Related By Murder

Chapter 1

Harriettu, Western New York State, 2003

CLEARING MY THROAT, I read aloud:

My blade is sharp, but I am behind him, so this cut is just for fun. It elicits only a trickle of blood and of course, he can still scream. But not for long, puppet, not for long. I gut him, messy but effective, then throw him to the ground. I try not to rush, but it’s too much and I can’t hold back. Leaning over him, I slice his throat properly, his glassy eyes watching me. It is always so much better than I anticipate.

The killer’s excitement is contagious, but this is  book club and no one is dead. Yet.

The third Tuesday of each month we gather to discuss mysteries. Thank the toads we are smart enough not to form a writing group, where the unpublished sip tea and expound on their unrecognized genius. I write horror with a sprinkle of sci-fi, but do not call it cross genre. That is meaningless. I write. I publish. That is what matters.

Lenicia, our gracious host, claps her hands like a teacher to get our attention. Let’s get started. I have an appointment. We cannot run late.

Her home is a furniture showroom, pristine and perfect, with sofas and ottomans and drapes that look like they belong here... far different from the blankets tacked over my windows to keep out the cold.

The casual tone of the mystery we read—wake up, murder a guy, eat a sandwich—it was enthralling. When we learned about the killer’s childhood, the neglect and rages, I was captivated. I want to say more, but Pear cuts me off.

It made me mad when the father forced Arthur to re-write the letter. Poor Arthur needed to study for his final exams and his father wouldn’t let him, making him re-write the letter, over and over, the clock ticking on the wall.

Now we have heard from Pear. Thankfully that’s over. Oh wait. Here she goes again.

I had loving parents, but when I read this, I felt like I was the one being abused. This book stayed with me in a bad way. I couldn’t shake the worry Arthur felt, the feeling of having no control over his life.

Lenicia nods in agreement. Her close-cut afro accentuates her bone structure. With her prolific publication of important books often discussed in universities and on TV, Lenicia LaDonna Johnson inspires envy, but then I remember she has children and it passes.

I hated him for killing, for enjoying it, and then came his childhood and I was floored. He was a victim. What’s the expression? People who are hurting hurt others? This book is masterful, says Lenicia.

Hurt people hurt people, says Pear.

It’s weird to read a murder mystery from the killer’s point of view, says Sunny.

Sunny. What a name. And for a blonde with glowy skin.

It’s the stalking and watching that gets me, says Pear. There’s enough of that in real life.

While Pear and Lenicia would chime in at will, the words have to be pulled from Tioga’s mouth. She occupies the green velvet couch in silence. Well over six feet tall with hands like frying pans and a prominent jaw, Tioga is a formidable presence.

Lenicia uses her softer voice, Tioga? Thoughts?

This isn’t my preferred type of murder mystery; it’s too graphic and realistic for my taste. It read like field notes from the scene of a crime.

A lull in the conversation provides an opportunity. What’s your name again, Pear? Your full name? I ask. Her name should be apple, with her red hair and freckles.

You ask me that every book club. It’s Perla Marquez. Okay?

Your full name.

Lenicia shifts in her chair, but I stare straight at Pear, seated across from me.

For the last and final time, write this down, Elise. My full name is Perla Josefina Marquez. Feel free to call me that. I quite like it.

Tioga, I agree with you about not liking this type of murder mystery. Too much gore and violence, says Sunny.

Ridiculously, everyone murmurs assent. Dull, dull, dull. This is one of those moments when I ask myself why I am here. But Sunny and her publishing connections, Lenicia and her highly politicized books and the press they garner, and Tioga and her brilliant word-crafting— I need to know people like this, so I am here. With Pear. Who is here as an act of charity, I am certain.

Sunny chirps, Don’t forget the Pink Ball is coming up and you will be turned away at the door if you’re not dressed in silver and carrying your invitation. You must keep your invitation with you at all times. It’s going to be beautiful and amazing and this year it will be a bit more intimate than last year, which is better really. I have some awesome surprises planned. People will be talking about this year’s Pink Ball for a long time.

I can’t imagine being able to write like this, Lenicia says in her confident diction. Her voice, her hair, her home, everything about her is perfect and seeing her, basking in her presence, is the highlight of book club, no matter what we read.

I wouldn’t want to write like him, quips Sunny, ever chipper.

Pear looks perplexed. If the author was a coroner, would they want to come home and write it all out? It seems tedious, working at something all day and then writing about it all night.

Yes, Pear. Tedious. You would know.

I don’t think they were recording their life, interjects Tioga. She speaks so seldom, we all turn to listen. The shifts in time and the sophisticated character development, this isn’t a record of occurrences. No. This mystery was written by a writer, a professional, that is certain.

Tioga has spoken.

Your hair looks great today, Sunny says to Tioga, whose pale skin blushes crimson.

We prattle on about the details, half of us loving the book (me and Lenicia) and the other half wrong, until it is time for refreshments. Lenicia announces we are having tea! To which I reply, Why? But there she is, arranging a tray of useless tiny sandwiches and pouring miniature cups of tea. I wonder if this is a joke, but no, of course not. This tea thing must be in style.

While stacking my plate with triangle sandwiches, Sunny huddles close to me, beaming. Hi Lisey-bear, how are you? Passing me a teacup, she whispers, I hit seven hundred million copies sold. Can you believe it? In like 39 languages! Good, right?

Poor Sunny. So much energy. So few brain cells.

That’s very good, even I must admit. How many books have you published?

Her face drops. "Gosh, I’m not sure. Thirty? Forty? I have a new one coming out next month, Love Knows. Elise, what’s wrong? You’re making a face!"

Sunny had long ago taught me not to spit food out, no matter how disgusting, so after the first fishy bite of sandwich, I cram the rest into my mouth and swallow hard. Why couldn’t Lenicia have served chocolate-filled pastries like last month? They were the best thing I ever tasted. I licked the platter clean!

Since I am not prone to chitchat, I have time to think and an idea emerges. After Lenicia rings the bell to indicate refreshment time is over, we return to our seats, and I ask, What if we tried to write murder mysteries?

Could be fun, Pear says.

We need rules. Guidelines, Lenicia adds.

There has to be a murder, and the reader has to have all the information so they can solve the crime, Pear replies.

The vote is unanimous. In one month, we will reconvene with our completed mysteries.

AS I DRIVE AWAY FROM the splendor of Lenicia’s suburban palace, every single person I pass waves at me. Children alone. Children in groups. People pause whatever they are doing to wave. Why are people outside and why the toads do they wave at strangers? Haven’t these people learned about stranger danger? In my neighborhood, people do not wave. They steal cars and light fires in trash cans, but there is none of this waving nonsense.

The five-lane main road brings relief. No more staring strangers. No more waving. Just blissful anonymity in traffic where I can bask in the gray skies. My car makes a chugging sound, as old cars do, and I glance over at the Grocery Grange on the left. Why a grocery store needs to have six restaurants within it is beyond me. More suburban excess, no doubt. They have it because they can.

Bucking and bolting, maintaining 50 miles per hour is a struggle. I must firmly squeeze the steering wheel with both hands to prevent veering off the highway. For the love of turtles, I should have taken the surface roads. My jaw unclenches when I see the sign for the exit ramp. At least from here, I could walk home. Cars are fickle. Like people.

It isn’t dark yet, as I pull my car up the driveway to the very top, park, and lock the rusty gate behind me. A cacophony of dogs barking assaults my ears. There are always dogs barking in my neighborhood, particularly at hours best used for sleeping.

Now the sprint to the front door. Deadbolt one, deadbolt two, deadbolt three unlocked, the alarm codes entered, and then once inside, deadbolts locked first, then both alarms set, and the chain attached. The chain. The lowest level of security that offers the highest sense of safety. If the chain is on, no one has breached the entrance. I am safe.

From inside my front door, I can see the entire house. One bedroom, one kitchen/living room, one bathroom. That is all. It probably used to have two bedrooms when it was built back in the forties, but someone had combined those two bedrooms and it suited me. The bedroom is for watching TV, reading, and sleeping, and the other room is for work of all types: cooking, laundry, and best of all, writing.

No pictures. No photos. There are no colorful knickknacks. No distractions. Two hardback chairs and a table, a bed, a TV, and the privacy and quiet I require to write.

SOMETIMES WHEN I SLEEP, the memories come. Little ones first. Then bigger. I am seven, slitting my wrists with the rusty edge of a metal barrette. I lay in my bed and hold my breath and when I can’t hold my breath long enough, I try to smother myself with a pillow.

Horror is waking up the next day. That is horror. Not my books. My books are stories about things that could happen, adventure narratives into the crevices of the soul. If only I were more successful. Sunny’s garbage flies off the shelves, stupid breezy beach reads. If a character orders a mojito instead of their usual beverage, that constitutes a plot twist.

She is my oldest friend and we are bonded forever, but she does not deserve to live in Mendon Lakes and drive that damned Porsche. Sunny should be right next door to me in Tornado Terrace. That’s not its name, but drive through the neighborhood and you’ll understand.

Chapter 2

THE COILS OF THE MATTRESS poke me as I reach over to grab my laptop off the floor. A new day with the same old conundrum. Why are there no websites for how to improve women’s lives? Who needs makeup and clothes and high maintenance hairstyles when you can’t figure out how you’ll ever do any better than you’re doing right now?

The most helpful advice I find is discussion of a side hustle. What a name. If only it was a dance.

Propping myself up on my pillow, I continue searching for answers. Personal finance websites tell me I should reduce my debt, but all I have are student loans and a tiny mortgage that is cheaper than rent. Nothing to reduce.

The next step is to increase income. That means a job. Which I am scared will be the beginning of the end. Coming home exhausted and annoyed, unable to connect to the stream from which the words flow. Without writing, I am nothing. I would rather be dead.

The best plan I have come up with is to ask gentle, wise Tioga to be my writing mentor. Or lovely Lenicia, with her sepia skin and her long, elegant fingers. No, not Lenicia. I do not want her to know I am struggling.

How did I end up here?

No kids to hold me back, no ex-husbands with fragile egos to plump. I am an author who will soon have THREE published books. It looks good on paper, but the reality is grueling. No money. No prospects. My life is getting smaller and soon it will disappear.

When I turn on the TV, there are successful people pretending they can teach others the path to success. The successful pretend they control every aspect of their existence. Luck and family influence do not exist. They are delusional, like Chester, who spouts similar nonsense. Look at me! I’m a success because... because what? Because he grew up with encouragement and financial resources? Because he has lived rent-free all his life, but who’s counting?

Success is a liar.

Still, I long for success, to have financial security and cast off the burden of worrying about money and the future. I crave the certainty that I will not be destitute, because it is difficult to write outdoors: Wind and rain are enemies of the page. I want real success, success that I create on my terms.

Unlike Chester.

An ad for the nightly news comes on and Chester flashes across the screen. Would anyone guess we are related, with his veneers and spray tan and tailored suits and me, with home cut hair and congenitally brown teeth? We are two years and an entire world apart. No one would suspect Chester is my brother.

Off he scoots at night, to magically clean laundry and a freshly dusted room. Even as kids, his room was better. Coordinating carpet and wallpaper, storage cubbies in his favorite colors, and low nap carpet so he could play with toy cars, all thoughtfully chosen, like his name. He is Chester Benson Edwards IV, the pitiful son of our pitiful father, Chester Benson Edwards III.

The origin of my name is a different story: I heard it on some TV show. Dammit Elise, you always want something! Shut up and get the damn dinner ready!

That was second grade, but I remember it like yesterday.

Sitting up in bed, I study the cracks in the ceiling, hunting for answers. Why is Chester, helpless and lazy, revered and celebrated as a success, and me, the tireless worker, the one who literally pulled herself up by her bootstraps, why am I the loser? WHY! But TV does not tackle life’s actual mysteries and the program has already moved on to finding nail color that suits your personality.

I am pacing again and it occurs to me that during the time I have lived in this house, I have worn a path into the floorboards. During college, I survived on ramen for four years while working night and day. Soon I’ll have to do that again. When will it end?

Stupid Chester, sleeping in his little boy bed and getting everything he ever wanted. And he’s their favorite. I should be their favorite. If they just read my books, they would see.

The phone rings and a nasally voice breaks my train of thought, I need the re-writes back on the, what are we calling it, Stories of the Dark?

"Stories from the Dark," I reply.

Silence.

"Or we could call it Stories of the Dark."

I thought so. Re-writes are due before close of business on October 16th. Goodbye.

Bye, I reply, but she has already hung up. Madeleine. My editor. She works with words because she is short on personality, but then, so am I.

Some of the stories are dreams I had when I was a child. Standing at the kitchen sink getting a drink of water, I look up and there is a man outside the window with bloody fangs and claws. He breaks the window and chases me. I hide, but a sneeze gives me away.

The second story involves a couple who are dating. The boyfriend gradually changes. Is he doing drugs? Having an affair? No. He’s being poisoned by his co-worker and ends up jumping off a bridge. The co-worker gets sole credit for their new software program and provides solace to his former colleague’s girlfriend.

There are other stories, but those are my favorites. I am about to walk the four steps to the kitchenette to make a cheese sandwich for lunch when the dreaded ring of the phone pierces the silence.

Sunny.

How are you doing with your murder mystery? I can’t get started, not at all. Who died? Just tell me, Elise, please! Who died?

"The butler. He died. You know the expression the butler did it? Well in this case, it was done to the butler."

Oooh, yes! But why?

Why indeed.

Because he was having an affair with the nanny, whom the man of the house coveted. No, too tawdry. Or because the man of the house loved him and the butler had left him for another, and he killed him in a fit of jealous rage. He didn’t intend to kill him, but once he did, he covered it up because he didn’t want his wife to find out. It’s her money, she comes from money, and he doesn’t want to lose everything. You can show him covering up the murder, feeling guilty, missing his lover, it could be quite beautiful really.

Got it. I can take it from here. Thank you, Elise! You’re a lifesaver!

I doubt the butler would agree.

Sunny hangs up abruptly, but I understand. The butler, loyal and hardworking, dashing in his well-cut uniform. It had taken years for the man of the house, Bob? Steve? Wesley? Yes, Wesley, to gather his courage and when he did, when he touched the butler’s arm and let his hand linger, when he made eye contact and held his gaze, it made his heart sing and he was happier than he had been in his entire life. And ultimately, that was why he’d have to kill him. So no one else could touch his butler.

I have my own mystery to write for book club and require inspiration. I have an inkling what could help. The news. They love to report the dire and tragic.

Without cable, finding a station is quick. It’s either this channel, that one, or the other one. The end. No wasted time or effort. Lucky me, I find a news program, although it’s one I generally avoid. But beggars can’t be choosers, and prevail I must. There is leprous Chester, blabbing about a young couple who disappeared on their honeymoon. The result of this story is most unhelpful. These two novices had simply gotten lost in the mountains and died of dehydration. Yes dummies, the high desert is arid; that’s why it’s called the high desert.

But all is not lost. The beauty of living in a less than safe neighborhood is that there is always activity, at any hour of the day or night, and some of this activity could be unsavory. Why not take advantage of what’s on my doorstep?

Going outside is an involved affair. Shoes, gloves, and coat are in their places near the door, but I must double check the wooden shims that keep my windows wedged closed are in place, set my homemade security alarms, lock all three deadbolts (goodbye chain! I’ll miss you!), and make it out the door in under thirty seconds or the alarms sound and I must start over.

Tonight I am all bumble fingers, so it takes two tries. Well, good. The neighbors benefit from the auditory reminder of my preparations.

Down the sidewalk fifty feet, I spot him in his little blue costume, leaning out of his postal truck, depositing mail in boxes. Alone.

Anything could happen.

My mind fills with scenarios. Kidnapping. Ransom. Revenge. I turn on my heel and run back home, ready to write. And soon enough, I am sitting at my table, pad and pen in hand.

What a dangerous job it is, going house to house for miles on end, so very many places to disappear.

My heart is racing and my hand cannot keep pace with the flow of ideas. Longhand. I start every new book in longhand. To make it real.

Donald was new to the route, filling in for his co-worker, Bob. Say what you will about women being equal and all, they didn’t send girls to this neighborhood. But Donald figured if Bob could do it, so could he.

Yes! An idea! Squealing with excitement, I continue writing.

A chill tickled down his spine. Stop that, he thought. You’ve delivered mail for twenty years. Just finish this route and go home and enjoy the weekend. He quickened his pace, shoving mail into boxes in the eerie silence.

Donald’s gonna get it! I cheer aloud, jumping up and down. This is why I need to live in a house. Freedom to come and go, freedom to work all night and sleep all day, and freedom to laugh and carry on whenever I please.

Anger fuels my creativity. It always has. There would be a murder all right. I burn through three pens and half a notebook, until my hand refuses to cooperate. Exhausted, I drop into bed, setting the alarm clock to wake me in three hours. Tomorrow requires further reconnaissance. I would trail a postman, watch his movements, record his habits, and he would be my victim. And then I would figure out why.

Chapter 3

MAIL CARRIERS MAKE effortless victims, alone outside, depositing papers into slots and boxes with no one watching. Today, I am watching. Weighed down by his heavy satchel, my mail carrier couldn’t easily escape. Realizing my prey is cornered sends a thrill down my spine.

What a dangerous job it is, going house to house for miles on end, so very many places to disappear.

I retrieve binoculars from the glove box, the one part of the car still thoroughly intact, and observe a stocky man of some years and bad grooming trudging down the street.

If only binoculars came with an ear hair filter.

There is a rhythm to the delivery of mail that creates insistent opportunity and I could imagine pulling my car alongside him, getting his attention, then throwing him into the trunk, where he would wait while I savor his screaming and scrambling until I dismember him later.

For a moment, I am the killer.

Victim identified, I must determine why my fictional mail carrier would be targeted. Revenge? Lost mail? Serial killer? I record every detail of my sudden inspiration in my black reporter’s notebook. One never knows what might be useful when sitting down for the first draft.

My postman hefts himself into his mail truck and drives off. Following close behind so I cannot lose him, I expect to see more houses, more opportunities. Perhaps even a hedgerow or babbling brook, spots well suited for carcass disposal. To my chagrin, we arrive at the mail depot near the highway. He deposits his vehicle and scurries speedily indoors, as though running to safety. Engulfed in the aroma of exhaust and gasoline, I was enjoying the search for blue uniforms toting satchels filled with bills and disappointment. Tomorrow. I will hunt again tomorrow. Nothing to do now but return home and write.

As I merge onto the highway, a smile erupts on my face. Today was productive beyond my imagination. I have a crime, a victim, and only lack a motive. Who would bother to murder a man? They hardly seem worth the trouble. As I drive the familiar route, I focus on possibilities for the story I will begin when I arrive home. My mind is full of ideas. Just the way I like it.

Until my car starts smoking. Not cigars, regrettably.

This has happened before and there are two possible outcomes: the best outcome is that eventually, the car will chug to a stop. The less best outcome is that the car will fully catch fire, and I cross my fingers, willing my car to make it home before the engine comes to a gentle stop.

That does not happen.

Flames. That does happen. Angry, tormenting flames telling me they are in charge now. Relegated to the cold, hard shoulder, my car crackles and pops, shooting black smoke and red flames.

This is how people become homeless.

Yesterday I lived indoors and had a car. An ancient, semi-reliable car, but still, it was transportation. To meetings and work and a future indoors. A future that has since exploded in front of my eyes, which are watering. I’m not crying. Crying is for the weak. It’s the smoke. The undoubtedly toxic chemicals I’m inhaling as I sit here, because I have no way to escape the narrow shoulder of the highway.

Burning. My cheek feels like it’s burning. The heat. I’m too close to the car, which has erupted from engine fire to spectacular light show in the darkness. I wish I were looking at it from a warm car speeding by.

I watch the life drain out of my car, fluids dripping, then flooding onto the street, mixing into a brown lake. My car is dead. My freedom withdrawn. Once again I am a child, demoted to the life of a rider, dependent on