by Don Potter
“Since your audience is mostly men, can’t you just make a bold statement several times and they’ll accept it as fact.”
“Cute. Real cute.”
“Mystery writers communicate like those sports show hosts you listen to. They may not always be right but are never in doubt.”
“What brought this on?”
“I get annoyed that there’s no finesse to mystery work, yet no one calls you guys on it.”
“Women write and read mysteries too.”
“Yes, but I’m referring to the overwhelming preponderance of crap that’s out there.”
“There’s lousy chick lit too.”
“The difference is that most mystery writers talk to their audience. They’re too direct, charging straight ahead much in the way a football player goes into the line. Conversely, chick lit writers talk with their readers, like having a conversation with a friend. Maybe that’s too subtle for you.”
“If you’re looking for a fight you won’t get it from me. I’m going back to my study and read some more. After being called an unimaginative, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal with a keyboard as a plaything, I don’t think I’ll be dozing off anytime soon.”
Charlotte felt she won this exchange and looked forward to prevailing in many more such conversations as the game moved forward. The tea was enjoyable and a good night’s sleep would be her reward for enduring this day.
Despite a rocky night of sleep, Paul rose early and was out of the house before Charlotte woke. He drove to the local eatery and read the Philadelphia Inquirer while having breakfast. Wilmington was much closer to Chadds Ford and the news was more local, but the News Journal was an inferior newspaper in Paul’s opinion. On his second cup of coffee, the man that everyone acknowledged as the historian of the area walked into the restaurant. To Paul’s surprise he came to his table.
“Mind if I join you?” he said.
“It would be a pleasure.”
“Like something to eat?” Paul asked.
“Coffee. That’s all. Understand you’re snooping around trying to uncover information about some unsubstantiated murder or murders that may have occurred in these parts back in 1777.”
“As a mystery writer and local resident, I thought the notion of a serial killer lurking in Washington’s Army would make an interesting story.”
“If you’re writing fiction, so be it. However, there is no evidence to support this notion that the story you’re trying to write is anything but fiction. To suggest otherwise is an outright lie. Anyone doing so will be acting at his own peril. I trust I have made myself perfectly clear. Good day, sir.” He left before his coffee arrived.
“Check please,” Paul said to the waitress. His neighbor from down the road observed the discussion that just took place from the corner table where he was sitting. He got up and said, “Mind if I join you?”
“I hope the conversation will be more satisfying than the one I just had.”
“Look, this is a tight-knit community. One that is wary of outsiders. By the same token, we are very concerned about our reputation. We have a fine history, cultural status and a host of visitors that stop by, spend money, and leave.”
“I’m aware of all this.” Paul was irritated but tried not to show it.
“Certainly you are. But those of us who have lived here all our lives and have family trees that go way back have a deep-seated interest in upholding tradition.”
“What does tradition have to do with a rash of dead bodies found throughout the Chadds Ford area after the Battle of Brandywine?”
“There were many bodies discovered after the Colonial’s retreated to Philadelphia and tried to regroup. Many of the dead were not soldiers. So why speculate about how they died more than two hundred and thirty years later?”
“Because it makes for good story telling. And that’s what I do for a living.”
“Well, I doubt if your neighbors would appreciate you making a living at their expense.”
“I have no intention of hurting anyone.”
“Then no one has any intention of hurting you either.” The neighbor got up and said, “Have a pleasant day.”
“Ostracized. We’ve been ostracized.” Paul announced to Charlotte as he barged into the kitchen.
“What are you talking about?”
“I just had two of Chadds Ford’s leading citizens’ lecture me regarding what I can and can’t write.”
“You’re kidding.”
”I wish I were. The locals are threatening to turn their backs on us or worse if I write the book about the murders surrounding the Battle of Brandywine.”
“How far in the past do they want to live?” They never accepted us because we don’t have Chadds Ford roots.”
“But this seems sinister.”
“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Can’t take threats, real or implied, too lightly.”
“What are you going to do?”
“First, I’ll call my agent.”
“Sid can’t change the attitudes of people here.”
“No, but he can tell me about any possible legal ramifications. After that, I’ll continue to do my research.”
“So you intend to keep writing the story?”
“I’m more convinced than ever that there’s something to the legend. Something the establishment of Chadds Ford does not want the world to know.”
“Do you really feel we’re in danger?” Charlotte was buying into the premise as the conversation continued.
“I don’t think there’s really anything to worry about, Char. But I don’t feel as safe now as I did before the events of this morning.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Better to be aware of the situation than be surprised later. I’m going to call Sid before he leaves for one of those famous three martini lunches with a publishing executive at a fancy Manhattan restaurant.” “At least he’s still having lunches and pitching, which I understand is more than some agents do these days.”
“Talking to him after one of those sessions is like having a conversation with a brick wall. Let me amend that, a brick wall makes more sense.” He gave a faint laugh and retreated to his study to call the agent.
“I’m going to New York to meet with Sid. Then we’re going to meet with an attorney. Based on the outcome of these sessions, a meeting with the publisher may be in order. They paid me an advance a year ago based on the concept I sold them. We’ve spent most of the money, so I better be sure nothing keeps me from finishing the book.”
“This thing may be getting out-of-hand. And now you’re running off and leaving me here all alone.”
“If I have to return the advance it would definitely be considered as being out-of-hand.”
“Why don’t I come with you?”
“Nah. This will be a quick overnighter. I’ll take the train from Wilmington tomorrow morning. Stay in midtown. And be back the next evening. This is not a pleasure trip.”
“It would be for me if I went.”
“Please, Char let me go solo on this. I need to focus on this and nothing else.”
“All right, if you insist. But I don’t like it.” She wanted to fight him, but decided this was not a battle she would win. Instead she asked, “Do you think it’s a good idea for me to be alone here?”
“You’re not the target. I am.”
Paul left for New York early. Charlotte slept in and it was mid-morning before she finished a light breakfast and was ready to start her day. The first thing that came to mind was to see if Paul had opened the box containing the Murder Your Wife & Get Away With It manuscript and if he was involved in any editing.
The package was not on his desk. She opened all the drawers, checked the file cabinets and the room’s only closet. Convinced it was not in his study, Charlotte raced throughout the house looking for the box. It was gone.
She decided to have a cup of tea. Charlotte always did this when stress came into her
life. Lately she had been drinking a lot of tea.
Charlotte concluded Paul didn’t want her to go because he had the manuscript with him. That way he gets the book deal signed and establishes when this took place. It’s his overarching alibi, she thought. Then he can execute his plan. The story about his other book and how it upsets the folks around there is just a cover for him and diverts attention from Paul’s ultimate goal: to murder her.
Charlotte did all she could to keep busy most of the day. She tried editing her recently completed first draft but soon discovered her ability to focus was non-existent. So, she decided this was as good a time as any to clean out the drawers and closets throughout the house.
She worked until seven o’clock with only a short break for a quick bite to eat. To reward herself, she built a fire, opened a bottle of wine, and plopped down on the couch to unwind. She sat in the spot that Paul usually staked out as his territory. As she sunk down to the awaiting comfort, Charlotte noticed something sticking out between the cushions. It was a checkbook and belonged to Paul.
A quick perusal indicated there had been nearly one hundred thousand dollars in the account before a check for twenty thousand was written two days ago. This discovery sent Charlotte into a rage. The glass of wine she poured to enjoy the moment ended up being an empty bottle to forget the present.
At eight in the morning she woke, still on the couch. Charlotte had a pounding hangover and was shivering in spite of being under a blanket that she crawled under sometime in the middle of the night. The fireplace was dark and the cold air crept through the opening and across to where she was lying. It was obvious to her that it would only get colder unless she did something.
“That bastard Paul. I don’t know what he’s up to; but as far as I can see, he’s up to no good.”
She threw a couple of logs on the grate and relit the fireplace. Next she grabbed a long coat from the rack by the front door, donned it and put the kettle on for tea.
There were many questions to be answered. Where did he get that money? Why did he need twenty thousand just before going to New York? Who is in on this with him? What was going to be her manner of death? And when will he attempt to kill her?
Charlotte finished the tea while pacing around the kitchen. She put the empty cup on the center island and headed upstairs.
A long hot shower and short trip to Wilmington to do a little shopping ought to make her feel better, she reasoned. After all, there was still about eighty thousand in Paul’s secret little account. He wouldn’t mind her spending some of it. Or did that twenty thousand dollar entry have something to do with her?
Charlotte returned home about 4 PM and was greeted by two fire trucks and a deputy’s car as she drove up the driveway.
“Glad to see you’re okay ma’am.” The deputy said.
“What happened?” Charlotte asked.
“That barn over there caught itself on fire, but everything else ‘round here seems fine.”
“How does a barn catch itself on fire?”
“You’d have to ask the fire chief about that.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s finishing the job of putting out the fire.”
“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked the chief who was standing away from the blaze, hands on hips and an unlit cigar in his mouth.
“This old barn went up and somebody called it in. Good thing they did. Wouldn’t want the fire to have spread to the other buildings. Especially the main house. It’s under control now. Nothing to worry about.”
“Well I do have something to worry about. How did the fire start?
“Can’t say for sure. Have to give the County a call and have them send someone out to take a look.”
“When will that be?”
“Soon, but don’t disturb anything in the barn ‘til they get here.”
In the midst of the activities, Paul came back from New York. He pulled up to the scene, jumped out of his car, and ran over to where his wife and the chief were standing. He was accompanied by a cold wind and an accumulating darkness.
“What happened, Char?”
“We’ve already been through that,” she replied.
“I haven’t been through it.”
“Barn caught on fire. A neighbor reported it. We put it out. Everything’s under control,” the chief said.
“And the chief is going to have someone over in West Chester investigate the cause. Right chief?”
“That’s right.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Anything else?”
“If you have insurance, it would be a good idea to contact whoever sold it to ya.”
“I’ll do that. Come on, Char. Let’s go inside. It’s getting cold out here in more ways than one.”
“Help me take these packages inside.” Charlotte opened the truck to display a bounty of bags from a number of stores.
“Christmas is long over. What’s with this shopping spree?” Paul asked. He put the booty on the kitchen table, removed his coat, and started to build a fire.
“Since you came into all this money, I figured you would want my help in spending it.” She held up the checkbook and opened it to the transaction register.
“Where did you get that?”
“Where is not the question. Why are you holding back on me is the question.”
“I can explain.”
“Go ahead. I’m listening. You have the chance to tell your story, but there will be no rewrites or edits.”
“It’s a long story.” Paul quickly tried to gather his thoughts.
“I have time.”
“You made no secret about being unhappy here.”
“So you’re making this about me?”
“Let me finish, please.”
“Go on.”
“As I was saying, you’re unhappy living in Chadds Ford and I have come to believe it’s not for me either.”
“It took you long enough.”
“Guess I had dreams of us being like Stephen King and his wife, Tabitha, living in Maine reading and writing the days away.”
“They spend winters in Florida, so there’s no freezing for months on end like we do in this drafty old place.”
“Well, I’m finished with the romantic notion of the way a literary couple should spend their lives together.”
“Not much romance here in Chadds Ford.”
“I’ll take that as a vote of confidence for my decision.”
“Tell me what you decided first.”
“We, my dear wife, are moving back to New York. I put a deposit on a loft in Tribeca.”
“And what about the charming, old farm house in one of the nation’s historic areas.” She tried to sound like the realtor who sold them the property. It was the first time she had a smile in her voice in months.
“I’m calling that realtor in the morning.”
“You really are serious.”
“Serious as a heart attack.” Paul said.
“What about the checkbook?
“That money is the advance on my new book.”
“You already got an advance on the Brandywine serial killings. We put it in our joint account to take care of us for the year.”
“No, I’m talking about the one you read, Murder Your Wife & Get Away With It.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Charlotte believed he did not know she had opened the package and read the manuscript. He was trying to trap her.
“You’re talking to a mystery writer who looks at every situation as part of the plot in life’s story. I could tell the package had been tampered with, because the glue you used to reseal the package was difficult to open compared to the post office glue. Besides, Sid had confirmation that you signed for the delivery long before you gave me the package.”
“I opened it by mistake. After seeing the title I wanted to read more, especially since you never told me about writing your little ‘how-to’ book.”
“That’s because I wrote it before we met. Murder Your Wife is fifteen years old. I forgot about it until rummaging through my closet one day and thought maybe the time has come for the book to be published. Sid read it and agreed. And since I was going to New York, the manuscript went with me so the editor could start work on it. The sooner this book gets into distribution the better off we’ll be; because, thanks to our good neighbors, the Brandywine story is going to need a major re-write. That is if I hope to ever finish the project, let alone get it done on time.”
This place, in fact the entire area is freaking me out,” Charlotte confessed. “How soon can we be out of here?”
“It’s not an overnight move, you know.”
“I get that, but the fire sent me over the top.”
“Now that we’re on the same page, I can get things rolling. I have to go back to New York in a couple of days. When I do, I’ll take some pictures of the loft and have my old architect friend do some renderings. Then you can decide on where you want walls and start working on the build-out details. Right now the place is more like a barn than an apartment.”
“Speaking of barns, what do you think really happened out there?” She pointed in the direction where their barn once stood.
“I have no idea.”
“You must have some suspicions?”
“Look, speculating is only going to get us both into negative moods. Let the insurance company and the County do their investigations. In the meantime, we’ll get our act in order and before you know it the two of us will be back in Manhattan complaining about how noisy, expensive and unfriendly it is.”
“I think the people that don’t want you writing the book that might make their ancestors and their precious little community look bad are the ones behind it.” She had no intention of letting go of this.
“Don’t go there. We’ll be here for at least a couple of months. So forget about them and start thinking about the new life ahead.”
“I want to be out of here tomorrow.”
“You know that can’t happen, so let it go.”
“Okay. I won’t talk about it, but you can’t stop me from thinking about it.”