Black Cat Weekly #54

By Jacqueline Freimor, Stephen D. Rogers, Holly Wade Matter and 7 more

Our 54th issue is another good one. On the mystery side, we have a great original tale by Jacqueline Feimor (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), plus strong stories by Stephen D. Rogers (selected by Barb Goffman) and James Holding, another solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet), and an Edwardian mystery novel by Dick Donovan—whose popularity rivaled that of Arthur Conan Doyle in their day.

On the science fiction side, Acquiring Editor Cythia Ward has a stunning tale by Holly Wade Matter, plus we have classic shorts by James Blish, Robert Zacks, and Kendell Foster Crossen—plus a novel by Arthur K. Barnes. Good stuff!

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“A Death-drop to Die For,” by Jacqueline Freimor [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Most Guilty Person,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Sensing the Fall,” by Stephen D. Rogers [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Phase Four,” by James Holding [short story]
A Gilded Serpent, by Dick Donovan [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Russian Winter,” by Holly [short story]
“From Outer Space,” by Robert Zacks [short story]
“The Gnome’s Gneiss,” by Kendell Foster Crossen [short story]
Interplanetary Hunter, by Arthur K. Barnes [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Sep 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667640440

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

A DEATH-DROP TO DIE FOR, by Jacqueline Freimor

MOST GUILTY PERSON, by Hal Charles

SENSING THE FALL, by Stephen D. Rogers

PHASE FOUR, by James Holding

A GILDED SERPENT, by Dick Donovan

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

THE RUSSIAN WINTER, by Holly Wade Matter

MISTAKE INSIDE, by James Blish

FROM OUTER SPACE, by Robert Zacks

THE GNOME’S GNEISS, by Kendell Foster Crossen

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

INTERPLANETARY HUNTER, by Arthur K. Barnes

INTERPLANETARY BESTIARY

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

A Death-drop to Die For is copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline Freimor and appears here for the first time.

Most Guilty Person is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Sensing the Fall is copyright © 2021 by Stephen D. Rogers. Originally published in Autumn Noir. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Phase Four is copyright © 1984 by James Holding. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Nov 1984. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

A Gilded Serpent, by Dick Donovan, was originally published in 1908.

The Russian Winter is copyright © 2004 by Holly Wade Matter. Originally published in Aeon One. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Mistake Inside, by James Blish, was originally published in Startling Stories, March 1948.

From Outer Space, by Robert Zacks, was originally published in Startling Stories, May 1952.

The Gnome’s Gneiss, by Kendell Foster Crossen, was originally published in Startling Stories, May 1952.

Interplanetary Hunter is copyright 1956 by Arthur K. Barnes. It is based upon material originally copyrighted by Standard Magazines Inc., 1937, 1938, 1940, 1941, and 1946.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 54th issue is another good one. On the mystery side, we have a great original tale by Jacqueline Freimor (courtesy of Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), plus strong stories by Stephen D. Rogers (selected by Barb Goffman) and James Holding, another solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet), and an Edwardian mystery novel by Dick Donovan—whose popularity rivaled that of Arthur Conan Doyle in their day.

On the science fiction side, Acquiring Editor Cynthia Ward has a mindblowing tale by Holly Wade Matter, plus we have classic shorts by James Blish, Robert Zacks, and Kendell Foster Crossen—plus a novel by Arthur K. Barnes. Good stuff!

This issue’s cover is again a creation of an AI computer program—I asked MidJourney AI for a werewolf, and I got…a werewolf! Pretty cool. I really enjoy playing with the AI art programs. Other than MidJourney AI, I have also been experimenting with Dall·E AI, which appears quite promising, too. Dall·E did the artwork for Sensing the Fall, by Stephen D. Rogers.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

A Death-drop to Die For, by Jacqueline Freimor [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Most Guilty Person, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Sensing the Fall, by Stephen D. Rogers [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Phase Four, by James Holding [short story]

A Gilded Serpent, by Dick Donovan [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Russian Winter, by Holly [short story]

Mistake Inside, by James Blish [short story]

From Outer Space, by Robert Zacks [short story]

The Gnome’s Gneiss, by Kendell Foster Crossen [short story]

Interplanetary Hunter, by Arthur K. Barnes [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

A DEATH-DROP TO DIE FOR,

by Jacqueline Freimor

Oh, honey, Michael said, peering at the brassy streaks in my hair, what have you done to yourself?

I know, I said, grateful he’d agreed to see me after hours, with no customers around to witness my shame. And look at the back. I turned. Even though it was dark in the reception area, it was well lighted where we were standing near the hairdressing stations, and I knew Michael could see every hideous strand of my home dye job. Cringing, I swiveled back to face him.

Michael clutched imaginary pearls. "Oh Mylanta! This is even worse than you said. But why did you turn to Miss Clairol instead of Miss Thing? Are you breaking up with me?"

I shook my head vigorously. Of course not. Husbands may come and go, but hairdressers are forever. It was true. I was no longer married, but I’d stayed with Michael for fifteen years as he’d moved from one salon to another, from town to town in suburban New York and now to his own sleek, uber-chic space in New York City. I shrugged. It’s just that…

I was at an uncharacteristic loss for words. Why hadn’t I called him? He was my hairdresser, yes, but he was also my friend, a friend I’d laughed with, and cried with, and—on more than one occasion—sworn off men with. We’d seen each other through marriages bad (mine) and good (his), as well as career obstacles (many), but we were both doing well now, with me running my own private investigation business and Michael running his own salon. And the salon was only one component of what was lately becoming Michael’s brand. He had a gazillion YouTube channel subscribers, who made his makeover tutorials go viral, and he’d recently signed on as a stylist for the ultra-exclusive wigmaker Rémy, and he… Oh. I was beginning to see what my problem was.

It’s just that you’re so busy, I blurted. I didn’t want to, you know, bother you.

Michael placed his hands on his hips and goggled at me. Jeannie, he said. "Gurrrl."

"You’re a social media influencer, I persisted. And working with Rémy, a one-name celebrity… I mean, even I’ve heard of him."

Michael cocked his head and held my gaze. That’s why you didn’t call? Seriously?

Well, yeah, I said, shifting my weight to one leg, then the other.

He gave my shoulder a light slap. "Jeannie Tannenbaum! Honey. How can you say that? You know you’re one of my favorite humans ever! Besides, after the work you did for Richard, I’ll always take your call. He tossed his head and smirked. No matter how famous I get."

The work in question was a discreet background check that had exposed a con man and saved Michael’s husband from losing a small fortune. I snorted. "Calm down, sir. I didn’t say you were famous. I said you were busy."

Speaking of fame, I have news. Michael swiveled his head side to side as though sweeping for listening devices, then leaned in closer and lowered his voice. It’s about Effluvia.

That would be Effluvia La Fontaine, Michael’s drag queen alter ego, whose debut performance at Hardware Bar I’d seen the year before. As a man, Michael was good-looking—tall, creamy skin, warm brown eyes, a generous mouth—but as a woman, he was stunning. And Effluvia was more than just a pretty face. She could lip sync and dance, and she did an astonishing death-drop—a dance move that consisted of falling to the floor like a dead weight and landing with one leg bent under her back and the other extended straight.

"What about Effluvia? I said, matching Michael’s volume. And why are we whispering?"

He took both my hands in his and regarded me solemnly. "Because it’s a huge secret. Huge. They even made me sign an NDA. I can’t tell anyone, not Richard, not Fanny—especially not Fanny. Or Marina. But you’re a PI. You can keep a secret."

Now I really was curious. Michael and drag queen Fantasia La Fontaine had become friendly years before, when Fanny hired Michael to do her makeup, and they were even closer now because Fanny was the person who first put Michael in drag, thereby becoming Effluvia’s drag mother. Of course I can, I said. But why ‘especially not’ Fanny? And who’s Marina?

Oh, didn’t I tell you? Marina is the latest addition to the House of La Fontaine: my new baby sister. Just between us— Michael leaned in even closer —she’s kind of a be-yotch. He drew back, hesitated, and shook his head. "Anyway, my big news is… no! No. I can’t spill the tea." Looking pained, he mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key.

Michael!

I’m sorry, J. But you’ll find out soon enough. He smiled brightly and ran his fingers through my hair, which had grown to shoulder length since I’d last seen him. You need a cut, too, girlfriend. Sit down so I can fix this, this—crime against humanity.

What did he mean, I’d find out soon enough? Before I could interrogate him further, Michael pulled me to one of the black ceramic sinks and pushed me down into the chair. He wrapped a towel around my neck, snapped a black cape open, and settled it over my body. Lie back, he ordered, so I rested my neck meekly in the slot in the sink and closed my eyes. He used the sprayer to wet my hair and left it running at the bottom of the basin. After squirting shampoo onto the crown of my head, he dug his fingers into my scalp, working the shampoo from my roots to the tips of my split ends. A sigh escaped me. My neck muscles were already unclenching; my shoulders would be next.

You know, Michael said, "it’s so funny that you called, because I was just about to call you. I need your help. Your professional help."

Of course. What’s going on?

Well… Michael’s fingers stopped moving. Who can that be? he said, sounding annoyed.

What? I opened my eyes. I hadn’t heard anything over the water hissing against the side of the sink.

Someone’s at the door. He tsked. I’ll get rid of them and be right back. His voice rang out as he started to walk away. Sorry, we’re closed!

I shut my eyes again and waited. The running water sounded just like Gentle Rainstorm, my favorite setting on the white noise machine in my bedroom. Or was it Babbling Brook? They were similar, but Babbling Brook was more burbly and less waterfall-y. Or was I thinking of Meandering River…?

I woke with a start, my neck muscles tensing like a drawstring pulled tight. How long had I been asleep?

Michael?

No answer.

I sat up abruptly, causing water and suds to dribble down my forehead and the back of my neck. Shit! I said, jumping to my feet. I grabbed a towel from the shelf, dried my face and hair, and twisted the towel into a turban. Michael! Where are you? I strode to the front of the salon, to the darkened reception area and street door. Michael?

I rounded the reception desk and froze. He was lying on his back. The handle of a knife protruded from his chest.

I fell to my knees beside him. Michael!

He stretched out a trembling hand and grabbed my forearm. He opened his mouth, but only blood bubbled out.

Then he died. He died.

With one leg bent under him and the other extended straight.

In a death-drop.

* * * *

I don’t remember the detective’s name, Michael’s husband, Richard, said. He led me to the green leather Chesterfield in his study, his gait stiff and movements tentative as though the very act of breathing was causing him pain. He lowered himself into the upholstered chair across from me. Is it important?

Not really, I said. It was probably the same one who questioned me last night—tall and rangy, heavy New York accent?

Richard nodded, his handsome brown face stony and his eyes shining with unshed tears. I didn’t know how he did it. I’d been crying on and off since the night before, my lids puffy and my nose rubbed raw. Sounds like the same guy, he said. He was very nice, too, very sympathetic. Until he demanded I provide him with an alibi. He beetled his brow and jutted his chin in a crude imitation. ‘Where were you last night, huh? Can anybody vouch as to your whereabouts?’ His sculptured features settled back into place, and he sniffed. Please.

The cop had taken me back to the station house and quizzed me about my movements, too. I’d expected that—after all, I was on the scene and had blood on my hands and clothes—but I hadn’t expected he would make me repeat my story over and over for almost four hours. Finally, reluctantly, he had warned me not to leave the city and let me go back to my apartment, where I tossed and turned all night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Michael’s lifeless body sprawled on the cold salon floor.

Now I blinked hard, trying to erase the image. What did you tell him?

I told him I was here at home, alone, Richard said, and no, no one could vouch for that. Something in my face must have shifted because he stopped and peered at me. Jeannie, come on! Do you actually think I could have murdered Michael?

What I thought was that everyone was capable of murder given the right circumstances. But what I said was, The cops always look at the spouse. It’s not personal.

Richard snorted. "You bet your sweet ass it’s personal. I’m a gay black man, I’m a name partner in a prestigious law firm, I make an indecent amount of money, and I can afford to buy a townhouse with a view like this. He gestured at the East River and Queensboro Bridge outside his Sutton Place window. He shook his head. That’s why I called you. I don’t trust the cops to find Michael’s killer."

Michael’s killer. I still couldn’t believe he was dead. I felt the tears start to flow again and dashed them away. You have a point, I said, pulling my notebook and a pen from my bag. Let’s get to it then.

Yes, let’s.

I glanced at him sharply. When I’d first met Richard, I hadn’t liked him much; he was prickly, quick to take offense, and jealous that I’d been in Michael’s life before him. As the years passed, though, our tacit agreement that we both wanted the best for Michael had bonded us and sandpapered all our rough edges, so much so that by the time I’d saved Richard from financial ruin, he’d become an enthusiastic member of Team Tannenbaum—or so I’d thought. Now that Michael was dead, would my relationship with Richard die, too? Would I be upset if it did?

I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. When I saw Michael last night, I said, he told me he had a big secret but that he couldn’t tell me what it was. Do you know what he was talking about?

Richard sat up straighter and narrowed his eyes. A secret? What secret?

I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. I take it he didn’t mention it to you.

No, he said. No, he did not.

I wasn’t surprised to hear that Michael hadn’t dangled a secret in front of a man as jealous as Richard. Michael also said he wanted my professional help, but he was attacked before he could tell me what was going on. Do you know anything about it?

No, Richard said, acid in his tone. But apparently there were a lot of things in Michael’s life I didn’t know anything about.

Oh boy. Come on, Richard. I’m not trying to get your back up; I really need this information. Was something bothering him? Something to do with his business, maybe? Or his YouTube channel?

Richard took a deep breath, visibly struggling to get his emotions under control. After a few moments he pressed his palms down on his thighs and shook his head. Not that I know of.

What about the trolls on his social media accounts? Did anyone stand out as particularly threatening? Michael’s makeover tutorials were charming and hilarious, just like he had been, but in the Age of Celebrity, the more exposure you had, the more exposed you were. Maybe Michael had had a stalker.

I don’t think so. And if any of them threatened Michael, he didn’t mention it to me. Look, Jeannie, you know Michael, how positive he always…was. He just blocked the haters and moved on. I admired that. I never could have done it.

Neither could I. Can you think of any reason at all that someone would want to hurt him?

Richard shook his head again. I’m sorry. Unless it had something to do with— He pressed his lips together.

What?

I glanced at the framed photos on the walls—Richard and Michael on the ski slopes, in the mountains, on the water, arms twined around the other’s shoulders, grinning—and suddenly I knew what he was going to say. There wasn’t a single photo of Michael as Effluvia La Fontaine in this room. I’d bet there were none in the entire house.

"Well, you know, Richard finally said, scrunching up his face in distaste. Those…drag people. The latest drama was something about someone named… I don’t remember. Michael said she took one of his wigs. I didn’t pay much attention. Somebody in that group was always upset with somebody else."

Those drag people. You didn’t like that Michael had joined the House of La Fontaine?

He waved his hand dismissively. "The ‘House of La Fontaine’. Please. If it weren’t for them, Michael wouldn’t have started prancing around in those absurd get-ups, acting the fool. He glared. I know. I know. It was the way he ‘expressed himself as an artist.’ But the more time he spent with them—" He stopped.

I filled in the rest: the less he spent with me.

It just wasn’t fair, he burst out.

I wasn’t following. Fair? In what way?

Richard leaned forward. Did you know that next month would’ve been the thirteenth anniversary of the day Michael and I first met?

I did. I remembered that Michael had called me, ecstatic, to tell me he’d found his soulmate at the salad bar in Whole Foods, when they’d both reached for the quinoa-wheatberry medley at the same time. Yes.

Richard looked at me accusingly. And did you know that when we decided to move in together a few years after that, we went to couples counseling first?

Yes again. I’d thought it was a smart thing to do, that more people—and by people I meant my ex and I—would have benefitted from counseling, too. I nodded.

Richard’s voice took on a hectoring tone. And did you also know—

What is this, Richard, a deposition? I broke in. What’s your point?

He frowned. Just that Michael and I have been together for a long, long time.

I waited. And…?

"And I thought I knew him. I thought I knew everything about him. But then a year ago, out of nowhere, he tells me he wants to ‘try’ doing drag, he wants to ‘explore his feminine side,’ and he wants to do it on stage—in bars. He glowered at me as though somehow I were to blame. I tell you, Jeannie, in all our years together, he never, ever hinted at anything like that before. I was completely blindsided."

Blindsided? Really? In my professional—and personal—experience, the people who get blindsided are usually the ones who’ve turned a blind eye. People change, I finally said.

He smacked the arm of his chair, hard. "I didn’t. He always knew who I was. He knew what he was getting when he married me."

Richard—

"I’m a corporate lawyer, damn it! I graduated from Harvard summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, I was at the top of my class at Harvard Law. Even so, can you imagine what it took for a black man, much less a gay black man, to achieve what I’ve achieved? What do you think my colleagues would think if they knew—if they knew—"

I felt myself go still. What?

He compressed his lips, then spat, "That my husband likes to wear clown paint and dress up in…in…his mama’s clothes!" He glared and raised his chin as though daring me to punch the hate out of him.

I was tempted. Michael had mentioned to me that Richard wasn’t comfortable with his female alter ego, but I hadn’t known just how uncomfortable—that is, repulsed—Richard was. I glared back at him, hostility crackling in the space between us.

Richard caved first, looking down at the carpet under his expensive loafers, physically deflating, as though his anger were the only thing that had been keeping him upright. He cradled his head in his hands. Oh, God. I’m sorry, Jeannie. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.

Well, grief could make people ugly, but it seemed to me that Richard had traveled way past ugly to within spitting distance of revolting. I gave myself a few moments to stop shaking and regulate my breathing.

I understand, I finally said. And I did. I understood that if I hadn’t considered Richard a serious suspect before, I did now. But if Richard killed Michael, why had he hired me? To trick me into thinking he couldn’t have done it?

Whatever. I had to get out of there or I was going to scream. Look, I said, rising from the couch, I’m going to go and talk to some people, okay? I’ll call as soon as I know anything.

Richard raised his head. His face crumpled, and the tears finally came.

He was the love of my life, he said. What am I going to do?

* * * *

I knew what I was going to do: background checks and interviews. I reasoned that Michael’s huge secret and the problem he mentioned might or might not be related, but in either case, the easiest place to start would be with the newest people in his life—the drag queens of the House of La Fontaine and Rémy, wigmaker to the stars. I zipped over to my office and searched Google and TLOxp, the database for licensed investigators, to see what I could dig up. Then I made a couple of calls. Rémy agreed to see me in thirty minutes at his shop, and Fantasia told me to meet her at her apartment in a couple of hours; she’d ask Marina to stop by, too.

I arrived at Remy’s storefront on Eighth between Thirty-ninth and Fortieth with just seconds to spare. Nestled between a dry cleaner and a hardware store, the white stone façade of Remy by Rémy gleamed like a diamond in volcanic rock. The showroom inside was a boho-chic dreamscape of rose, peach, and gold—and a nightmare of gilded mannequin heads, one after another after another, sitting on floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall shelves. There were dozens of them. Each wore a different wig, but they all had the same elongated neck, upturned chin, and languid eyes. And they were all staring at me.

Good morning. May I help you? A middle-aged man emerged from a door in the far wall and strolled toward me, his hand extended. A middle-aged human man, with a presumably human hand. Thank God.

You must be Rémy. I’m Jeannie Tannenbaum. As we shook, I studied him. He looked just like his pictures in the celebrity magazines—very tan and bald, ironically, but with thick brown eyebrows above heavy-lidded eyes and a handlebar mustache that curled up at the ends. Rémy sounded just as he had on the phone, too, his speaking voice a well-modulated baritone with a noticeable but unplaceable accent—French, maybe, or Italian; maybe Greek. At any rate, it was European, as were his urbane manner and tailored sweater and slacks. Which was weird, because my background check had shown him to be one Jeremy Sabino from Bayonne, New Jersey.

Not that there was anything wrong with that. A lot of celebrities changed their names. Not nearly as many celebrities changed their nationalities, though.

Ah, yes, Rémy said. We spoke on the telephone. His features rearranged themselves into an expression of sorrow. I was so distressed to hear about Michael. Such a terrible, terrible tragedy. But I don’t know that I will be much help to you. Michael and I were not very well acquainted.

I’m sure that anything you can tell me will help. I’m at a bit of a loss about where to start. I gave him what I hoped was a disarming and somewhat helpless smile.

He inclined his head in a courtly half-nod. In that case, madame, I am at your disposal. Shall we sit? He gestured to a dusky pink velvet chaise.

I waited until we were seated and turned toward each other. It was awkward; we were practically knee to knee. Rémy crossed his legs, and I followed suit. I pulled my notebook and pen from my bag. Had Michael been working for you long? I began.

Not long—one month? Perhaps two. He shrugged and turned up his palms.

You hired him as a stylist, correct? How did that come about?

Ah. Well, six months ago, I opened for the first time an online shop—wigs, hairpieces, extensions—and when the orders began to come in, it quickly became clear to me that I needed to hire two more wigmakers and a stylist, as well as a person to do the packing and shipping.

I swept my gaze over the golden disembodied heads to take in the whole room and its creepy stillness. So where is everybody?

Rémy chuckled. How forthright you are! I find it most charming. He smiled, the ends of his mustache lifting. I did my best to smile back. My shipping department, as it were, consists of a young woman who comes in three days a week to work in my storeroom, just through there. He raised his chin to indicate the door in the opposite wall. And my wigmakers—I now have three—are my little elves, as in the fairytale, toiling all night whilst the shoemaker sleeps. He shrugged. Actually, whether they toil at night or during the day, I don’t know. They are artisans who work from their homes. Their work is superb, of course; I have my reputation to uphold. It wasn’t easy to find them.

Not easy to find little elves to volunteer for round-the-clock work? Color me shocked. I bit back the snark and said, Why is that?

Rémy’s eyes widened, as though he was surprised I didn’t know. Well, Remy by Rémy wigs are of the utmost highest quality—not just the wigs that are custom made for my most exclusive clientele, but also the prêt-à-porter pieces you see here. He swept out his arm to indicate the mannikin heads. They’re all hand-tied—even the least expensive ones, the ones I’ve begun selling online. This is an old-school skill. There aren’t many of us left who can do it.

‘Hand-tied’? I’d looked at Rémy’s website but I didn’t remember seeing that term.

Rémy’s gaze traveled up my face to the top of my head. Ah. You must not yet have ever purchased a wig.

I clocked the yet. I’d done my best to tame my bed-head that morning, but my hair had already been a mess when I’d gone to see Michael the night before, and a restless night’s sleep hadn’t done it any favors. Now I wished I’d covered it with a turban. Or shaved it off. No.

Well, to be able to move like natural hair moves, the hairs of a wig must be woven with a needle, a few strands at a time, into a cap of lace mesh. He made sewing motions with his thumb and forefinger. You must also use human hair, as I do, not synthetic or animal hair. And of course I use only virgin remy hair, from Russia and Ukraine. They have the best quality.

The terms virgin and remy were on the shop’s website, along with their definitions: virgin hair had never been chemically processed, and remy hair had all the strands aligned in the same direction, cut from the same head. Of course, I agreed. It’s even in your business name: Remy by Rémy. Clever.

He beamed. Thank you, Jeannie. May I call you Jeannie?

Absolutely. So once you determined you needed a stylist, how did you find Michael? Had you met him before, or heard of him…?

At the mention of Michael, Rémy’s face fell back into its initial somber expression. It seemed to me that his show of emotion was just that—a show—but that didn’t necessarily mean anything; maybe all his emotions were as phony as his name and silly accent. I found Michael by pure coincidence, he said. One of my clients also happened to be Michael’s client, and she mentioned to me what a fantastic job he had done styling her wig. I contacted him, and when I saw what he could do, I immediately snapped him up. He snapped his fingers in case I didn’t know what snap meant.

Did he do the work here? I shifted my eyes to the one hairdressing station, topped by a large mirror in an ornate gold frame.

No, at his own salon. Each week or so we met to exchange the wigs I needed styled for the ones he had finished.

Where did you meet?

Here or at his shop. Wherever it was most convenient that week.

And how was his work? Were you happy with the job he did?

Oh, yes. It was… Rémy touched his fingers to his lips in a chef’s kiss. My clients were thrilled—even the most demanding among them, who pay a great deal of money for my wigs. Naturally, they expect the best—and Michael was the best.

Yes, he was. I swallowed around the sudden lump in my throat and took a moment to collect myself. So there were no angry customers? I finally said. No disputes?

He shook his head. None.

Did Michael ever tell you he was worried about anything, or mention any problems he was having?

Not to me; ours was not that kind of relationship. But I will miss him. He will be extremely difficult to replace.

A phone rang—an actual ring, not a trill or series of chimes—saving me from having to respond. Excuse me, Rémy said, and scooped up the receiver of the faux antique gold and white instrument on the table in front of the chaise. Remy by Rémy, he said. How may I help you?

Just at that moment, the door opened to admit a stocky redheaded guy wearing UPS brown. Delivery for— the UPS man looked down at his handheld scanner —Rémy?

Rémy stood and beckoned the guy over, then scribbled on the scanner and pointed an imperious finger at the far wall. He turned back to me and spoke smoothly into the phone. But of course, madame. Did you have a particular color in mind? His eyes met mine and gave me an apologetic I-have-to-take-this look.

This was as good a time as any to end the interview; it didn’t seem that Rémy had anything more to tell me anyway. I stuffed my notebook and pen into my bag. Thank you, I mouthed.

Rémy smiled, then frowned. I followed his gaze and saw the UPS guy unloading his hand truck right in front of the door. Interesting; the anger clouding Rémy’s features was the first genuine emotion I had seen on his face so far. Before the storm could break, I moved toward the exit, squeezed my way past the pile of boxes, and headed for the nearest subway.

* * * *

I took the E from Port Authority to Twenty-third, then walked the few blocks to Fantasia’s apartment in the heart of Chelsea. I spent the brief trip thinking about whether Rémy could have murdered Michael. Pro: he’d been a regular visitor to Michael’s salon, which meant he knew the layout and maybe even Michael’s work schedule. Con: his slow-moving, Old-World manner made it hard to envision him taking the swift, decisive actions of a killer. But if Rémy had done it, the question was, Why?

And if he hadn’t done it, who had?

Fantasia—aka Fanny—La Fontaine had a theory, which she shared with me after ushering me into her apartment, pulling me into a hug—Effluvia told me so much about you, I feel like I know you—air-kissing me once on each cheek, and inviting me to sit on a blue brocade sofa in the living room. Heaving herself into an orange chenille La-Z-Boy, she said, It was one of the Chasers. Had to be. She had a Deep South drawl, all sweet tea and molasses.

I sat and took a good look at her. Tall and fleshy, probably in her late forties, with eyes so swollen and red-rimmed it was clear she’d been crying. She was wearing what could only be called Flea Market Fashion: pink bandanna tied like a do-rag, black leather jacket with chains, cropped red-gingham blouse, low-slung cheetah-print leggings, and fuzzy bunny slippers. She sat in mansplaining position, with knees wide and arms crossed over a hairy expanse of white stomach. She cut an imposing figure, despite her outfit—or maybe because of it. She was going to wear what she wanted, and she didn’t give a rat’s ass what you thought.

‘Chasers’? I said. Is that a gang?

Fanny barked a bitter laugh, and her arms bounced on her belly. "I guess you could call them that, hon. They’re the men who hang around the drag clubs and bars—the macho, macho men who say they’re straight while at the same time they’re flirting with us queens, buying us drinks and whatnot, trying to get into our panties. Some of them can get handsy, you know, and then go apeshit if you won’t fu—sleep with them."

This was a whole new angle I hadn’t known about, and I leaped on it. Why do you think it had to be one of the Chasers?

Fanny peered at me through shiny eyes. I don’t know, she said. I just can’t think of anyone else who’d do this.

My heart sank as my new angle threatened to collapse and flatline. Let me rephrase: Do you know if any of the Chasers in particular were hassling Michael—Effluvia?

Fanny shook her head. "A lot tried—I mean, she’s an absolutely sickening queen—but she never lets them get close enough. Maybe someone got, you know, obsessed? And she rejected him?" She looked at me hopefully.

This was going nowhere. Are you asking me or telling me?

She shot me a look of admiration. "Ooh, Mary! Effy said you could be a real ball buster. Love it. Love it."

I myself was not loving how this was going; it seemed that Fanny was spinning stories out of whole cloth, maybe because she was legitimately at a loss, or maybe because she was hiding something. I tried again. So Effluvia didn’t tell you specifically that she was having problems with one of the Chasers?

No ma’am, Fanny said, shaking her head.

The buzzer rang, and Fanny hoisted herself up from the recliner. That’s Marina. She shuffled over to the intercom, pressed the button, and opened the door. Hey, hon, she called.

A voice from the hallway responded with Hey, Mama, and in a few moments Marina La Fontaine sauntered into the apartment. She and Fanny hugged and air-kissed.

Marina pulled back and studied Fanny’s outfit. "Is that the new blouse? Love her! She’s gorge. She turned her head and caught my eye. And is this the investigator? She’s gorge, too." She strode across the room with an extended hand and ingratiating smile.

I sized her up while we made our introductions: slim, twenties, and medium height, wearing jeans, Nikes, a T-shirt, and an eyebrow ring. A five-o’clock shadow stood out on her pale skin, and a purple high ponytail plumed from the middle of her scalp. She looked like the Roadrunner.

Once we were seated, Fanny in her La-Z-Boy and Marina and I on either end of the couch, I wasted no time and turned to Marina. Fantasia tells me she thinks that one of the Chasers killed Effluvia. What do you think?

Marina crossed her legs and clasped the top knee with both hands. Mmm…no. I don’t think so. Fanny made a surprised sound from the back of her throat and Marina looked at her. I’m sorry, Mama, Marina said. I just don’t see it.

"What do you think happened?" I said.

Marina turned back to me and gave a helpless shrug. It hadn’t escaped me that although Fanny had clearly been crying, Marina looked as though she hadn’t shed a tear. I don’t know, she said. Maybe it was a mugger. Or maybe somebody finally got tired of Miss Thing feeling her oats all the time, okurrrr? She practically sang the second syllable of the word and trilled the rs," then sat back with a tight, self-satisfied smile.

Fanny shot her an exasperated look. C’mon, babygirl. I told you I was fine with it.

Marina straightened and slapped at the air with one hand. "Bitch, please. That ho was lit-er-al-ly born yesterday, and she gets it and not you?"

I looked from one to the other and back again. What are you talking about?

Marina raised her eyebrows at Fanny. Fanny sighed.

"Effluvia was going to be on RuPaul’s Drag Race, Fanny said. I sent in an audition tape, too, but… She shook her head. That’s why Miss Marina’s upset, even though I keep saying I’m okay. Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand to her chest. Oh my God. Do RuPaul’s people know that Effluvia…?" Her nose reddened and her eyes welled up and spilled over. She smeared the tears away with her pinkies.

I was having an oh-my-God moment myself: RuPaul’s Drag Race, the reality TV show? Was that the secret Michael had been keeping? If so, it was no wonder he’d been so excited; it could have made him a star. My heart ached for him all over again.

But wait. Michael had said he wasn’t allowed to divulge his secret—not to me, or Richard, or Fantasia and Marina. Especially not to Fantasia and Marina.

I held up my hand. Back up, please. Did Michael—Effluvia—tell you she was going to be on the show?

Fanny sniffled, and both queens shook their heads.

Then how did you know?

Fanny spread her hands, palms up. I received a rejection letter, and even though Effy said she got one, too, I could tell she was lying. You know how she is, right, hon? She can’t lie to save her life. Oh. She pressed her hand to her mouth, stricken.

I flashed back on what Fanny had said a few moments before, about whether RuPaul’s people knew that Effluvia had been murdered. It was a good question. What would they do now, replace her with another contestant? Could another queen who had auditioned—Fanny, for instance—have killed her to try to make that happen?

Did you tell anyone that Effluvia was going to be on the show? I said to Fanny.

Fanny nodded mutely and flicked her eyes at Marina.

I turned my attention to Marina. And who did you tell? I’d bet she wouldn’t have kept the information to herself.

I was right. Marina cocked her head and scrunched her nose as though she was trying to remember. Um…let’s see. She tapped her fingers on her lips. "Um… Boobie Doll, I think, from the House of Royale. Oh, and her sister Joe Mama. They were gagged."

Marina! Fanny said. "Bitch! You said you wouldn’t spill the tea!"

Marina leaned forward, her palms pressed together as though in prayer. "Don’t be mad, Fan-Fan! I couldn’t help it. I mean, Effluvia, on Drag Race? After what everyone was always saying—" She stopped.

Fanny eyed her warily. Go on—what did those mothertucking bitches say?

Marina’s face twisted in a display of reluctance, and when she had stretched the silence as far as it could go without snapping, she said, "They called her Queen Wannabe—like, if Fantasia’s Queen Bee, which she is, obvs, that makes Effluvia…" She let it hang and leaned back, smirking.

Judging by the shock on her face, Fanny had had no idea that Marina felt that way about her drag sister, but as the mother of three children, I recognized the reptilian hiss of sibling rivalry when I heard it.

Fanny was recognizing something, too, awareness dawning across her features. "So you did take Effy’s new wig without asking. Just like she said."

Ah, I thought. That must have been the episode that Richard had mentioned.

Marina shook her head, making the purple ponytail shimmy. "I told you, Mama, she loaned it to me. And besides, I gave it back, didn’t I?"

Yeah—all tangled and matted.

"All I did was wash it! I don’t know why she got so pissed. Sis was a hairdresser; she could fix it. She shook her head again and said pityingly, No tea, no shade, Mama, but I think that bitch put you under a spell so you couldn’t see who she really was."

Fanny narrowed her eyes and spat, "No, hon. That was you."

There was a moment of shocked silence.

Then Marina shot up from the sofa and stalked toward Fanny, leading with her chest like a bantam rooster. "Oh, so now you’re going to come for me? Really, Mother? You going to come for me?"

Fanny rose slowly from her chair to her full height, shoulders squared, arms at her sides, her weight shifted slightly forward. Marina backed away a few inches, but that only gave her a better view of the fury in Fanny’s eyes. Marina retreated some more.

Look, Mama, she said, I was just trying to—

"I know what you were trying to do, bitch. Now I know."

But—

Ladies? I broke in. I was already heading for the door, having performed a quick risk assessment and determined that continuing this interview would not be in my best interests.

Fanny and Marina turned to stare at me, then simultaneously turned back to each other.

"But, what, you two-faced piece of shit?" Fanny said, without missing a beat.

I’ll just show myself out, I said.

And I did.

* * * *

Well, I thought as I hit the street, that was a bust. My only discoveries were that Michael had been scheduled to compete on RuPaul’s Drag Race, and that he’d been right: Marina really was a be-yotch. Had she hated Michael enough to kill him, though? Or had the symbolism of destroying his wig been enough to satisfy her?

The thought of wigs reminded me of my earlier interview. I’d noted that Rémy might be a good murder suspect if he’d known Michael’s work schedule, but I realized now—good going, Jeannie!—that I hadn’t actually asked him. I decided to follow up in person. His shop was only a fifteen-minute walk away.

I had only gone a couple of blocks up Eighth when I heard a familiar voice call, Yoo-hoo! Honey!

I turned. Fantasia La Fontaine was surging up the sidewalk, waving something in one hand. I stopped and waited for her to catch up.

Ooh, Mary, she said, out of breath, you walk so fast. She whipped off her bandanna, mopped her face with it, and settled it back on her head. She’d traded in her slippers for black motorcycle boots, but otherwise her outfit was the same. No blood. I guessed Marina was still alive.

Hi, I said. Is everything okay? I shifted my gaze to the hairy brown thing in her hand; it looked like a Chewbacca puppet. What’s that?

"Oh, I wanted to show you, hon—this is what Marina did to Effy’s wig. It was brand new, too; Marina ruined it out of spite. Anyhow, seeing as how you’re Effy’s friend, I thought you’d want to know she didn’t do anything wrong. It was all Marina."

She gave me the tangled and matted hairpiece, which I turned over in my hands a few times before returning it. "I appreciate you saying that. But how did you wind up with this?"

Fanny sighed. "The girls were at my place when they had their knock-down-drag-out-drama-mama-palooza. Effy was so mad, she left the wig behind by mistake. I was going to give it back when I saw her next, but I never…" She swallowed hard.

In the face of Fanny’s misery, I was having trouble seeing her as Michael’s killer; besides, although it was unprofessional of me, I liked her. Impulsively I said, Hey, do you want to grab something to eat? I have to stop in at Rémy’s shop to ask him a question, but I won’t be long.

Fanny brightened up. I would love that, honey. Lead the way.

* * * *

Fanny and I traded stories about Michael-as-Michael and Michael-as-Effy all the way up Eighth Avenue, and by the time we reached Rémy’s, we were both laughing. I told her I’d just be a minute, and she told me not to worry about her, she’d wait outside.

When I entered the shop, Rémy was at the far wall, his back to the entrance, slitting open one of several boxes in a stack—presumably the ones I’d seen earlier that he’d wanted the UPS guy to move.

Excuse me, Rémy? I said.

He turned and his eyes narrowed. Oh…um…Jeannie. I didn’t expect to see you again.

I lifted a shoulder in what I hoped was a charming way. I just have one more question, if you don’t mind.

Well, actually, he said with a tight smile, I’m a little busy, so… He trailed off and used his box cutter to gesture vaguely at the stack behind him.

Important delivery, huh?

His smile faded and he cocked his head. What?

God. So much for my skills at softening up suspects. Never mind, I said. I actually came to ask if you knew what Michael’s work schedule was going to be this week.

His work—? Rémy said warily. Why? Then his eyes widened in alarm as his gaze slid from my face to above my shoulder.

I turned.

It was Fanny, standing near the door, bedraggled hairpiece dangling from her hand. Sorry to interrupt, hon, she said to me. But I figured if anyone could fix this, it would be—

In a flash, I knew: it was all about the wig. But before my brain could transmit its knowledge to my body, Rémy was behind me, one arm wrapped around my neck, the other holding the box cutter to my throat.

Stay back, Rémy said. He wasn’t a large man, but his grip was like an iron band.

Okay, Fanny said, standing stock still.

Rémy’s gripped tightened even more. What’d you bring that for? he said, his pan-European accent having suddenly decamped to the shores of his native New Jersey. What do you want?

So, that’s the reason you killed Michael, I said faintly. I was having trouble breathing, and not just because Rémy had me in a headlock. You gave Michael the wig to style, and when washing ruined it, Michael knew your wigs weren’t everything you said they were. I realized the truth of this as the words were falling out of my mouth.

They’re perfectly good wigs, Rémy said, sounding aggrieved, hand-tied, human hair, even though they’re the cheapest line. They just aren’t made with remy hair. Remy is too expensive.

And then Michael threatened to expose you, I said.

Michael was a fool, Rémy snarled. I even offered to cut him in. He said he would think about it, but he was lying. I had to make sure he’d keep his mouth shut.

My head was pounding. Tell me something, I managed to croak out, aware that every minute Rémy was talking was a minute he wasn’t slitting my throat. How did Michael know you weren’t using remy hair?

Non-remy hair is coated with silicone to keep it shiny and flat, he said, as pedantic a murderer as there ever was. If you wash it, you remove the silicone—

—and the hair gets matted, I finished.

Very good, Rémy said. You’re not as stupid as you appear.

Actually, hon, Fanny said, her eyes narrowed, I think we got us a kind of pot-kettle situation here. I felt Rémy shift to turn his attention to Fanny, who seemed to have grown even taller and wider, like a bear poised to attack.

What? Rémy said.

Why on Earth did you give that cheap wig to Michael in the first place? she said. He was a hair stylist. He of all people would know.

"I didn’t give it to him, Rémy snapped. I was out the day he picked it up. I’d left explicit instructions, but the idiot girl in the storeroom—she gave him the wrong one."

So not all your employees are happy little elves? I replied mentally. Out loud, I rasped, What about your customers? Wouldn’t they notice?

Rémy snickered. Who? The black girls in the ghetto? The transvestites at Party City? They don’t know anything. They believe whatever’s on the label.

For a moment, there was no sound. Then Fanny bellowed, No one wants your thirsty-ass hair, bitch! and hurled the wig.

Rémy grunted in surprise and stepped back, slackening his hold and moving the hand with the knife just far enough to give me some wiggle room.

I didn’t hesitate.

I stomped on Rémy’s instep, hard. He yowled and hunched over, loosening his grip even more. Then I leaned forward and whipped my head back, slamming it into his face.

He hit the ground with a thud and lay still, belly up. Blood poured from his nose and dripped down to the floor.

In no time, Fantasia was towering over him, her ginormous motorcycle-boot-encased foot planted on his neck. Rémy was either dead or out cold; I was hoping for dead. I, on the other hand, was very much alive and feeling no pain. Must’ve been the adrenaline.

Fantasia turned her head to look at me. Ooh, honey! she said. "You did not come to play."

I smiled grimly and asked her to call nine-one-one. While she did, I scanned the room for something to restrain Rémy with in case he came to. My eyes landed on the carton Rémy had opened. I hurried over to it, then strode back with a fistful of very, very long hair extensions.

Fanny shoved her phone into her pocket. Give ’em here, hon. She took the clump I handed her, twisted it, and bent down. Expertly, she flipped Rémy onto his stomach.

He moaned. So he was alive. Too bad.

With the speed and skill of a rodeo roper, Fanny lifted Rémy’s ankles, wound the hair around them and then his wrists, pulled the ends tight, and made a complicated knot. Rémy’s arms and legs now met in the air above his back.

Yoga teachers call it a bow pose. Ranchers call it a hogtie. And Fanny had done it in less than twenty seconds. I stared at her in astonishment.

Born and raised in Abbeville, South Carolina, Fanny said. On a pig farm. She grinned.

I did, too—until I touched the back of my skull, where a big egg was growing.

Fanny’s smile changed to a look of concern. You okay, hon? How’s your head?

I held her gaze for a moment. Then I shrugged and, using RuPaul’s favorite comeback, said, I haven’t had any complaints.

When the police arrived, we were still cackling. And Rémy was wearing the wig.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jacqueline Freimor’s stories have appeared in several mystery magazines and anthologies, including The Best Mystery Stories of the Year: 2021, edited by Lee Child. New stories are forthcoming in Vautrin; The Best American Mystery and Suspense 2022, edited by Jess Walter; and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Jacqueline is a music teacher who lives in Westchester County, New York.

MOST GUILTY PERSON,

by Hal Charles

Booster-club president Nora Barton brushed by a diminutive brunette snapping pictures amidst the swirl of activity around the gym and entered the locker room at Corydon High School. Immediately, she spotted her best friend, Sherry Parks, shaking a bag of ice into a large washtub filled with soft drinks. Hey, Coach, she called as she approached the woman who had recently led Corydon’s basketball team to the city championship.

Nora, Sherry said, rising and drying her hands on a towel, we’ve got a big problem.

What could possibly be troubling the champs on the night they’ll be presented that beautiful trophy? Nora said, gesturing toward the huge silver trophy on the table between them.

It’s the trophy that won’t be presented that’s got me so upset.

I don’t understand, said Nora.

Not only did we win the championship, but Carrie Grimes was named MVP of the tournament.

And?

Someone has stolen the trophy she was to receive at tonight’s banquet, said the coach, shaking her head.

How long has the trophy been missing?

Earlier this afternoon, said Sherry, I brought in the trophies and was getting things ready for the banquet. I set both trophies on the table. I decided to run to the convenience store for some ice, and when I returned, the MVP trophy was gone. Carrie worked so hard for that award.

Do you have any idea who might have taken it? Nora asked her friend.

Carrie’s so popular, said Sherry. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. She hesitated. Now, I don’t want to sound like what the kids call a ‘squealer,’ but a couple of names do come to mind.

We don’t have long before the crowd gets here for the banquet, said Nora, so we have to work fast.

OK, said Sherry. It hurts me to say it, but Kate Dexter was awfully upset when Carrie beat her out for MVP. They both had terrific years, and Kate rushed out of the gym in tears when the tournament officials announced the winner.

Anyone else?

It might seem a bit strange, but Carrie recently broke up with her boyfriend, and Devin didn’t take it well. Said she loved basketball more than him.

Is that it?

Well, I guess I have to mention Laura Stinson, our team manager. Laura took the job only because her mother thought it would look good on her resume for college. I think Laura sort of resents Carrie’s popularity.

Have you seen these three around the gym today? said Nora.

Come to think of it, yes, said Sherry. They all have some task to get ready for the banquet.

I’d better have a chat with those three, said Nora.

Devin Johnson was setting up tables in the gym. When Nora asked him what he had been doing that afternoon, he informed her that he had just arrived at the gym fifteen minutes earlier after spending all afternoon at baseball tryouts.

Nora had no better luck with Kate and Laura. Kate had buried any disappointment by working that afternoon with some younger teammates to help them with fundamentals they could refine before next season. According to her teammates, she hadn’t left the gym.

After asking Bailey Compton, the photographer she had seen snapping pictures earlier, for directions, Nora found Laura in Shelley’s office. Laura’s friend Jess backed up the manager’s account of the entire afternoon spent on flower arrangements and napkin folding.

Walking back into the gym, Nora couldn’t help but notice the photo montage that flittered across a huge screen to her left. Shots of everything from the team in their Fighting Cardinals uniforms to pictures of banquet preparations.

Perhaps, thought Nora, Bailey had photographed one of her three classmates being somewhere other than where they had said. Looking intently as the pictures crossed the screen, Nora spotted one that caught her attention. There on the bare table in the locker room set two trophies in front of a stack of soft drink cartons and an empty washtub.

Suddenly, Nora realized she could name the MGP, the most guilty person.

Solution

The only way Bailey Compton could have snapped the photo of the trophies and the empty washtub was if she had been in the locker room before Sherry returned with the ice. Confronted, Bailey confessed that she had taken the trophy out of anger at Carrie after Devin turned down her invitation to the banquet even though he had broken up with Carrie.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

SENSING THE FALL,

by Stephen D. Rogers

Fall on the Cape always reminds me of a crab picked clean by a gull: the fingers of gray-white beach, the sharp smell of seaweed, the fragility of the skeleton. While the rest of New England celebrated autumn by decking trees in colored finery, Cape Cod went barren.More coffee, hon?

Thanks. I moved my cup closer to the edge of the table.

After topping me off, Andrea placed my slip on the table.

Whenever you’re ready. If only everything in life were that simple: review