to now?” Maggie gave a wry smile. “Fancy taking in a movie? Maybe a spot of brunch? Or you gonna tell someone official about this stiff — and I don’t mean the carpet cleaners, neither.”

“Take me to the office. Ed Gillespie always works Sundays.”

I grabbed Maggie’s mobile and punched in Ed’s direct line. I could hear Maggie muttering in the background.

“You’re thinkin’ of work while your murderer husband runs loose. He’s already killed one woman. You sure as hell don’t wanna be the second.”

“Correction. He’s killed one man.” Maggie looked puzzled as I finished talking to Ed. “Nino.”

“Never!”

I had to grab the steering wheel as Maggie nearly lost control on a roundabout.

“He had the motive — Joy was having an affair with Nino before she took off with Troy.”

“No way, pagan. Nino couldn’t stand that broad.”

“Believe it. The arguments were just a cover.”

How many passes from Nino had I fielded for the sake of a wash-and-wear layer cut?

“Lou had the opportunity. Joy had a key to Nino’s salon, remember. It would’ve been simple enough for him to get a spare one cut. And he’s a whiz with electrical gear — they don’t call him ‘Flash’ just because he drives fast.”

Maggie was hanging on to the steering wheel as though her life depended on it.

Her brow furrowed. “So, explain the new piece of furniture parked in your lounge.”

Ed was waiting for us when we reached the office. He pulled a half bottle of malt from one pocket of his jacket, two glasses from another. Then he poured.

“Drinkthisforchrissakes.” He pushed one glass into my hand, the other he pressed at Maggie: “Cops’vepickedupPirelliandthey’reontheirwaytoyourplacenow.”

“You tell them they need to run the toxicology tests?”

“Justlikeyouaskedbabe.” He winked. “Let’sgo.”

The cops had Lou in cuffs by the time we arrived.

“Hey, Bunnikins.” He held up his manacled hands. “Just like you always wanted, hey!”

The joke fell a little flat, sharing the room as we were with a corpse. And half of Homicide.

My lack of response brought out Lou’s desperate side.

“Joy was blackmailing me about an... er... indiscretion.” A pulse throbbed at his temple. “She threatened to give you the biggest story of your life if I stopped paying up... When I tried, she set up the drugs and the tip-off.”

I was only half listening.

A hot scoop — right under my nose — and I’d missed it! Damn!

I tuned back just in time to catch Lou’s impassioned plea.

“But I didn’t kill her, Bunnikins. Honest. You gotta believe me.”

I tossed him a chocolate-coated peanut.

“Maybe you didn’t mean to kill Joy.” I strode to the home office and retrieved my research. “I think the toxicology tests will show Joy died of anaphylactic shock.”

No one spoke, so I went on.

“She had a severe and acute allergic reaction to peanuts. Isn’t that the real reason she never let you have peanuts in the same house?”

Lou squirmed.

“Last night I left the remains of a ham-and-salad sandwich in the kitchen, a sandwich made using the same knife you used to make peanut-butter sandwiches earlier in the evening. My theory is that Joy ate that sandwich while she was here checking on her precious lops, with fatal consequences.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maggie shake her head.

“Sure adds new meaning to the term toxic shock,” she muttered.

Lou got seven years. With good behaviour, he could be out in three.

I got the year’s top award for crime reporting.

And Ed Gillespie got promoted to editor-in-chief.

“YougonnawaitforthebastardSigi?” That’s what I admire about Gillespie. Never too proud to ask the obvious.

“Seven years is a l-o-o-o-ng time,” I croon in reply.

A familiar spark burns in the grey eyes that regard me from beneath those editorial eyebrows.

It ignites as I slam home the lock on his office door.

And sashay towards his generously proportioned executive desk.

“Now, Ed,” I purr. “About my raise.”

Copyright (c); 2005 by Cheryl Rogers.