Тимоти Уилльямз - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 769 & 770, September/October 2005

“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.