Albert Baantjer - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 6. Whole No. 778, June 2006

A uniquely feminine approach to murder. As was the cold-blooded planning.

“It was easy enough to get a set of her husband’s keys cut.”

“One of the locksmiths confirmed it straightaway, but as evidence it was still far from conclusive.”

“No, but it all mounted up.” She kicked the fallen leaves as she walked. Alder, willow, and poplar. “Madame Baret’s mistake was planting the desk key in Martine’s pocket.”

Good heavens, women as elegant as Madame Montaud don’t use pockets! They tuck such things away tidily in their Chanel handbags, which meant someone had used that key to get into her desk and replaced it in a hurry. And if it wasn’t to take something out, then it must be to put something in.

A quick check of the keys proved that the letter had been typed on the Barets’ private typewriter, not in the office at the Domaine, but it had been a clever move on Madame Baret’s part. If the head of a cognac house wanted rid of their cellar master, this would not be made public knowledge. A gentleman’s agreement between the two parties, however bitter underneath, would not show on the surface. Both had too much invested in the business to jeopardise their reputations.

“She was smart about fingerprints, too.”

Taking care the only ones lifted were her husband’s, and who would think anything odd about seeing a lady of quality going round in evening gloves?

Whatever excuse she’d used to lure Madame Montaud down to the cellars, she must have thought it was her lucky day when Martine agreed so easily. But then, of course, she didn’t know she was setting a trap for the wrong woman.

“Too smart about the fingerprints,” Luc said. They had stopped to watch one of the wooden, flat-bottomed gabarres pass through the lock, laden with casks lashed with ropes. “That was one of the things that bothered me from the outset. That if Martine Montaud was exerting so much passion in the cellar master’s quarters, why weren’t hers there, too?”

“She misjudged the calibre of Madame Montaud’s jewellery, as well.”

How cold must her heart have been as she stood over the corpse, unscrewing the emerald cluster? Extracting the key from Martine’s handbag, placing the letter of dismissal in her desk, replacing the key in Martine’s pocket, then walking out as if nothing had happened, secure in the knowledge that her husband would not plead crime passionel. Why should he, after all? The man was innocent.

“Never mind Madame Baret,” Luc said. “Just tell me whether we want that job in Paris.”

Marie-Claude watched the gabarre sail round the bend and disappear from sight. Above, the sun shone through the falling leaves and blackbirds foraged in the litter. Next week Dial M for Murder would be running back to back with Rear Window and in subtitles, plus she still hadn’t finished those curtains for the bathroom, the cellar really needed a new blind, the old one was a disgrace, the bedroom could use fresh wallpaper, ditto the salon now she came to think about it, and she’d promised Madame Garreau two more days a week with the winter collection.

“Maybe when the rains come,” Marie-Claude said slowly.

Besides, she wasn’t sure Luc was quite ready to live alone yet.

Copyright © 2006 J.A. Konrath

J.A. Konrath’s first fiction publication was in EQMM’s Department of First Stories in 2004 and by 2005 he’d won second place in the EQMM Readers Award. The newcomer’s talent was also recognized with Anthony and Macavity nominations for his debut novel Whiskey Sour, which gives a role to Phineas Troutt, protagonist of this story and a character in the forthcoming novel Rusty Nail.

I want you to kill my wife.”

The man sitting a-cross from me, Lyle Tibbits, stared into my eyes like a dog stares at the steak you’re eating. He was mid to late thirties, a few inches taller than my six feet, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt that pinched his thick wrists.

I sipped some coffee and asked why he wanted his wife dead.

“Do you care?” he asked.

I shrugged. “No. As long as I get paid.”

Lyle smiled, exposing gray smoker’s teeth.

“I didn’t think it mattered. When I called you, I heard you did anything for money.”

I rubbed my nose. My nostrils were sore from all the coke I’d been snorting lately, and I’d been getting nosebleeds.

“Any particular way you want it done?”

He looked around Maxie’s Coffee Shop — his choice for the meeting place — and leaned forward on his forearms, causing the table to shift and the cheap silverware to rattle.

“You break into my house, discover her home alone, then rape and kill her.”

Jaded as I was, this made me raise an eyebrow.

“Rape her?”

“The husband is always a suspect when the wife dies. Either he did it, or he hired someone to do it. The rape will throw the police off. Plus, I figured, with your condition, you won’t care about leaving evidence.”

He made a point of glancing at my bald head.

“Who gave you my number?” I asked.

“I don’t want to say.”

I thought about the Glock nestled between my belt and my spine, knew I could get him to tell me if I needed to. We were on Damon and Diversey in Wicker Park, which wasn’t the nicest part of Chicago. I could follow him out of the diner and put the hurt to him right there on the sidewalk, and chances were good we’d be ignored.

But truth be told, I didn’t really care where he got my number, or that he knew I was dying of cancer. I was out of money, which meant I was out of cocaine. The line I’d done earlier was wearing off, and the pain would return soon.

“I get half up-front, half when it’s done. The heat will be on you after the job, and you won’t have a chance to get the money to me. So you’ll put the second half in a locker at the train station, hide the key someplace public, and then give me the info when I’m done. Call from a pay phone so the number isn’t traced. You screw with me, and I’ll find you.”

“You can trust me.”

Like your wife trusts you? I thought. Instead I said, “How would you like me to do it?”

“Messy. The messier the better. I want her to suffer, and suffer for a long time.”

“You’ve obviously been living in marital bliss.”

“You have to hurt her, or else we don’t have a deal.”

I made a show of thinking it over, even though I’d already made my decision. I assumed this was a way to cash in on life insurance, but what life-insurance policy paid extra for torture and rape?

“You have the money on you?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Pass it under the table.”

He hesitated. “Trust goes both ways, you know.”

“I could just walk away.”

Like hell I could. I needed a snort worse than Wimpy needed his daily hamburger. But I’m a pretty decent bluffer.

Lyle handed me the paper bag he’d brought with him. I set it on the booth next to me and peeked inside. The cash was rubber-banded in stacks of tens and twenties. I stuck my fingers in and did a quick count.

Six grand, to take a human life.

Not bad for a few hours’ work.

“When?” I asked.

“Tomorrow night, after ten. I’ll be out, and she’ll be home alone. I’ll leave the front door open for you. I’m at 3626 North Christiana, off of Addison. Remember, rape and pain.”

He seemed to be waiting for a reply so I said, “Sure.”

“And Mr. Troutt...” Lyle smiled again, flashing gray. “Have fun with it.”

After the diner meeting, I called my dealer and scored enough coke to keep me high for a while. I also bought some tequila and refilled my codeine prescription.