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9 Murder Mysteries

Page 22

by Don Potter


  WRITERS

  “I love you, Charles. And that is why you must go.” Jennifer wept as she spoke. “But the essence of the special moments we had together will live for eternity.”

  “Don’t talk that way. The doctors may still find a cure. You must remain hopeful,” Charles replied knowing her condition was terminal.

  “My hope is for you to find true love again. You deserve to be happy. All I ask is that you think of me once in a while.”

  They embraced. Charles left. Jennifer watched him walk out of sight. Then she swallowed a hand-full of pain pills, eased herself onto the bed, and faded into a dreamy unconsciousness imaging the joy that might have been.

  “That does it,” Charlotte said to the screen in front of her. She sat for a moment then hit the save button before shutting down the computer. Charlotte did not experience the joy of accomplishment that usually went with the completion of the first draft of her novels. This time she was enveloped in sadness - a feeling of loss – along with the sense of impending doom. Charlotte was quick to blame her feelings on the recent streak of foul Southeastern Pennsylvania weather but suspected it was because this was her first novel she had written since the nervous breakdown.

  “A cup of herbal tea is what I need,” she exclaimed. Charlotte left her writing room, as she called it, and walked down the backstairs of the two hundred year old farm house to the newly remodeled kitchen, a project her husband had completed before she returned home six month ago. As she placed the kettle on the burner, the doorbell rang.

  “Got a package for ya,” the postman said. “Need to have ya sign for it.” He handed Charlotte the standard USPS shipping container that she and her mystery-writer husband used to ship their manuscripts.

  “Hope you and the mister have a nice day.” The man took the signed receipt and jumped into his white, red and blue vehicle. He turned on the engine and lit a cigarette before heading down the long tree-lined driveway which was bordered by dirty snow all the way to the asphalt road nearly a quarter mile away.

  The kettle whistled; its job was finished. Soon Charlotte was sitting at the antique plank table with a steaming cup of tea in front of her. Instinctively, she opened the box without reading the label. Upon opening the flaps, she saw a manuscript entitled Murder Your Wife & Get Away With It.

  Charlotte glanced away from the title on the cover page to see the author was her husband, Paul. She was not aware that he had written this. A Post-it note attached to the front page was from his agent. It said, ‘You may have something, here.’

  Curious, she started to read. She knew it would be a couple of hours before Paul returned, since he was out doing research on his latest novel. He was writing a story, set in their historic Chadds Ford community, about a serial killer who hid among the troops during the Battle of Brandywine and left behind a string of bodies after the colonial soldiers retreated.

  Charlotte engrossed in her reading and was about half way through the manuscript when she heard Paul’s car. He was home sooner than expected. So Charlotte quickly put the manuscript away. She was upset with what she had read so far and planned to finish it before deciding what to do next.

  “Hi, Char. What are you up to? How’s the writing going?” He took off his gloves. Then rubbed his bare hands together to try and get warm after spending most of the morning visiting battle sites. “I’ll only be home for a fast lunch before going out and knocking on the doors of some Chadds Ford residents. Getting them to talk is like pulling teeth. And the ones whose families have lived in the area since revolutionary times are the most difficult of all.”

  “I finished my manuscript while you were gone.” As usual, they spoke about their respective literary worlds without seeming to care about the other person’s real life. When they did venture into the other’s space it was often contentious, so they stayed away from matters that had to do with feelings.

  “What’s next on your agenda?” Paul asked.

  “I have no idea.” She was not ready to discuss the story he had kept from her. In truth, Paul’s secret novel was just one more problem in a litany of problems their marriage had been experiencing since Charlotte returned home.

  “It amazes me how you keep that ‘chick lit’ you write fresh and interesting.”

  “What do you mean by that remark?”

  “Nothing. It was a compliment.”

  “My work does not call for at least six murders and a slew of detectives exhibiting uncanny powers of deductive reasoning based on clues that magically appear at just the right time. Chick lit, as you call it, deals with real emotions and behaviors that revolve around the human condition and relationships. It’s all about love. Something that you seem to know very little about.”

  “Whoa. Did I become a target in the battle of the sexes? Call off the dogs. I surrender.” He reached in his back pocket, pulled out his white handkerchief, and waved it.

  “Sorry, but I always feel as if you look down on my genre of literature. It demeans me, so please stop. I’m feeling a little blue after finishing this story.”

  “You mean you got hooked by your own tale?” Paul laughed.

  “This has nothing to do with the storyline. It’s about me.”

  “I understand; it happens to me too. Sometimes the mind says, ‘you’ll never be able to write another word.’ It’s kinda like I wrote myself out of a job and don’t know if I’ll ever find another one.”

  “But the feeling always goes away after I start editing and rewriting.” Charlotte stated this as a fact and hoped it would be true as she moved on to the next phase of the project.

  “Exactly,” he said as if there was no doubt about it.

  “Maybe it’s because the words are pure and innocent like a new-born baby. Guess I want to keep them that way,” Charlotte lamented.

  “But we live by the writer’s creed that we must kill our own children. If we want our work to be the best it can be we must relinquish ownership of our words.”

  “How did you make out today?” Charlotte asked. Shifting her attention to Paul might keep the anxiety she was feeling from growing into a full-blown attack.

  “After six years of living here, the residents sort of accept me. But they treat me like a newcomer; or, worse yet, a reporter from the National Enquirer when I bring up the subject of the killings back in September of 1777.”

  “They should accept you. After the Wyeth family, you’ve brought more positive publicity to this place than any other resident.”

  “I’m not sure these folks appreciate notoriety. They like the quiet, well-mannered life. Always pleasant to one another and no questions asked.”

  “You’re not probing into anyone’s personal life. They all admit the legend exists. And if there is any truth to the story hard facts will be hard to find. After all, it took place more than two centuries ago,” Charlotte said as she placed several varieties of cheese on the table along with a loaf of French bread and two apples.

  “Yes, but it seems as if I’m shaking a few family too many trees. Do that and everyone clams up.”

  “So you’re going to have to rely on library research and Internet searches?”

  “Hell no. This makes me work all the harder. Got to be a little more subtle in my questioning. Then I might find out why the legend bothers these people so much. I’ll tell you this, someone will talk. They always do. Then I’m going to be all over them like white on rice.”

  “Sometimes you talk like the unsavory detective characters you write about,” Charlotte observed.

  “Nah, the characters I write about talk like me.”

  “Spoken like a true mystery writer.” The discussion made her almost forget about her feelings and the manuscript she hid in the cupboard. Almost.

  A few minutes later, Paul was finished eating. “Thanks for lunch. I’ve got to run. See ya later.” He was gone in an instant.

  “I can’t believe he wrote this crap.” Charlotte said as she finished reading and tossed Paul’s manuscript
on her desk in disgust. The disgust quickly turned into low-grade fear. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this and find out what’s behind his manuscript.” She placed the document back in the shipping box and resealed the flaps with glue rather than tape to give the impression that nothing had been disturbed.

  “It’s as cold today as it was yesterday,” Paul said as he burst through the kitchen door and hastened to close it behind him. He placed a pile of work papers on the table.

  “A package came for you, Charlotte announced.

  “Who’s it from?”

  “Didn’t notice. As I said it’s for you.” She handed him the box hoping he would not examine it too carefully.

  “It’s from my agent. Should have been here yesterday.”

  “You know how the post office is these days. Can’t depend on them.”

  “Wouldn’t use them at all except to get other people’s editing input on paper. The computer is the fastest and surest way to send manuscripts.”

  “Is that what’s in the package?” Charlotte wanted him to open it so she could engage him in a discussion about the subject matter.

  “Don’t know. Could be a manuscript from a new author Sid wants me to read. These agents take a bite out of everything we write and still want our help for free. I’ll open it later.”

  “But it might be important. It came registered delivery. I had to sign for it.”

  “That’s Sid’s way of trying to get my attention. I’ll check it out after dinner.”

  “If you don’t want to read the manuscript, I’ll be glad to do it. Marking up someone else’s work might put me in the mood to work on my own re-write. Getting started on this task is always difficult for me.”

  “I’d take you up on the offer, but the only genres Sid sends me are mystery and suspense. And I know how much you hate the stuff I get paid big bucks to write.” Paul put the package under his arm and walked down the hall to his study. The match was over and he won.

  Paul was wearing the warmest clothes he could find when he walked into the kitchen. It was a little before 9 AM and he was ready to leave the house.

  “Got an email from the River Museum. They just received some information that I could use in my novel. Sure need something to help get the story moving again. Gonna run over there and see what they have. Be back in an hour or so.”

  When the car turned onto the highway, Charlotte dashed into Paul’s study. She picked up the package, saw that it had been opened, and then resealed with tape. Since she did not know if he knew about her tampering or not, Charlotte headed back to the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea. She sipped the beverage and contemplated the situation. Suddenly she had an inspiration and rushed upstairs to her writing room.

  “Two can play this game. He might be the mystery writer, but a woman knows how to scheme as well as any man. Maybe better.”

  She sat down at the computer and began to write. The more she wrote the more upset she became. Thoughts turned into concepts and then into words as she allowed pent up emotions to flow out of her and onto the computer screen.

  Charlotte was so busy with her writing that she did not hear Paul’s car come up the driveway.

  “Lucy, I’m home,” Paul said in his best imitation of Desi Arnaz.

  “Be right down,” she called back. Moments later she joined him in their usual meeting place, the kitchen.

  “Start your edit?” he asked.

  “No, just jotting down some thoughts for my next project.”

  “Boy, you’re sure not letting any grass grow under your feet. Never knew you to start another book before editing is completed.”

  “When the spirit moves you there’s nothing to do but write.”

  “Wish I could tap into your source of inspiration.”

  “Who knows, you just might be my source of inspiration,” she said.

  “Right now, I hope you’re inspired to make dinner.”

  “No problem. Had a roast in the Crock Pot all afternoon. If you want an early dinner, I’ll make a salad and we can eat now.”

  “Cold weather makes me hungry. And a hearty pot roast is just the ticket. It does smell awfully good. This deserves a nice cabernet. I know just the one. Let me open the bottle so it can breathe.”

  “Sounds like you want to open the wine so you can start drinking it.”

  “Well someone has to sample the wine to be sure it’s not been poisoned, your highness.” Paul bowed as if he were in the presence of royalty.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “You mean the way I bowed?”

  “No I mean the poison remark.”

  “Come on, have you lost your sense of humor?”

  “I just don’t appreciate jokes that aren’t funny.” Charlotte realized her inner fears were surfacing and acted quickly to avoid a confrontation. “Oil and vinegar or bleu cheese dressing?”

  “I’ll live dangerously and have a little of each.”

  “That was great,” Paul proclaimed, patting his stomach. “Let’s get the table cleared and I’ll do my usual chore of washing the dishes.”

  “You have it so tough.”

  “Hey, lots of guys don’t do anything around the kitchen but eat.”

  “Well you’re not one of those guys and this is not a kitchen in which they would be welcomed.”

  “You going to work for a while?” Paul asked knowing it was her usual routine.

  “I was planning to. How about you?”

  “Think I’ll read. The wine and the pot roast on top of being out in the cold made me a little sleepy.”

  “So you’re going to take a nap.”

  “I’m going to read first.”

  “Meaning another quiet night around here.”

  “Most nights are quiet.”

  “That’s the life of a writer.”

  “Especially in Chadds Ford.”

  “Why don’t you invite some friends over for dinner this weekend?”

  “We don’t have any real friends here,” she lamented.

  “Then invite the neighbors.” Paul was finished with the conversation.

  Charlotte shut the door to her writing room, put on a classical music CD, and began to write. She used the music to shut out the rest of the world and allow her to enter the fantasy universe that resided in her fertile mind. After about an hour, she took a break and began to think about the past day. It seemed representative of their lives. Two separate lives. They came together mostly to eat and sleep. After eight years of marriage that was about all there was to look forward to, at least for her.

  Knowing she had to talk with someone, Charlotte decided to call her agent in New York.

  “Pam, it’s Charlotte. Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “No problem. I’m too busy working to have a social life. What’s on your mind?”

  “I finished the first draft of my new book.”

  “That was fast.”

  “I have no life either. So I might as well write.”

  “The more you write the better you’ll feel.”

  “That benefit hasn’t kicked in yet.”

  “It will.”

  “Paul has been acting strange lately.” Charlotte blurted it out as a way to force the conversation to the subject on her mind.”

  “Strange how?”

  “Like I’m not really here except to make meals and listen to him complain about his work.”

  “Living with a writer is not easy.”

  “It’s not that. He treats me different than before.”

  “Could be Paul doesn’t know how to treat you.”

  “Nonsense. We had a number of joint sessions with the doctors before I was released and several more since I came home. He knows what to do and how to act.”

  “There’s a period of adjustment for both of you.”

  “Six months ought to be enough.”

  “For you, but maybe not for him.” Pam was careful not to use any words that might upset Charlotte who was still recovering from
the hospital stay and the ongoing treatment for her clinical depression.

  “I’m sick and tired of the lonely days and quiet nights in this bucolic location, with no friends only acquaintances. Makes me want to scream. If this is the life of a writer, then maybe it’s time for a career change.” Charlotte went on to explain Paul’s secret manuscript and the possibility that he may be planning her demise.

  “Charlotte, you certainly have a vivid imagination and a flair for high drama. But don’t you think your imagination may be running wild?”

  “You don’t understand me. No one does.” Charlotte slammed down the phone and read the stream-of-consciousness that she had frantically written. She believed it was a good start but worthy of a little on-screen editing before moving forward.

  Since her agent was not helpful, Charlotte decided to forge ahead believing her best protection would be to write a story that countered Paul’s novel about murdering your wife. She was convinced he had written the manual on how he was going to get rid of her. It’s been done before, writing a novel about a fictional writer who murders his wife and claims innocence because no one would point the finger of guilt at themselves by putting it in black and white for all to see.

  Charlotte believed she could develop a better plan than his, since Paul had no idea that she read his work. Knowing would allow her to improve on everything or preempt each move and stop him before he could get to her.

  After another hour of writing, Charlotte shut off the computer and went downstairs to close up the house for the night. Paul was asleep on his couch; a book about Revolutionary War battles lay open on his chest. She thought it best to wake him now rather than have him come up stairs later and disturb her.

  “You want some tea?” she asked. “It’ll help you sleep. Or I should say help you get back to sleep.”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “Did you get some reading done?”

  “Not much. History can be a real snorer. I think this latest batch of books is guaranteed to do the trick.”

  “Are you looking for specific information?”

  “I need some facts to support the angle of a serial killer running wild in the midst of Washington’s troops as the Colonials were fighting for their very lives. Spoken legend is not enough to satisfy the critical eyes of today’s mystery aficionados.” He enjoyed making this grand statement.

 

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