Death By Email

review.

CHAPTER ONE

Like a bunch of school kids granted an unexpected holiday, the staff piled into the estate cars lining the drive. Alone and aching for a nap, I dragged my weary body up the stairs, hoping the effort would knock me out before my mind kicked into overdrive.

At least I thought I was alone until a metallic snick echoed in the stillness. I had just sat on the edge of my bed when I looked up and saw Millicent standing in my bedroom doorway.

The gun in her hand pointed at my heart. This is your fault, she hissed.

I write mystery novels. Sometimes the real mystery is how to create a plot that doesn’t fizzle and die before the blood dries on the corpse.

During a long spell of writer’s block I bought a second-hand computer. It was a dinosaur, but it fit my budget.

My first goal was to get organized. They said I can store everything on those little disks, meaning I’d save a lot of time once I transfer my notes, scripts and brilliant ideas to disks.

Wait a minute! I just made a mental inventory of the mountain of cardboard boxes stacked to the rafters in my garage.

When I transfer? Nah, I’d rather start over.

So, shortly after buying this gizmo, I tried browsing the ‘Net. That’s slang for Internet for you newbies. All I got was repeatedly kicked off line. Stupid machine! I don’t understand how people can spend their lives online. It’s just another brain drain — right up there with soap operas and vidiot games.

I searched for a site that might help me with my writer’s block, like a support group for the inspirationally impaired. Finally, I traced a link to artists-and-writers.com and there it was — a place where writers and artists can share ideas, post their own prose and art for others to enjoy. Members are urged to comment, offering encouragement and helpful criticism. It even had a chat room, whatever that was.

To join the club, all I needed was to coin a catchy pen name, so I made up one: MysterIous. I know. It’s lame, but all the good ones were taken and it was good enough to get advice on my stories. Free email came with the membership so I could read and cherish all the letters of praise from the other writers who’d be blown away by my skill with words.

After work the next day I rushed home and heated some leftover glop in the microwave — the only function I ever mastered with that appliance. From force of habit I paused and flipped through my mail. Just bills, nothing important. More outgo than income. So what else was new?

Plopping expectantly in front of the computer, I took a deep breath and logged onto the Internet to become a part of the WWW, or the Wide World of Writers!

My palms got sweaty and my throat squeezed so tight I couldn’t have swallowed if my life depended on it. Just as well — the leftover soup cooling in the mug looked and smelled even nastier than it had the day before.

My trembling hand slid the mouse across the pad to the login. I typed my password, and hit the Enter key. That click was to be my open sesame into the Chat Room of Shared Knowledge and Inspiration. I knew that this would solve all my writing problems.

The moderator informed me there were already six members in the chat room, so with a deep breath I clicked yet another enter tab. There was a pause then an announcement popped up on my screen: MysterIous has entered the chat room.

I firmly smothered a juvenile impulse to type Elvis has left the building.

Scintillating lines of prose raced across the screen. I watched eagerly for an opening in the traffic, to merge with the muse and master the mystery of monology. (That’s soliloquizing, or monopolizing a conversation, which is what writers do.) Yeah, I know I get carried away but I’m in love with words and my ultimate goal is to use every single one of them.

Eager to travel this magical highway to the heartland of creative writing, I watched the exchanges slow and then these words appeared:

Elitist wrote Hello MysterIous. What do you say?

Gulp. Someone was talking to me! What do I say? How do I answer a question like that? I had to say something.

MysterIous, Helo.

Good one! That’ll convince everyone I’m MENSA.

Professor, Does your spellchecker work, MysterIous?   

Milo, Do you speak English, MysterIous?

Punctuator, *LOL*

Quill, What kind of writer are you? Alien? *Grin*

Unnerved, I looked for the log-out button. I pushed it. Repeatedly, and viciously, I stabbed it like I would have done a victim in one of my stories. If I were a real writer, that is.

Ransacking my files, I deleted everything.

Yeah, I might have a slight tendency to overreact.

Thank goodness for the recycle bin! After the shock wore off and I’d restored my files, I got mad. Those uppity, snobbity nobodies had no right to make fun of me. They couldn’t chase me away. I returned to that chat room and shouted: HELLO!

A new name appeared on my screen.

GossipQueen, Hi MysterIous, wanna do a private chat?

I wrote back, What’s that?

GossipQueen, There’s a bar at the bottom of your screen. See a button labeled ‘private’? Click it. I’ll be there.

I did then typed, OK, here I am. Who are you?

I’m GossipQueen, call me GQ.

I began to reply, but GQ continued, Don’t mind them. They’re just a bunch of overeducated snobs showing off for their friends.

I had to laugh. That’s exactly what I’d been thinking.

Thanks for the fresh perspective, GQ. Call me MI.

Glad to meet you, MI. So, you’re a writer. Bet you write mysteries?

You win. And you write for a newspaper?

Very good! I freelance for now, but my real goal is to be an investigative reporter.

GQ seemed to have his/her future mapped out. I wondered if it was good manners to ask him/her if he/she was male or female. This whole slash/thing was getting tiresome.

Not up to speed on Internet etiquette, uncertainty prevailed and I asked instead, So, what are you doing hanging out with those low-life highbrows? Friends of yours?

I rarely join the chats. Mostly I just *listen*. You’d be surprised at what people say when they think they’re anonymous.

It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t say too much about myself. I wouldn’t want to end up being misquoted in some checkout rag.

Safe place to reveal secrets without getting caught? I commented carefully.

"Exactly, *LOL* ;-)"

Wait a minute! What’s this *LOL* and *grin* and what the heck is my Spell(C=heck? I spluttered, my fingers stumbling across the keyboard. And how do you ‘listen’ on a computer screen? I can’t keep up with them in the chat room. They write too fast, and if they aren’t addressing me then I feel they’re talking about me.

Simple! said GQ. The symbols are called e-motes. You use your keyboard to create them. It’s just Internet shorthand and you’ll soon pick it up. Put your left ear on your shoulder and use your imagination.

We chatted for a while, mostly trashing the elite in the other chat room, which made me feel so much better. We agreed that it might be fun if we never shared personal information. Being anonymous would make our chats more interesting; add spice to our lives without the danger.

Exchanging ideas and experiences with GQ would be good. Since this person was a stranger, I’d have the confidence to share my writing without fear. GQ could never know me well enough to be disappointed in me.

"Want to give me your email address? Mine is GossipQueen@writeme.com. I have to go to the — OOPS! Almost said too much. Well, I have to go now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, OK? ;-) PS, That’s me with a nose."

Ten four, good Buddy! MysterIous@artlover.com is my handle. Over and out.

Good grief! Who knew I could be so lame? You should see me when I really try to be clever.

CHAPTER TWO

Driving to work the next morning, I sat idling at a traffic light and struggled in my mind with the details for poisoning my victim. Other than eating my cooking, that is.

The poison delivery was brilliant, but I couldn’t decide how my detective solved the murder. The light turned green while I played with the germ of an idea.

While I absent-mindedly gnawed my thumb nail, a teenager driving a newer truck than mine pulled up beside me. That obnoxious brat flipped me the bird and sped away, flinging gravel at my windshield. He reminded me of that twitchy two-faced kid at work who actually believed he was my superior. I thought that if I had the guts I’d fashion my killer after the twerp. Maybe I would anyway, just for fun.

I am a commercial artist, temporarily employed by a small monthly magazine. We search out discount tours around the world. The ones we advertise are inexpensive because these adventures take place in the off-season. Our readers often need to get creative to reach the point of origin for their tour. Some have even resorted to camelback and dog sled.

One reader complained when she had to fly a hang-glider to meet with her tour group. An unusually long dry spell had left the river too low for the boat to take her. I believe that’s the whole idea. It’s why they’re called adventures. If you’re looking for a cheap tour, you shouldn’t expect limousines and five star accommodations.

Anyhow, I design ads that pay for our glossy publication named Cheap Seats. I say I’m temporarily employed there because I’d rather write for a living. Anything would be better than working for that juvenile troll who mistakenly believes he has the right to order me around.

~~~

Speak of the devil. Conrad Twitchell waited in ambush at my desk that morning. His skinny rump pushed my blotter out of alignment while he rearranged bottles of ink and played with my valuable technical pens.

I paused beside Sam’s desk. I wasn’t hiding; I just needed time to extinguish the fiery heartburn I experienced every time I saw the kid.

While I studied his back, his busy fingers plucked at the bottle stoppers.

Slightly over six feet tall, his shoulders were prematurely rounded and bony shoulder blades created matching peaks in the back of his freshly ironed rose-pink shirt. Medium length, red-gold hair curled artistically around his collar. While I watched, he turned to face me; his pouty, bowed lips puckered as usual with disapproval.

Okay, if you like the type you might call him handsome in a dreamy, aesthetic sort of way. Handsome or not, his myopic, pale blue stare warned me that I was in for some bad news.

If I wasn’t so close to retirement I’d give him a lesson on respecting his betters. But I didn’t need the aggravation of looking for another job until I made it big as a novelist.

I wished he’d keep his hands off my things. I bought and used my own pens.

The cheap tools provided by management ruined a lot of my work, but the Twitch blamed me for the blotches and scratches then denied my request for better equipment to do the job right.

Yeah, he was going in my book, all right!

Sam’s sick, the Twitch announced as I reluctantly approached my work station. You’ll have to pitch his ads today. Oh, by the way, that new client from uh, Build Your Own Computers or something, is coming in. Wants to see some ideas, so what can you have for him by three-thirty?

I won’t have anything if I have to take time with Sam’s clients.

How did he do it? All he had to do was open his mouth and I’d grind another layer of enamel off my teeth. Every day I found new gray hairs and they were all named Twitchell!

He didn’t even have the courtesy to remember the name of a new client. And his attitude lately was getting worse. None of us could talk to him and it seemed he was on my case for everything that went wrong at the office. Too bad I didn’t care.

Just do your job. That’s what we pay you for, the Twit snarled back, his pale eyes turning hostile and dark. He hoisted his scrawny butt from my desk so abruptly that the skewed blotter swiveled, sending two bottles of ink tumbling over the side.

I fumbled and caught the cerulean blue, but the firecracker red hit the edge of the wastebasket, popping the loosened stopper. Blood red ink splashed the tops of my new running shoes; streaks radiated across the carpet. He sneered and walked away while I stood, open-mouthed, in the puddle of spilled ink. The desire to hurl the bottle in my hand at the back of his head burned hot in my gut.

Then I changed my mind.

He wouldn’t be the killer in my story. The Twit was gonna die!

I didn’t clean the mess, either. I let the janitor worry about it — after I drizzled an interesting pattern of cerulean blue to accent the red ink on my shoes. At least something good came out of that fiasco: one-of-a-kind shoes.

I presented both of Sam’s ads later that morning. One sold. The other bombed. Then I sprinted to my drafting board and whipped out a quick panel.

I hoped that if I presented the germ of an idea, it might stall the client until I had time to work up a decent proposal.

Off the top of my head, I sketched a smiling computer monitor. It wore a carpenter’s apron with pockets full of computer components mingled with a hammer and nails, some screws and a screwdriver. I added the caption:

U Build Computers Make Even U A Handyman

I later explained to Mr. Goodledge that my plan was to present this doodle and then beg for more time. I promised to create something magical for him in a few days but he surprised me.

Mr. Goodledge loved my rough draft. He bought it on the spot and wouldn’t let me change a thing. Insisting we run it as is, he called it a work in progress. He said it was just like the computers his customers assembled for themselves under the tutelage of his experienced staff. The balding elderly man patted my shoulder in a fatherly gesture, assuring me it was just what he had in mind.

His simple idea took the mystery out of personal computers while making him a fortune, so he understood the strength of simplicity.

Sometimes I get lucky.

CHAPTER THREE

I sped home that night and logged on to the Internet before taking off my coat or grazing in the refrigerator. I even skipped the bills, going straight to my new email account.

Sure enough, there was a note from GQ inviting me to chat. He/she included instructions on how to download an Internet messenger. What a wonderful invention! Did you know you could talk to anyone in the world with one of these things? It’s like a chat room with a private line and no long distance charges.

GQ seemed genuinely interested in pursuing an Internet friendship. When I asked myself, What do I have to lose? The answer was simple.

With a handle like GossipQueen, I assumed that GQ was a female, but maybe he was something else. Well, hey, I’m a mystery writer. I should be able to figure out which is which with my new best friend; not that it really mattered.

I found the answer to my question of how a person could spend so much time on the ‘Net. Having an anonymous cyber-friend was intoxicating and I eagerly logged on every day after work to chat about the highs and lows of writing a good story. It was good to have someone who understood — someone who shared my goals and groans.

GQ was always there for me. One day she/he offered a fun solution to my writer’s block. I think that was when I decided to definitely think of GQ as her. She was sympathetic and had a creative approach to problem solving without trying to fix mine for me.

She wrote: My old high school English Lit teacher once had our class try an exercise to help us get started on a writing assignment. None of us had any interest in writing, but the results were surprising. Got me hooked. Want to try a plot machine?

Plot machine? Do I have to buy it?

;-) No, you can’t buy it. You make one up. We each make lists for the different elements of a story. Like Type of Story, Plot, Cast of Characters. Here’s what you do: Make a list for each item and number them, like Drama, Comedy, and so on. Then make three lists of characters and number each. Next make a list of times, like past, present and future if you don’t care to be more specific, but put them in random order so I can’t guess which it is when I choose a number in that category.

Huh????? I don’t get it.

Yeah, sorry. I’m not explaining very well, am I? It was a few years ago and I’m trying to tell you as it comes back to me, which is all jumbled. Why don’t I give you an example? I’m putting one together as we speak. Hold on a minute.

I’m willing to try something new. :o) Notice the artist in me had to get creative. My nose is not skinny. Well, neither is the rest of me, but we won’t get into it. That part’s always subject