"When I'm Famous," by Dara Carr, in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, June 2014.
This is the best first story I have read in some time. Clever setting: Williamsburg, Brooklyn, among the hipsters.
Exhibit A is our narrator, Mindy. She is, she tells us, a visual person. She has a "make-believe boyfriend," Marcus, who phones her late at night for "booty calls" and she always goes over.
One might diagnose low self-esteem. Here's another example. When Mindy spots a beautiful woman at a party, a "wallpaper artist," she writes:
...Brooklyn royalty and she knows it, the men twitching like they've been tased, the female viewers emitting a soft electric hum, brains working hard, calculating the age they were when they could have last worn shorts that length in public, let alone to a party; beaches don't count.
Age seven would be my answer.
That's good writing.
Pretty soon the wallpaper artist is dead and there is no shortage of suspects. In fact, they show up one after another like city buses.
But before I go here is one more line from our heroine:
One of the less commonly reported dangers of chronic marijuana use is buying decrepid old houses and thinking you can fix them up.