A Mystery to Die For

Annabelle got off the train from London and (Wait…should I call her Charlotte, like the princess? Or is Hermione a better choice after all, even with its Harry Potter vibe? No—none of these are working for me.)

“Hello, excuse me, dear author, that’s the third time you’ve changed my name and if you keep this up I will have an identity crisis. A character deserves more respect, don’t you think? Call me Merrilou and let’s be done with it!”

(Hmm. What about Merrilou? Yes! That’ll fit!) Merrilou got off the train from London and saw there was only one taxi and watched another passenger run ahead of her to claim it. Now what? Had the town forgotten she was arriving? The next second she saw a hay wagon with one horse turn into the parking lot.

“Good grief. Did you forget I’m a Hollywood producer, for heaven’s sake? Such people do not ride in one-horse anything. Make it a limo, or at least a high-end something or other.”

(I need to make her more important, more a high-flier.) A BMW was waiting for Merrilou as she stepped off the train from London, much to her gratification. Even better, she saw Randall Grant get out of a car and walk toward her. It had been what, seventeen years since they last saw each other in senior year? He still looked handsome, even at 34.

“No, no. No! Randall Grant! Seriously? That’s like a name in a rom-com movie—this is a mystery, and unless you plan to have him drop dead in a minute, it doesn’t further the plot. And I can’t stand his smug look. Momentum, momentum! That’s what the writers on that panel kept saying to you at the St. Louis conference, or weren’t you listening?

(I better cut out Randall, I think. This is supposed to be a frightening mystery novel, not romantic fluff.) A silver BMW was waiting for Merrilou as she stepped off the train from London, much to her gratification. She saw the chauffeur get out of the car and open the rear door. He gave a slight bow and smiled. Oh dear. She was tired and wanted a rest before the night’s celebrations began in her honor. (Yes, deleting Randall makes it flow much better. Wait…maybe Merrilou should be greeted by a dignitary? Part of the hometown lass makes good scenario? Where is this story going? I feel like I’m losing the thread. Should I add a red herring yet?”)

“Hello, you haven’t even got a crime scene yet so what good would a red herring do? Not to mention, this is beginning to feel like Groundhog Day. Am I to be stuck stepping off trains forever? Why am I here?”

(If only I could stop this incessant voice in my head giving me advice all the time. Gads. I have to focus! I need a dead body to show up soon! Where was I? Oh, yes, she’s in the car.) Merrilou was tired and wanted to rest and have a couple of drinks before the night’s celebrations began. Since they were in her honor as hometown lass makes good, she’d need to pretend she was enthusiastic. Ho-hum. (The word enthusiastic doesn’t sound right. What’s a synonym for enthusiastic? Google time. Excited. Ebullient. Dynamic. Eager. Intense. Lively. Overjoyed. Awake. None of those work for me. I’ll use enthusiastic.)

A real free spirit, that’s you. How long did you spend looking for the right word only to return to a safe one? Fifteen minutes lost from the creative work, alas and lack. Decided on a dead body yet? What about the chauffeur as a candidate?

Hold on. The chauffeur Sherman is yelling at me. He has a message for you. He says don’t make him the body you kill off. He recommends the victim be your executive producer, Hal. I like that idea. Hal messed up the last contract with that streaming channel and insisted it was your fault. I could have ceased to exist. Know what I mean?

(Why am I thinking about my chauffeur and my annoying boss Hal? Actually, maybe one of them should be the victim. With a different name, of course. Or maybe both? I can have two victims. And they don’t matter as characters the way Merrilou does. Of course, Sherman the chauffeur could be a love interest for her, too, until he’s found dead in the garden. Sherman is, after all, replaceable.)

Whoa! Now you’ve done it. Sherman just walked off. Says for you to find someone else to deal with in your erratic and fragmented mind. He has no intention of lingering till you kill him off, and he’s fed up anyway with all the stops and starts, thank you very much. So now what? What about a pitchfork?

(Maybe I should start a new chapter. Yes. Good idea.) Merrilou sank down on the stone bench outside her home, near the pear trees her father had planted ages before. How was she supposed to deal with the news of Sherman’s death? Killed with a pitchfork! She could always find someone to drive her car, but she’d gotten so used to his actor impressions. Such a hideous way to die. She wondered if all the tines had entered his body at the same time. “Stop, Merrilou. Gruesome detail,” she said out loud.

“What’s that? I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m your new chauffeur, Eloise-May. I just heard about Sherman in the parking lot.”

Hello! Where on earth did this one come from? And why that name? Yet another character so soon will confuse the reader, not to mention divert their attention from me.

(I’m on a roll, I think. Adding a new character up front might confuse people, though. Oh, dear. Okay, I’ll let this play out. It might work. If I focus! Write! Write!) “I don’t understand. You came here looking to be a chauffeur exactly when my former one was murdered in the garden?” Merrilou frowned.

“Oh no, that’d be like something I made up, right? I came to answer the ad for a new cook but I’m much happier driving a car, so it was like in that movie 'Serendipity,' you know? Right place, right time. That’s me. I have the knack.” She tossed back her long blond curls.

"For serendipity?”

“No, silly. For being a chauffeur. I’ve watched every car racing movie there is. I’ve driven a taxi in Manhattan at all hours. Do you know if you catch the first green light in Tribeca and time it right you can go all the way up to Central Park South without stopping? Only, you have to do it at 3 in the morning to avoid traffic. That’s where I come from, Manhattan. Learned how to be a short-order cook there, too, in Old John’s Diner, still open since 1951.”

Please tell me you are kidding, right, making Eloise-May my chauffeur? I can’t relate to her. I’d go mad with her chatter. She talks faster than I do. Make it someone else. In fact, let’s get back to the chauffeur business later, shall we? He-she is a distraction, and he’s dead, anyway. Much more interesting is I’m supposed to be at a celebration, remember? I’m the high-powered Hollywood producer. What exactly have I produced, by the way? Any ideas?

(I’m going in circles with the plot. I better forget the chauffeur for now. Merrilou is being celebrated for her dazzling ability to produce the next shiny thing on a streaming channel. She’s always ahead of trends. Why, she makes trends happen! That’s it. That’s my hook. Isn’t it?) The ballroom was decorated with fairy lights. The whole town and more had already gathered there when she made her entrance, greeted by their wild applause. Merrilou knew her silver-sequined dress set off her blue-black hair to perfection. She’d added several long necklaces of rubies and a diamond bracelet. Standing under a chandelier, she looked dazzling. She saw Hal walking toward her, his arms out in greeting. Always the showman. Was he trying to upstage her again? When the shot rang out, no one was more surprised than she was. Shrieks of dismay echoed through the ballroom. Merrilou could have lived without his bloody hands clutching her silver-sequined dress before he went still.

This is more like it! I’m at the center of things, the star attraction. A second dead body has shown up, just as I recommended. The chauffeur is off-stage and it’s clear I’m going to figure largely in the plot. But couldn’t you rewrite it so my gorgeous dress doesn’t get blood spatter?

(Hmm. I think I’ll leave the scene as it is, even though her dress does get blood on it. Not like there isn’t going to be more of that as the story develops. It adds an air of anticipation. Maybe that can be a red herring? I think so. And now I can bring in the detective inspector, who I’ve been itching to describe.) The DCI appeared at the threshold to the ballroom. At least, Merrilou knew he had to be some high-ranking police officer by his formal clothes and the general air of confidence, not to mention his penetrating stare. Not for him the unassuming role. The owner of the hotel hovered behind him, and someone she assumed must be his DI stepped forward to stand next to him. But how had he gotten here so fast?

“Everyone stay where you are until my men have spoken with you,” he said, his voice ringing out over the room. All buzzing conversation and gasps of horror stopped.

Then he came toward Merrilou and studied the body on the ballroom floor.

What does he look like? I hope you have an actor in mind. Someone like that fellow who played Sherlock Holmes, or John Barnaby of Midsomer Murders, or Sanjeev Bhaskar from Unforgotten, or that actor in “Knives Out.” They know what they’re doing. All of them seductively attractive.

(I know, I’ll write him into the mystery as being seductively attractive! His name is Conroy, Albert Conroy.) “Albert Conroy, DCI.” He held up his badge.

Please, please, stop. Think. Say his name out loud. You can’t consider calling him something so bland, so dull, surely. I can’t spend the next two hundred and fifty pages saying that name. Here’s a better one. Max Banks. Strong name. To the point. Two syllables. The name shouts skillful reasoning. Make sure he has dark hair graying at the temples.

(I think he needs a better name. I’ve got it! Max Banks. Great name. Perfect. I’m a genius. It’s got exactly the tone I’m after. Makes him sound authentic, a man of integrity, and really attractive the way his hair is gray at the temples.) “Max Banks, DCI.” He held up his badge to Merrilou. “I need you to stay where you are until forensics arrive. You’re wearing evidence. They’ll be here within the hour.”

“I’m wearing what? You mean the blood? For heaven’s sake, do you know who I am? I can’t stand here like a mannequin for an hour!”

DCI Banks looked around the room, probing it, as if to get it to release its secrets. Such gravitas, Merrilou thought. So compelling.

At last, we agree! He’s strong. Has presence. Unafraid. My kind of man. All right. I leave things in your obviously now capable hands. But beware. If I sense any egregious thing happening, I’ll be talking to you again. Trust me. Bye for now.

(Whew. Pages 1-3 are done!! Wait…Did Merrilou change her mind? No. Only blessed silence. For now. I’m going to get a large glass of wine, my favorite merlot, and watch Murder She Wrote. Yes, indeed.)

The End