“I can’t stand it!”

     Courtney LeNoir looked up yet again from the manuscript she was reading, glanced at the clock and knew she would be working late to make up for the interruptions.  “What’s the matter now, Mrs. Carson?”  She struggled to keep her tone civil.  “Is it still too hot?”

     “Oh no, dear, I’m fine now that the air conditioner’s on.  It’s this story!  Another little old lady outwits the local police chief.”  Sophie peered over her glasses at the young editor.  “It’s too unbelievable, dear.”

     “That's probably why I rejected it, Mrs. Carson.” Courtney shuddered involuntarily as a wave of gooseflesh rippled down her evenly tanned arms.

      “I’m sorry you’re cold, dear,” Sophie said. “It’s just these flashes I get.  The change coming, I imagine; won’t my husband love that?”

     “Yes.  Anyway, Mrs. Carson, you don't need to read every story.  That’s what I’m doing.  Just put them into the envelopes with the rejection letters.”  Where did the agency find this woman?  The temp she’d had for several days had been doing a fine job, and then today, this Edith Bunker clone showed up. 

     Sophie gave her a motherly smile.  “I can’t help it, dear.  Some of them are so clever and interesting, and then others....” Sophie dangled the offending manuscript between her fingers as if taking a smelly diaper to the pail.

     “I know that,” Courtney said acidly.  “Don't you think I’m tired of reading the same lame plots with different names?”  She waved her arm at framed covers from Get A Clue Mystery Magazine on the walls of her office.  “You want to guess how many of those I had to read on the way to filling forty issues?  There’s a lot of pressure to be perfect.”

     The bracelets on Sophie’s wrist jangled as she gestured to the piles of manuscripts on the desk.  “These are far from perfect.  They all rely on some coincidence that any real-life detective would see through in a minute.  I watch The Discovery Channel, you know.  The police today have such marvelous technology, why, it’s just a matter of time before every murderer gets caught.”

     “Not every murderer gets caught, Mrs. Carson,” Courtney said.  “The ones who plan can still commit the perfect crime.”

     “Perhaps in your magazine, dear, because your writers hide the clues and mislead your readers.  But all real crimes are solvable, dear.”

     Courtney looked again at the clock.  “I’ll tell you what.  It's nearly lunch time.  Let’s make a bet.”

     “You mean like gambling, dear?”  Sophie lowered her voice conspiratorially.  “Walter took to me to Atlantic City once....”

     Courtney rolled her eyes heavenward.  “A bet, Mrs. Carson.  I will describe a perfect crime, one the police haven’t solved.  I’ll give you all the clues,” she said pointedly.  “If you solve it, you can stay home after lunch and I'll still pay you. Bake cookies or something.”

“Walter has been asking for cookies,” Sophie tittered.  “But what’s my part of the bet?  Do you want cookies?”

“No, Mrs. Carson. Your part is that if you can’t solve the crime you’ll tell the agency to send someone else here tomorrow.” 

“But I like you so, dear,” Sophie said, crestfallen.  “This is much more interesting than when I had to stuff all those political flyers.  I didn’t even like that man.  I was glad when he lost, you know.”

“I’m sure you’ll solve it, Mrs. Carson,” Courtney said, refusing to let her fish off the hook.  “You said you’ve been watching The Discovery Channel.” 

“That’s true,” Sophie mused.  She brightened.  “Very well.  Just let me put my thinking cap on.”  She tied an imaginary bow under chin.  “Ready.”

     “A man is unhappy in his marriage.  He wants to travel, see the world.  His wife doesn’t.  They have money, but she won’t let him spend it.  They live in a small house when they could have a mansion.  His wife has no interest in pleasing him.  Naturally, he’s unhappy.  But then he meets a woman, younger than his wife, prettier, who enjoys life as he does and they realize that they are just perfect together, except for one thing.”

     “His wife,” Sophie said.

     “Yes.”  Courtney frowned at the interruption.  “They come up with the perfect crime.  His wife is allergic to bee stings, and the woman knows what to do.  She pays a kid to bring her a beehive that she’s seen in the woods.  The man sets it up in the garage before he leaves for work.”  Sophie looked confused.  “I think perhaps you’ve stumped me, dear.”

     “I warned you,” the editor chuckled.  “It’s the perfect crime.  When he leaves for work he props the box on the front seat of her car, against the door.  When his wife opens the car door, she dumps the box.  That's a lot of angry bees, and even if some flew away, when someone's allergic it doesn't take many stings to bring on anaphylaxis.”

“Anna who?” Sophie protested.

“A severe allergic reaction,” Courtney said patronizingly.  “Shock.  She stopped breathing.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Sophie shuddered.  “I can’t even imagine!  She must have suffered terribly.”

     “I suppose,” Courtney said absently.  “Anyway, her husband “found” her that afternoon, and cleaned up before he called the police.  He said he found the broken nest in the garage.  His wife is dead and he has everyone’s sympathy.  In time, once the insurance is settled, he and the woman can get married.”

Courtney took advantage of Sophie’s silence.  “Perfect, you see?  Now, if you’d like to leave early today, we’ll still pay....”

Sophie remained seated.  “But I’m staying, dear.  I think I can solve this murder.”

     “I’m listening,” Courtney’s voice belied her smile. 

     "What if his wife had a sister?"

     “A sister?  Mrs. Carson,” Courtney said impatiently.

“An older sister," Sophie said, “who suspected the affair but couldn't convince her younger sister to divorce him.”

“Where is this leading?”

"This sister enjoyed reading mysteries, lots of them.  She even remembered reading a very similar story in Get A Clue.  Didn’t you publish a story last year where a woman used a snake in a glass jar to kill her husband?”

     Courtney’s smile slipped.

     Sophie closed her eyes in thought.  “Naturally her sister told the police her suspicions, but she had no proof.  They advised her to hire a private detective but that was too expensive.  So she followed her brother-in-law herself – he really wasn’t very discreet – and he led her straight to the other woman, a magazine editor.  That would be you, dear,” Sophie added.

“You’re grasping at straws,” Courtney snapped.

     “Enough straws can break a camel’s back.”

“You aren’t from the agency,” Courtney whispered, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of her desk.

     “I don’t even type, dear,” Sophie replied.  “I paid your temp very generously to let me take her place for a couple of days to investigate, but I never expected to wrap it up the first day.  I'm going to call the police now.”

     “I don’t think so, Mrs. Carson.”  Courtney drew a wickedly pointed letter opener from her drawer.  “I can arrange your ‘accident’ as easily as I arranged your sister’s.  As dotty as you are, no one will doubt that you stumbled and fell on this letter opener.”  Courtney rose and moved around her desk menacingly.  “You should have hired that detective.”

     Sophie smiled, and remained seated.  “But I did, dear.  After all that surveillance I was plumb tuckered out, so I hired someone to help me.  He let me use this.”  Sophie undid the top button of her blouse to reveal a slim transmitter taped beneath.  “I told you technology was marvelous."

     Courtney froze in mid-stride.  The letter opener thumped softly on the carpet as someone pounded on the door.    

     Sophie rose and admitted two men.  “Mister Evans is my private detective.  This gentleman is a policeman, and I suspect he wants to book you for conspiracy to commit murder.”  As the officer handcuffed her, Courtney looked like a deer caught in somebody’s headlights.

     “I had my doubts,” Evans said to Sophie, “but in the end your plan was pretty good.”