A Murder Misstery

"Okay, but what do you mean 'from the skin out'?" I asked as I unbuttoned my shirt.

"I mean this has gotta go," she said with a tug on my chest hair.

"Oh no, you don't!" I protested.

"Listen, silly, if you expect me to make you believable as a girl, you're gonna have to work with me."

"I'm sorry, Tracy, but I've changed my mind."

"Suit yourself," she said in a huff. "I'd just as soon go back to sleep anyway." She tossed my shirt at me, and I was buttoning it back up when the telephone rang. "Hello?" She shot me a hard glance. "Uh, no, I haven't seen him, why?" Her eyes widened. "Really! Wow, that's unbelievable, thanks for letting me know." She hung up and grabbed the TV remote.

"What was that all about?" I asked.

Tracy ignored me, flipping through the channels until she came to a local news station. We both stared speechless as my picture came up on the screen. "According to the FBI, Matt McCoy is suspected of masterminding a scheme to swindle thousands of elderly investors out of their life savings," a reporter was saying.

I felt sick to my stomach. "This can't be happening."

"Just be thankful that you found out about it before you walked out of here," she said. "You knew this was coming down. Matt, are you sure you're telling me the truth?"

"Tracy, you've got to believe me!" I started to cry, and she took me into her arms.

"I'm here for you, baby," she whispered.

"I'm sorry I was so stupid. Please help me. I'll do anything you say."

The bathroom in Tracy's apartment was strewn with nylons hanging out to dry. They might be falling out of fashion, but not in an apartment shared by three flight attendants. Tracy wore pantyhose every day as part of her uniform, and soon I'd be wearing them too, I thought morosely as I shaved my legs in her bathtub. My arms too, then my chest and underarms, and finally Tracy came in to finish off my back. "You look buff," she said after I toweled myself off.