Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012
Death of a Drama Queen
by Doug Allyn
Doug Allyn’s 2011 story “A Penny for the Boatman” was a standout not only for EQMM readers, who awarded it second place in the 2011 Readers Award vote, but for members of the Short Mystery Fiction Society, who nominated the story for a best novella Derringer Award. In December of 2011, for the first time, the Michigan author made one of his published short stories available in a stand-alone Kindle edition (see “The Christmas Mitzvah”).
“I’m pregnant,” Sherry said.
The background noise in the restaurant suddenly seemed to fade a bit. I began doing the math in my head... then stopped. It had been far too long.
“Well?” she prompted. “Say something.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Or not. Which is it?”
“I’m still working that part out.” She looked away, glancing around the crowded dining room. The Jury’s Inn is a block from Hauser Center, the police station where I work. As a local TV reporter, Sherry spends a lot of time here. Everywhere she looked, people would smile at her and nod. She’s a petite blonde, strikingly attractive, and a northern Michigan celebrity.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“More than one. The biggest is my boss. Jack Milano.”
“The station manager? What about him?”
“He’s... every ambitious girl’s mistake, Dylan. We were at a convention, we were both a little buzzed and got carried away. He’s tried to follow up on it since, to make more of it than it was, but he’s married.”
“Have you told him about your situation?”
“I dropped it on him as soon as I found out,” she said, with the imp’s grin I remembered all too well. “I was hoping it would scare him off.”
“Did it?”
“I wish.” She sighed. “Instead, he started blathering about leaving his wife, starting a new life together. This could be a total disaster for me, Dylan. The network is cutting back. If it gets out that Jack and I were involved, New York would fire us both.”
“That is a problem.”
“And not the only one,” she said.
“Rob Gilchrist,” I said.
“What?”
“Rumor has it you’ve been seeing Rob.”
“Are you keeping tabs on me, LaCrosse? I’m flattered.”
“Valhalla’s a small town. People talk. And Rob is a major catch.”
“Now you’re being snide.”
“No, I mean it. You always wanted to be on top of the heap. The Gilchrists are old money. Lumber mills, paper mills, you name it, they own it.”
“My God, do you really think I’m that shallow?”
I almost said yes, but didn’t want to start an argument. Fighting with Sherry is no fun at all. She’s bright and perceptive, with a reporter’s instinct for the jugular. Her gibes can pierce you to the bone. She’s always sorry after a spat, always apologizes with tears, makeup sex, or both. But afterward, at three in the morning, the barbs fester under your skin like snakebites. Because they’re at least partly true.
“Okay, how can I help, Sherry?” I asked.
“I need some advice, Dylan.”
“Why me?”
“Because we may be over, love, but I think you still care about me a little. And I trust you. You were always terrific at keeping secrets. Especially your own. So? Can you help me out here? What should I do?”
“About Rob?”
“No, about my situation.”
“Ah.” I sipped my coffee, considering that one for a moment. For a split second it occurred to me she might be probing my feelings, hoping to restart our affair. Not likely. She said it herself. We were over. A part of me still regretted that.
“I know how you feel about your family, Dylan,” she said, leaning in, lowering her voice. “They’re terrific. But I grew up in foster care. And it wasn’t wonderful. Being a mother is an awesome responsibility. My mom, whoever she was, obviously wasn’t wired for it. Nor am I.”
“It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”
“I still want to know what you think. The truth.”
“Fair enough. I think that particular decision belongs to the woman who has to make it. Have you told the father?”
“No.”
There was something in her tone.
“Do you know who...?” I asked.
“No.” She shook her head miserably. “And don’t get all judgmental on me, LaCrosse.”
“I’m the last one who could throw stones, Sherry. But if you’re asking for advice, I think that should be your next move. You need to know.”
“Why?” she asked. “What’s the difference?”
“If it’s Rob, that’ll close the books on your boss, Milano... if that’s what you want. And it might convince Rob to marry you. If that’s what you want. And if you decide to lie—”
“Lie? About a thing like this? My God, Dylan, what kind of person do you think I am?”
“You wanted advice.”
“I also asked you a question.”
“And I’m saying that in affairs of the heart, the truth isn’t your only option. If a new love asks you how many lovers you’ve had before, you don’t necessarily owe him the truth, besides...” I paused a beat, waiting.
“You can’t handle the truth!” we said together, both of us doing our best Jack Nicholson, turning a few heads at nearby tables. And for a moment I remembered how much fun we used to have. Before we ran off the rails.
“Fair enough.” She nodded, smiling now. “Your advice is right on the money, as always, LaCrosse. Totally objective.”
That wasn’t quite true. When you care for someone a lot, you never really stop caring. Or at least I don’t. Sherry knew that. And she played on it sometimes.
“There is one more thing you could do for me,” she said, stirring her coffee. Avoiding my eyes.
“I thought there might be,” I said drily. “What is it?”
“Would you check into their backgrounds for me, Dylan? Let me know if there are any land mines I should avoid?”
“Hell, you’re a reporter, you can run a background check as easily as I can.”
“Reading the news on local TV doesn’t make me Diane Sawyer, LaCrosse. I can’t use station resources to check up on my boss, and I don’t have access to the Law Enforcement Information Net.”
My ears perked up. “The L.E.I.N. is for criminal suspects. I can’t use it for a personal situation. Why would their names be on it, anyway?”
“I hope they’re not, but...”
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Sherry?”
“No, but...”
“But what?”
She took a deep breath. “It’s... a little hard to explain, Dylan. You know my background. I grew up tough. I’m a newswoman, which makes me a realist, I think. But lately... I read a story in a college lit class once. ‘Something Wicked This Way Comes.’ Ray Bradbury, I think. That’s how I feel. Like something bad is coming.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. It’s probably just a case of raging hormones, but I’d feel better if you checked things out. I’ll pay for your time. I know how pathetic a cop’s salary is.”
“I’d work for food, but I’ve tasted your cooking.”
“Touché, love. Call me,” she said, rising to go. She paused for a moment, looking down at me.
“I miss us sometimes,” she said.
“Me too,” I admitted.
And for a moment, with her golden hair haloed against the Inn’s wagon-wheel candelabra, I felt a sharp pang of loss. Sherry was an exceptional woman, bright and fun and perky. And the neediest person I’d ever known.