“Good morning everyone,” I said, “and welcome to the Worrell Institute for Creativity. I must admit that when Dr. O’Neill informed me that many of you would be from outside the institute, I suffered a momentary panic. But I think we’ll all adjust just fine, and that you’ll take away from today some useful information about writing a murder mystery.”
I felt surprisingly relaxed. As O’Neill was introducing me, I remembered the advice of an old friend who made a living giving lectures and speeches. “Just pretend everyone in the audience is naked,” he’d said.
Which I did, but only for an initial minute. The large room was cold. Obviously, the extensive renovations on the Worrell Mansion hadn’t included an upgrading of the building’s central heating system. Pretend everyone in the room was naked? The only visual I could come up with was a convention of goose pimples. I replaced everyone’s clothing and relied on my own inner ability to stay calm.
“Let me begin by reminding you of one simple truth: The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.’ ”
The quote got the response I’d hoped for. They laughed. I was becoming more relaxed by the minute.
“I’m afraid I can’t take credit for that clever comment,” I said. “An American writer named Mary Heaton Vorse said it many years ago, and it’s as applicable today as it was back then. It applies to all writers—mystery writers, novelists, non-fiction writers, speech writers, and poets.”
There were nods throughout the room.
“Another saying that I often recall when preparing to sit down and write, was quipped by the famous, and impish Noel Coward. He said, ‘What I adore is supreme professionalism. I’m bored by writers who can write only when it is raining.’ ”
“To that, I say, in the vernacular, ‘Right on!’ Many men and women who call themselves writers wait for a rainy night, or another externally induced mood, to write. Everything must be right. The setting must be right. The weather must be right. Well, I consider that not only nonsense, it represents, at least to me, a cop-out, to use another popular term. Professional writers
—real
writers—don’t wait for rainy days and nights, although I’m sure Mr. Coward had plenty of those in England.”
There was more laughter. This was easier than I’d anticipated, made more so by familiar faces in the crowd. Susan Dalton, whose aspirations to write a mystery had been clearly spelled out to me, sat front and center. Jo Jo Masarowski, the computer artist, was next to her. What he would get out of a lecture on mystery writing was beyond me.
But he wasn’t the only nonwriter in the audience. Barbara McCoy, the musician who’d accused Maureen Beaumont of having stolen her musical score, was in the third row.
It occurred to me during O’Neill’s introduction that the outsiders had paid to be here. How much it had cost them, I didn’t know. Obviously, O’Neill and his staff saw the seminar as a moneymaking opportunity. I couldn’t blame them for that. O’Neill had insisted I accept a token payment. We’d settled on a hundred dollars, which I intended to contribute to the children’s wing of our local hospital. I just wished he’d been more forthright. Keeping it to himself until the last minute had left me with a slightly salty taste.
I’d just gotten into the subject of plotting when a serious, and overtly nervous young man, interrupted with a question.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I intended to have a formal question-and-answer period later. But let’s open it up now. Fire away when a question hits you.”
A woman interrupted the young man. “It’s freezing in here,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself for emphasis.
“It is cold,” I said. “I suggest everyone put their coats back on.”
“They can’t pay the heating bill?” an elderly gentleman muttered.
I buttoned my cardigan sweater and pointed to the young man with the question. “Maybe we can heat things up with some provocative questions,” I said.
He introduced himself as a struggling mystery writer, who didn’t depend upon his imagination to come up with titillating plots. He preferred to turn to newspapers and news magazines to provide him with juicy characters, and twists of plot.
I smiled. “Certainly,” I said, “the novelist’s imagination often pales in comparison to real life, especially in these days of Lorena Bobbits and Joey Butafuccos. But what it means to me is that the novelist must simply work harder to compete with life’s crazy real events.”
I suggested a fifteen-minute break. I’d been talking for over an hour. And, I needed a bathroom. Too much of Seth’s coffee that morning.
I quickly left the makeshift stage, beat the crowd out the door of the conference room, and was on my way down the stairs when Michael O’Neill stopped me. “How is it going?” he asked.
“Fine. I think.”
“I haven’t been able to sit in yet. Hopefully this afternoon, after lunch. From the sounds of the applause. I’d say you have them in the palm of your hand.”
“It’s going smoothly.”
“Got a moment?”
“Just one. Nature is calling.”
He grinned. “Just one, Jessica. Promise. Amanda and I are getting a divorce.”
“I’m sorry to hear that Michael.” I didn’t add that it came as no surprise.”
“It’s messy. Getting messier by the moment.”
“These things sometimes are. Excuse me. I really have to—”
“Jessica.”
“Yes?”
“Are you free for dinner this evening?”
“Uh, yes. No. I have plans. Excuse me.”
I escaped to the restroom.
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
Barbara McCoy followed me through the door. “I’m enjoying this so much,” she said.
“Glad you could make it, Barbara.”
“You’re an amazing woman, Mrs. Fletcher. Jessica. It must be so hard for you to focus on anything other than Norman’s disappearance. You were such good friends.”
Disappearance? Not death? Her choice of words surprised me.
“Yes,” I answered. “It does preoccupy my thoughts at times. But, as they say, the show must go on. Speaking of that.”
I emerged from my stall. Barbara was waiting. We left the restroom together.
“Barbara, when was the last time you saw Norm Huffaker?” I asked as we went up the stairs.
“Monday. We had breakfast together.”
“You used the word ‘disappearance.’ I take from that you have doubts about whether he took his life. Any idea where he might have gone? Did he say anything at breakfast that morning?”
“Not a clue. That’s what’s so mysterious about it. That note found in Dr. Meti’s car. I don’t buy it. Norman was not suicidal!”
She evidently knew Norm better than I’d realized.
“Maybe he was kidnapped,” she said. “Or he’s no longer Norman Huffaker.”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe he’s assumed a new identity, is living off the land in Wisconsin. Or Brazil.”
With another woman? I mused. Mort Metzger had raised that possibility.
“Barbara, do you have any evidence to support what you’re suggesting?”
“No. Just a gut instinct, which I always trust.”
“I hope your gut is right this time,” I said. “Time for me to get back.”
The rest of the morning flew by. I stressed the need for revision and rewrite. “You can’t rewrite enough,” I said. I passed out copies of the manuscript I’d brought, as well as the published book. “Compare the first few pages of the first draft of the manuscript with the finished pages in the book,” I said. “You’ll see that the published product bears little resemblance to the draft.”
I ended the morning session with a reminder that one of the cardinal sins of fiction writing is to tell the reader what a character is all about, rather than allowing the character to evolve through his or her actions. “Play out a scene. Don’t tell the reader what has happened. Let readers experience it, and come to the conclusion you intend for them to reach. Describe a beautiful woman—what she wears, how she holds herself—rather than
saying
she’s beautiful. I once asked a friend of mine, a wonderful composer of popular music, to write a song for me. His response was, ‘If you told me to write a love song tonight, I’d have a lot of trouble doing it. But if you tell me to write a love song about a girl in a red dress in a bar, who’s on her fifth martini, and whose lover is dancing close to another woman while red-dress is falling off her chair, that makes it a lot easier.’ ”
Pleased with the way the morning had gone, I announced that the institute had prepared a delicious lunch for everyone attending the seminar. “Before we fill our stomachs,” I said, “I’ll take a few questions about what’s been discussed this morning.”
The room resembled a baseball stadium filled with fans doing “the wave.” Everyone seemed to have a question.
“Do you have favorite mystery writers?” I was asked.
“Oh, yes. Many.” I talked a little about Marjorie Ainsworth. “But there are so many others,” I said. “I’m as much of a fan of Ruth Rendell and P. D. James as I’m sure most of you are. But don’t limit your reading to only the most popular authors, or those of most recent vintage. Poe and Dickens wrote superb mysteries. And, of course, Dame Christie. I love Dorothy Sayers. Read Wilkie Collins, especially his classic, ‘Woman in White.’ Stanley Ellin. Margaret Millar. Recently, I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on by Ellis Peters. Mixing history and murder is so much fun. Next?”
I pointed to a middle-aged woman whose red hair was swept up in a French bun, and whose sequined aqua blouse had caught my attention earlier.
“Mrs. Fletcher, my name is Audrey Black. I’m with the
Boston Globe.
You were a close friend of Norman Huffaker. Could you comment on the recent rash of suicides that have occurred here at Worrell?”
I was momentarily speechless. A reporter at the seminar, whose only interest was gaining a quote for a story?
“Ms. Black,” I said, “I admit my surprise at your question. I must also tell you that I will not answer it. I will only take questions about the subject of this seminar.”
“All right,” she said. “How has the suicide of Norman Huffaker impacted the novel you’re currently working on?”
“Another question?” I asked, scanning the room, and avoiding the
Globe
reporter.
I acknowledged an older gentleman with a shock of thin gray hair, and a scraggly gray beard. “Yes, sir?”
“Mrs. Fletcher, wouldn’t you say that what’s taken place here at Worrell in the last few weeks is the stuff that dreams are made of for mystery writers?”
“Perhaps.”
“The earlier discussion about building plots and characters from real life intrigued me,” he said. “Surely, it’s crossed your mind that a potentially Edgar-winning plot is unfolding right before your eyes.”
“I haven’t thought of it that way,” I said. Which was true. While I use all of my life experiences in writing my novels, the unfortunate incidents at Worrell had not become grist for any writing I would do, even though I was using a similar artists’ retreat as a setting for
Brandy
&
Bullets.
But he had a point.
“I suppose you could perceive the tragic events here as a basis for a murder mystery out of the ‘cozy’ school,” I said. “Artists’ retreat. Professional jealousies.” I looked at Barbara McCoy, who’d accused Maureen Beaumont of having stolen her musical score. Her face was blank. “Motive,” I continued. “Proximity. Unstated agendas. Yes. Of course it makes for a potential plot. But so does a diner like Mara’s in town. The mayor’s office. The local hospital. No. I have not considered the events here at the Worrel Institute to be fertile ground for any book I intend to write. One of the victims was a dear friend.” I looked at Ms. Black from the Boston
Globe.
“I prefer to write about crimes that haven’t been committed in real life, victims who are personally unknown to me. Thank you for your attention this morning. Lunch is served. Hopefully, the food will be warmer than this room has been.”
Chapter Thirteen
I arrived home from Worrell at five, chilled to the bone. I turned up the electric heat in the house and crouched over one of the baseboard units, rubbing my hands and blowing on them. It was the kind of chill you only experience when exposed to low temperatures indoors for an extended period, a pervasive cold, different from being outdoors in winter. I seldom suffer from the cold in winter, but invariably start shivering when temperatures moderate in early spring. Must have to do with the humidity, or weather inversion, or something. My brief college flirtation with becoming a weather forecaster hadn’t provided the answer.
I put a match to the newspapers, kindling, and logs I’d stacked in the fireplace before leaving that morning. The sheer sight of flames springing to life was immediately warming. My chill wasn’t terminal. A hot buttered rum, and gravlax I’d prepared the night before, would complete my thaw.
I slipped my cold feet into big, bulky, fuzzy sheepskin slippers, set my rum and gravlax on a table next to my recliner in front of the fireplace, sat, stretched my legs, sighed contentedly, and reflected on the day.
The seminar had gone well, despite the intrusion of Ms. Black from the
Boston Globe,
and another reporter from a supermarket checkout tabloid who suggested that the Worrell Mansion might be haunted.
“Have you see any ghosts?” I’d asked.
“I can feel them,’ she said.
“Are they as cold as I am?” I asked, which brought a few snickers from the audience.
“You don’t believe in ghosts?” she asked me.
“No, I don’t. On the other hand, I don’t not believe in them, any more than I summarily dismiss reports of UFOs. Do you have a question concerning the writing of a mystery novel?”
“Why are people dying here?”
“Without question, at the hand of a vindictive ghost,” I said. “Let’s get back to the business of plotting.”
As I sat in my recliner, and sipped my rum, I realized how fatiguing the day had been. I was exhausted. Working all day in a cold environment hadn’t helped. But my exhaustion had more to do with having to exercise my brain than with the temperature. People who don’t spend their working days thinking have trouble understanding how tiring it can be. I always know when a day at my word processor has been successful. If I don’t come away from it drained, it hasn’t been.