Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012

“I bought her that Escalade, a one hundred thousand dollar car. Now I’m driving the damn Lexus she left behind. Think about how I felt every time I turned on the car. I mean, wouldn’t you kill a woman who did something like that? Put yourself in my shoes.”

“I like your shoes,” Kenner said, “but I don’t approve of killing women.”

Kenner checked him into the jail. Brownlee helped fill out the paperwork and observed the booking process. Around midnight they finished and walked out the back door of the police station onto the cooling asphalt of the parking lot.

“Man, Kim Collins was some kind of woman,” Brownlee said. “These men went crazy for her.”

“She went through guys like I go through Big Macs.”

“Why didn’t Stitcher just buy another car if it bothered him so much?”

“He was still emotionally involved with Kim. That was his connection. He loved hating her.”

Brownlee thought about that, but Kenner wasn’t sure he’d understand. The kid lived his life in low gear. He had such a sheltered existence that love and hate were almost abstract principles. Finally, the younger man said, “Well, I guess you figured it out.”

“Hardly. I still don’t know why Kim told Stitcher she was pregnant if it wasn’t true. And I can’t explain the last e-mail.”

The detectives knocked on Tony Collins’ front door at eight-thirty the next morning. The widower was up and dressed in creased slacks, a knit shirt, and brown Italian loafers. Kenner realized he had a philosophical opposition to shoes without laces, except for bedroom slippers.

“You should have called.”

“We made an arrest,” Kenner said. Collins motioned for them to come inside. They sat down again at the kitchen table and Kenner laid the photo of Kim and Tony Collins right in front of him.

“Your wife was killed by a man named Jon Stitcher, a lawyer who lives in Atlanta,” Kenner said. “Heard of him?”

“Never.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, Kim might have mentioned his name.”

“Stitcher said your wife sent e-mails saying she was pregnant. That upset him for two reasons. He still loved her. And he’d gotten a vasectomy at her insistence.”

“A vasectomy. Holy crap,” Collins said. He walked to the sink, drew a glass of water, and took a small swallow. He cleared his throat and said, “She wasn’t pregnant. I’m absolutely sure of that.”

“She said some real mean things,” Kenner said. He unfolded a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Here’s one e-mail that was sent last week. ‘Dear Jon, blah blah blah, we just saw the sonogram. It’s a boy! We’re going to name him Anthony. I’m ecstatic. I hope you find this kind of happiness someday. Blah blah blah. Regards, Kim.’ ”

Kenner laid the paper on the picture frame.

“Wow. This is a kick in the gut,” Collins said. “Now I feel like I didn’t know my wife at all. I feel kind of sick.” He put his hand over his mouth, burbling, “Excuse me.”

Kenner grabbed his arm and stood, holding him in place.

“Mr. Stitcher allowed us to look at his e-mails after his arrest. He received one from your wife at ten-oh-five yesterday morning. That’s hard to explain, since she was shot to death five minutes earlier.”

Collins moved his lips, as if to speak, and sat down again.

“Oh shit,” he said.

“We know your wife didn’t send those e-mails,” Kenner said. “You did.”

Collins pressed his hands against his temples, as if to squeeze something out of his brain. He slapped his palms on the table and said, “I didn’t know about his vasectomy. I really didn’t know. Do you really think the e-mails made him do it?”

“He loved Kim. Yes, the e-mails made him do it.”

Collins scrunched his face and wailed, “No, no, no, no. Kim, Kim, Kim.”

Kenner grabbed the photo and held it up to Collins’ face. “This beautiful woman is dead because of you.”

Collins knocked the photo to the floor with both hands, causing the glass in the frame to break. He jerked to his feet, knocking his chair backwards.

“Stop it!” he yelled. “I didn’t want her killed. I just wanted to hurt Jon Stitcher. I got sick of hearing about him and his car and their social life and the way he treated her like a princess. Screw him! So I got his e-mail address and I sent the messages. And I told that lie about her being pregnant. And you know something? It made me feel better.”

Collins stood in the middle of the kitchen with his fists balled, panting like he’d just run a mile. “Screw! Jon! Stitcher!”

Kenner stepped into Collins’ face and said, “You did it because your wife conned you into getting a vasectomy too.”

Collins recoiled and deflated, like a rowdy child slapped by a parent. Shame seeped into his face.

“I gave her everything — a new house, a new car,” Collins whispered. “I uprooted my life, left my friends behind. But it was never enough for Kim. I thought one more thing would make her happy.”

He staggered out of the kitchen, still shaking his head as he crossed the living room. At the other end of the house, a door slammed.

The detectives drove in silence until they reached the police station and pulled into the parking spot designated for the detective’s car. Brownlee left the car running for the air conditioning.