Allyn Allyn - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 1. Whole No. 821, January 2010

“I don’t remember.”

The tall man looked into her face. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll find her. And by the way, she’s not French. And she’s not in any painting.”

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

He hesitated, then shrugged, seemingly resigned. “She has — it’s called HPD: histrionic personality disorder. Grandiose people. They crave attention. They lie.” He laughed, not unkindly. “Marie always wanted to be an artist. She found the next best thing.”

“So did I,” said Ursula slowly. She thought a moment. “So have I.” She smiled at him. “My daughter’s a painter. Sarah Linder. Watch for her name — she’s the real thing.”\

Copyright © 2010 Melanie Lawrence

Katia Lief is most often published as “Kate Pepper.” Four paperback-original suspense novels from Signet Onyx have appeared under that pseudonym over the past few years. Publishers Weekly called the latest, Here She Lies (which is about identity theft), “a suspenseful, well-written yarn that will leave most readers guessing until the final twist.” The earlier Kate Peppers are One Cold Night, Seven Minutes to Noon , and Five Days in Summer . For her EQMM debut, the author chose to use her real name.

The office holiday party, in the big conference room down the hall, had been under way for over an hour, its excitement intensified by a blizzard that had shut down transportation throughout Manhattan. Everyone was stuck here, Champagne was flowing, and the party promised to stretch on for as long as the storm outside continued.

But Effie Miller had decided at the last minute not to attend. She occupied her roost outside the chairman’s office, where for nearly twenty years she had served as his loyal executive assistant, and stared at the check for two million dollars. It was blue, drawn from an account at Citibank, typed and signed by the accountant of Ames Vanderbilt, of the Vanderbilts, one of the private Stollit Fund’s regular investors. The check had yet to be deposited, thanks to the storm, a force majeure for which Effie was grateful. It had been that kind of day: a day of extraordinary forces she felt powerless to resist.

First, that morning, the call from her oncologist giving her the bad news. Then a decision.

She slipped the check into the top drawer of her desk. To Ames Vanderbilt and Ted Stollit, two million dollars wasn’t all that much; while to her, two million dollars was two million dollars . It staggered her imagination to think of what she could accomplish and enjoy with that amount in the approximately six months of life she had left. Now that she allowed herself to think this way, it was outrageous, criminal, the way these amounts flowed as if they were nothing.

The blizzard was growing in strength. Through the glass partition between their offices, she could see Ted. He was leaning back in his chair with his ankle-crossed feet propped up on the credenza, gazing through his wall of casement windows into the black-and-white dazzle of nature at its best and worst as snow danced on the backlit stage of Park Avenue at night. His office was dark, except for one lamp, and in the obscurity, his silver hair glistened. In the distance, the top of the Empire State Building was illuminated in horizontal stripes of red and green; yesterday, the lights had been blue and white.

Effie was just locking her desk drawer, and was about to get up, when the outer door to the hushed chairman’s suite she shared with Ted opened. Ebullient chatter spilled in. She hung the key around her neck, where she always wore it on the gold chain Ted had given her years ago, and let it fall into her pink silk blouse.

“Effie, aren’t you coming to the party?”

Jay Patel, the young investment analyst who had taken a shine to her, treating her with the unflagging affection of a dutiful grandson — though she was only almost fifty-three — was well on his way to being drunk. His cheeks were flushed and his usually neat, dark hair looked as if someone had run her fingers through it.

“Of course; when I’m finished here.”

“It’s after six! You can’t always work.”

“Just one or two more things to finish up.”

“Can’t I at least bring you a glass of Champagne?

“That would be lovely. And bring one for Ted, too, if you don’t mind.”

Jay was back in moments with two slender flutes, which he set on her desk, knowing that only she was permitted to intrude uninvited upon their elusive chief executive.

“Isn’t it your birthday over the break?” Jay lingered.

“The day after Christmas.” She smiled to deflect the whimper of sympathy that always came next. It was true: Her birthday was often forgotten in the exhausted aftermath of the holiday, but she was used to it by now. Over the years she had developed a system to avert loneliness: a movie, a meal out at her favorite Chinese restaurant, a book under a cozy blanket on her couch until bedtime. She was always relieved when the next work week began.

“As long as you won’t be alone.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me ,” she said; and he nodded as if this simple advice made absolutely perfect sense.

She smiled again, and waited, until finally he turned around. When he was gone, she rose and locked her door. Her office was a larger, more expensively appointed space than most of the Stollit Group’s executives occupied, with a carpet that cost more than Effie’s annual salary, an ultra-modern, impractical desk, and four Le Corbusier cowhide chairs surrounding a glass coffee table that was too low... all picked out by Ted’s late wife, Linda, and quietly, stubbornly accepted by Effie over the years. Now his fiancée wanted to redecorate — the twenty-nine-year-old former waitress, lately decked out in cashmere and diamonds, had remarked, with a glance at Effie, that the “entryway” to Ted’s “throne room” was in need of a “serious facelift.” A chill had run through Effie when she overheard that comment: It was as if the girl knew how she, Effie, had felt about her boss all these years. That she was in love with him, and that when Linda died and he bypassed her for a younger model, as they said, she had been heartbroken. Every night for two months, after the appearance of the waitress half a year ago, she had cried herself to sleep.

Effie stood there, in the quiet of her space, summoning courage. She picked up the two glasses of Champagne, crossed the room, and tapped the rim of one flute against the glass of Ted’s door. He turned, saw her, saw that she had Champagne for him, and smiled. Reaching beneath his desk, he buzzed her in and the door swung slowly open.

“Happy holidays, Ted.” She handed him one of the glasses over his glowing Makassar ebony desk.

“Happy holidays to you, too, Effie.”

He came around and stood in front of her, stooping slightly, as he was considerably taller than she was. Their glasses made a musical tinkle, a lovely sound, when he touched his to hers. Effie sipped her Champagne, letting it linger on her tongue a moment before swallowing. Then she took another, longer sip as her nerves began to compose themselves.

“I’d like to talk to you, Ted, if you have a minute,” she said.

He opened his arms and released one of his smiles: broad, friendly, exposing crooked rows of whitened teeth. He was sixty-one years old, handsome, one of those men who aged well. “Effie, you, of all people, don’t need an invitation to have a conversation with me.”

She wished he wouldn’t flirt with her, or whatever it was he did that felt like flirting. She took another sip of her Champagne.