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Mel put a hand on Skippy’s shoulder and said, “Lana called about ten minutes ago. I’m afraid she had some very bad news.”

Skippy turned pale. “Autry?”

Mel nodded gravely. “There was an escape clause. Something about a change in your appearance being grounds for nullifying the contract.” Mel sighed.

Skippy began sobbing.

Mel said, ”What you need, sport, is a cocktail. Now, come on inside, let me fix you a daiquiri. And if it’s any comfort, we already have enough stashed away for retirement. The world is not coming to an end.”

Skippy turned and ran out of the driveway. He ran all the way to Joy’s house. Joy met him in the front yard. A hose in Joy’s hand sprayed water on her geranium bed. Joy’s long feet were bare and her hair had new extensions. She leaned down and kissed Skippy’s cheek, and the first thing she said was, “Skips, are you wearing those platform shoes again?”

“What makes you say that?”

Joy wrinkled her nose, looked him up and down. “You seem taller.” She stood beside him and compared Skippy’s height to hers. “Yep,” she declared finally. “You’re growing, Skips.”

Skippy cursed and, pushing Joy aside, stormed into her house, raided the liquor cabinet, and locked the gin and himself in her bedroom. Joy heard the door slam and the lock snap into place.

At 10 p.m., Joy finally managed to convince Skippy through the barricades that under no circumstances would she spend the night on her own living room couch. Skippy unlocked the door. Once inside, Joy cleverly displayed her still-considerable charms and Skippy soon succumbed. Just for old time’s sake. Around midnight, loud voices in the foyer interrupted them. Joy lit a cigarette and said, “Amy’s got a new tattoo.”

“So?”

Joy drew on the cigarette, watched it burn. “It’s on her tush,” she murmured, but Skippy wasn’t listening. His bright eyes darted in the semidarkness, faster and faster, until Joy quipped, “Skips, you’re plotting again. I can tell.”

That night, Skippy Smathers hung himself from the chandelier in his bedroom.

VI

On opening night, Mel the Diminutive Man played the lead in Standing Tall, played it deftly, with brilliance and flair. Critics praised Mel’s grace in the face of losing his friend, Mel’s courage in walking the Great White Way for Skippy Smathers. In the wink of an eye and at long last, Mel’s star skyrocketed.

He was in the backseat of a limo, coming home from the airport. He was alone because, besides the late Skippy Smathers, he didn’t have any friends. Not the kind you’d want to be seen with in public anyway, with all the Hollywood kleig lights on full blast. Mel was drinking the whole split by himself and basking in his celebrity when suddenly, for no reason at all, he thought of Skippy’s walking cane.

The house in God’s Chosen Neighborhood seemed inadequate, pathetic, really, no place for a meteoric star like Mel. At long last he would move to L.A. Maybe snap up that cool house he’d always coveted on Mulholland Drive. The orchids would love it.

The limo’s headlights washed the patio. A car was parked in the driveway. Mel paid off the limo service and walked up the drive. Joy Smathers greeted him.

Joy was lounging on the patio chaise, reading a newspaper. When she saw Mel, she looked up and smiled. “Mel, you’re home. I’ve been waiting for you.” Joy stood up, folded the newspaper, and tucked it neatly under her arm.

Mel stared.

Joy’s smile twitched. “Why, Mel, aren’t you glad to see me?”

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“I wanted you to know.”

“What? Know what?”

“I figured out how you whittled Skippy’s walking cane down little by little. To make him think he was growing. When all the time his cane was getting shorter. It fooled everyone. Even me. You figured that sooner or later, what with Skippy’s fragile psyche, it would drive him over the edge. Sooner or later Skippy would despair, maybe commit suicide. That was your plan, wasn’t it, Mel?”

“What are you…?”

As if suddenly inspired, Joy blurted, “Did you know that Captain Vancouver named Magnolia Bluff erroneously?”

Mel shook his head.

“Aren’t you curious why he did?”

“No.”

Ignoring him, Joy explained: “Captain Vancouver discovered this part of the world, you know. And he hated everything about it. Hated the rain and the fog and the Indians… I’ll bet he hated dwarfs too.”

“Make your point.”

“Because Captain Vancouver mistook the bluff’s madrona trees for magnolia trees.” Joy broke into a wide smile. “It all comes down to wood, doesn’t it, Mel?”

Mel placed a hand to his forehead.

“This might interest the media,” said Joy. “Or the gossip columnists. I mean, about these cherrywood shavings I found in your orchid plants. Oh, I almost forgot to mention…”

“Can it, Joy.”

Joy shuffled around, a tap dancer at heart, then froze. “To be frank, Mel, it mortifies me to catch you doing something so despicable.”

Sweat bathed Mel’s brow.

Joy said, “See, I took the rubber cup off the bottom of Skippy’s cane. And I saw. It’s locked up in a safe place now. I mean Skips’s cane. Or what’s left of it. See, I figured out what happened underneath that little rubber cup-”

Mel came at Joy, but swift Joy produced another talisman that drew him up short: the Seattle Times, tomorrow’s early edition. Joy had folded the front page to emphasize a small headline: Second Autopsy Reveals Star Dwarf Smathers Was Growing.

Skippy’s photograph accompanied the story.

Joy touched Mel’s sleeve. Lightly, to fix attention on what she was going to say. From her regular-sized heart.

“If only you’d been patient, Mel. If only you hadn’t whittled down his cane. See, I talked to Skippy’s doctor and figured it all out. You didn’t believe him, but something had gone wacky with his pituitary gland. It sometimes happens to a dwarf, you know. So the tightrope had already been greased.” Joy smiled ever so gently. “You didn’t need to push him.” Joy stretched to her full height, reached down, and plucked Mel’s house keys from his trembling hand.

“Come,” said the woman in control of Mel’s destiny, “let’s go indoors and decide on a price for this sweet little Dahl house. I think we should put an offer on the Pierce-Arrow estate, don’t you?”

SHERLOCK’S OPERABY LOU KEMP

Waterfront

It was a quixotic message carved into the side of one of his cows that drew Sherlock Holmes from his farm in Sussex, England to Seattle. The cow tended to move during the carving, so I had removed its head. The carving read: Jacob Moriarity.

I’d rigged the cow to explode upon examination, but having faith in Mr. Holmes, I knew he’d not only survive, but would eventually dissect the cow to find a somewhat wet edition of the Seattle Daily News.

Of the several newsagents I had perused in America, the Seattle Daily News possessed the most colorful attention to lurid details.

Within the pages there appeared pictures of bewildered policemen and well-to-do couples dressed in morbidity and curiosity. The over-bright exposures of the corpses provided a nice touch. Given both the allusions to the supernatural and the country’s fascination with Ouija boards and charlatans, I thought the piece more than worthy.

Confederate Colonel Seeks Revenge!

Seattle police are urging the good citizens of the city to stay indoors after dark. A killer, with a more voracious appetite than this writer’s Aunt Cecile, has been dining, quite literally, on the citizens of Seattle. No one is saying so officially, but several witnesses report seeing a ghostly figure, dressed in full Confederate uniform, fleeing the alleyway behind John McMaster’s store on Oak. A partly devoured body was found there the next morning by Oliver Prindle in his disreputable milk wagon. On the evening of February 4, a similar occurrence was reported, nearly a mile away on 1st Street behind the livery stables. Again, the Confederate ghost was observed hiding like a dog in the shadows. The body found there wasn’t whole either; it was missing both legs! From what your trusty reporter has discovered, similar murders occurred earlier in the year. But we, The Public, were not informed of these heinous crimes by our city policemen.