Fiction Can Be Murder
Page 26
“Including cop?” Jenica guessed.
“Including cop. So in a fit of righteous female solidarity, the receptionist lied and said Sheelah was in the dentist’s chair when she wasn’t. Even got one of her friends to do the same at the ER the night before. She’s lucky she didn’t get thrown in jail too. But it just goes to show you what a master manipulator Sheelah is.”
“How did Sheelah get into Melinda’s car to fill it with the mercury?” Kell asked.
I laughed and a bit of egg shot across the table. “Sorry.” I pinched it between my fingers and placed it on the side of my plate. “Seems she disguised herself pretty well and flirted with the guard at the gatehouse into Melinda’s neighborhood. She told him her car broke down and she was waiting for a cab, then asked if she could warm up in the gatehouse. She must have laid it on pretty thick, too, because he left her there when he went to do his rounds. She slipped out, Melinda’s car was unlocked, and the rest is history.”
“Just like how she flirted at the movies the other day.” AmyJo looked at the rest of the group. “Raise your hand if anyone has ever given you the early bird price two hours after it was over and free popcorn.” When no one did, she said, “I know, right?”
AmyJo began passing out her submission for the meeting. “All this has taught me something. My life isn’t as boring as I thought. And I’ve decided that write what you know isn’t such bad advice after all. I know things this week that I didn’t know last week. Like, Charlee’s new BFF sucked as a BFF. The slightly overweight longtime friend is and always has been an excellent BFF. Heinrich and Einstein can have true love, even though they’re so old.” She scrunched her face. “Sorry. And Glu-Pocalypse might be the perfect metaphor. So this is the first chapter of a new thing I’m working on. It’s a YA paranormal romance—again, no offense, guys. One mean girl”—AmyJo made it a point to eyeball me—“who might be a vampire, I’m not sure yet, and lives in a haunted house, ditches her old friend for a new bestie who is definitely a shapeshifter infected with something that makes her prey on humans to survive, but I don’t want her to be a zombie or a cannibal so I’m not sure yet how that works. But anyway, two ill-fated lovers”—she shrugged and smiled at Heinrich and Einstein—“stick to each other like Glu-Pocalypse even while the two BFFs who seem closer actually fall apart as soon as the haunted house starts to come alive. My working title is Glu-Pocalypse Can’t Fix Everything.”
AmyJo finished passing out the pages and sat down to a stunned silence.
I jogged my papers into a neat pile and smiled at her. “Can’t wait to read it.”
We spent the meeting reading, dissecting, and brainstorming AmyJo’s submission.
As we walked to our cars, which were arranged in a perfect line around Kell’s circular driveway, I flung my arm around my old friend’s shoulders. “I think you’re right. Write what you know makes perfect sense.”
AmyJo nodded. “And you know how to write mysteries. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t. Dinner tomorrow?”
“Can we go to Bonita Fajita?”
“No.”
She pouted. “Fine. But then you have to pay.”
“Fine.”
In the garden next to my car, the snow had melted in a perfect circle around the early-blooming crocuses. I saw purple and lemon-colored blooms peeking from the earth, reminding me that some things just happen. There will always be flowers that bloom in the spring, just like there will always be unstable people in the world. I had no power over either phenomenon.
Sliding into my Kia, I flicked Dad’s locker key hanging on the rearview mirror. “Miss you, Dad.”
I held my hand in front of my face. No tremor.
Acknowledgments
It has taken a village to raise me. I couldn’t have written a paragraph, much less a book, without the many critique groups, writing and professional organizations, and very fine writers I’m lucky enough to know. A special shout-out goes to Sisters in Crime national and my stupendously awesome Colorado chapter. They’re my fun, my friends, my absolute inspiration. I also owe my beta readers more than I can ever repay. Cynthia Kuhn, Karla Jay, MB Partlow, and Jessica Cornwell give me insightful constructive feedback, even when I don’t want to hear it.
And you, dear reader. There’s nothing more gratifying than hearing that I’ve entertained you for a bit. It’s my distinct honor and privilege when you choose to read my books. On the flip side, there’s nothing worse than hearing that I’ve made you cranky about something, so let me confess right here, right now, that I made up almost everything about the Denver Police Department to suit my fictional needs, so please don’t storm the castle with torches aflare to tell me they don’t use precincts and such. I already know. Please don’t be cranky.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that my agent Jill Marsal and my publishing team over at Midnight Ink are really good sports about everything I’ve written in this book. I’m thrilled to say that none of them are remotely like anyone I’ve depicted.
About the Author
A highly functioning chocoholic, Becky Clark is the seventh of eight kids, which explains both her insatiable need for attention and her atrocious table manners. She likes to read funny books so it felt natural to write them, too. She’s a native of Colorado, which is where she lives with her indulgent husband and quirky dog.
Becky loves to present workshops to writing groups and is a founding member of the Colorado Chapter of Sisters in Crime. Visit her on Facebook and at BeckyClarkBooks.com for all sorts of shenanigans.