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Quilley’s.
    The two men drained their glasses and left together. The corner of Bloor and Spadina was busy with tourists and students lining up for charcoal-­grilled hot dogs from the street vendor. Peplow turned toward the subway and Quilley wandered among the artsy crowd and the Rollerbladers on Bloor Street West for a while, then he settled at an open-­air cafe over a daiquiri and a slice of kiwifruit cheesecake to read the Globe and Mail .
    Now, he thought as he sipped his drink and turned to the arts section, all he had to do was wait. One day soon a small package would arrive for him. Peplow would be free of his wife, and Quilley would be the proud owner of one of the few remaining copies of X. J. Trotton’s one and only mystery novel, Signed in Blood .
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    T HREE WEEKS PASSED and no package arrived. Occasionally, Quilley thought of Mr. Peplow and wondered what had become of him. Perhaps he had lost his nerve after all. That wouldn’t be surprising. Quilley knew that he would have no way of finding out what had happened if Peplow chose not to contact him again. He didn’t know where the man lived or where he worked. He didn’t even know if Peplow was his real name. Still, he thought, it was best that way. No contact. Even the Trotton wasn’t worth being involved in a botched murder for.
    Then, at ten o’clock one warm Tuesday morning in September, the doorbell chimed. Quilley looked at his watch and frowned. Too early for the postman. Sighing, he pressed the SAVE command on his PC and walked down to answer the door. A stranger stood there, an overweight woman in a yellow polka-­dot dress with short sleeves and a low neck. She had piggy eyes set in a round face and dyed red hair that looked limp and lifeless after a cheap perm. She carried an imitation crocodile-­skin handbag.
    Quilley must have stood there looking puzzled for too long. The woman’s eyes narrowed and her rosebud mouth tightened so much that white furrows radiated from the red circle of her lips.
    â€œMay I come in?” she asked.
    Stunned, Quilley stood back and let her enter. She walked straight over to a wicker armchair and sat down. The basketwork creaked under her. From there, she surveyed the room, with its waxed parquet floor, stone fireplace and antique Ontario furniture.
    â€œNice,” she said, clutching her handbag on her lap. Quilley sat down opposite her. Her dress was a size too small and the material strained over her red, fleshy upper arms and pinkish bosom. The hem rode up as she crossed her legs, exposing a wedge of fat, mottled thigh. Primly, she pulled it down again over her dimpled knees.
    â€œI’m sorry to appear rude,” said Quilley, regaining his composure, “but who the hell are you?”
    â€œMy name is Peplow,” the woman said. “Gloria Peplow. I’m a widow.”
    Quilley felt a tingling sensation along his spine, the way he always did when fear began to take hold of him.
    He frowned and said, “I’m afraid I don’t know you, do I?”
    â€œWe’ve never met,” the woman replied, “but I think you knew my husband.”
    â€œI don’t recall any Peplow. Perhaps you’re mistaken?”
    Gloria Peplow shook her head and fixed him with her piggy eyes. He noticed they were black, or as near as. “I’m not mistaken, Mr. Quilley. You didn’t only know my husband, you also plotted with him to murder me.”
    Quilley flushed and jumped to his feet. “That’s absurd! Look, if you’ve come here to make insane accusations like that, you’d better go.” He stood like an ancient statue, one hand pointing dramatically towards the door.
    Mrs. Peplow smirked. “Oh, sit down. You look very foolish standing there like that.”
    Quilley continued to stand. “This is my home, Mrs. Peplow, and I insist that you leave. Now!”
    Mrs. Peplow sighed and opened the gilded plastic clasp