I figured the best way to write a murder mystery was to commit the murder. You know, just record things as they happen and bingo, you’ve got your two hundred and fifty pages without writer’s block. And a real life page-turner to boot.
Whom to kill? Probably someone who deserves it so if things don’t work out as planned you’ve got the sympathy of the jury to fall back on and you’re only looking at twenty years instead of life.
I know you shouldn’t kill someone you know; they always suspect family or friends first.
‘It had to be Bob, being his brother and all. And they were best of friends, too.’
So I’m looking for a total stranger that deserves it. And you should plan it so that nobody sees you do it; that would shorten the story somewhat.
‘Drop your writing pad,’ barked the off-duty chief of police who happened to be in the neighbourhood and just happened to be testing the force’s new looks-like-a-donut-but-is-actually-a-gun-that-takes-movies-of-what-you’re-aiming-at©.
So I decide to start looking for a stranger who deserves it who’s standing alone in a treeless forty-nine acre field.
But there’s a problem with urban living, not too many fields. And what are the chances of finding a stranger that deserves it who is walking in a field in the country? My worst fears, as I trek the tundra, are that I’d be taken for a stranger who deserves it and be shot by a lunatic that wanted to write a murder mystery.
In any case, I have to start somewhere so I plan to use rural newspapers to lure my victim. I’m picturing a farmer who is susceptible to thinking that farming might not transport him to the success he feels he deserves and is open to growing marijuana and selling it to first year out-of-town philosophy majors without sharing the proceeds with his spouse. First class killing material.
The powerful, persuasive personal ad quickly comes together:
Hey grizzled farmer, here’s a quick way to turn your fallow fields into a tax-free money-making machine and not have to share the proceeds with your spouse or significant other. This is a sure-fire deal that just looks too good to be true. Reply to box 123.
I’d take the first (of many, I’m sure) response and walk him out into the middle of one of his far away fallow fields, put down my writing pad, and do the dirty deed.
But I just thought of something, how do I kill him? I don’t own a gun; when I cut myself shaving I have to sit down to stem the shock and loss of blood and how do you get someone to stand still for a hanging? I‘ll have him fall down a hole; I know how to use a shovel. How do I get him to fall in the hole? Wrestle him? Farmers are probably in better shape that I am; I could end up in the hole.
I’ll have to trick him. I’ll camouflage the hole, call him a ‘Ninny!’ and take off; when he tears after me he’ll fall for the trap, just like in the movies. But that’s not killing him, he could last for days. My book would have to be classified as a ‘Missing mystery’. Not best-seller stuff.
No, I’ll have to make sure I kill him. I’ll hit him with my shovel. Knock him out, then hit him again. Have a rest and hit him again. Then fill in the hole.
Trouble is, even though he’s dead, he’s just missing until they find the body. And I need proof of a murder to finish my book.
‘Herb? Haven’t seen him for a while but then he’s been known to wander.’
Maybe I’ll send an anonymous tip to the local paper to look for him under a mound of fresh earth in a certain field. Which starts a whole new headache, how do you make a tip anonymous? Just my luck they’d test the envelope and get my fingerprints and then get my DNA from the licked stamp. I’ll wear gloves when I buy the envelope and stamp.
‘I thought the guy looked suspicious; wearing gloves in July.’
And then wet the stamp under the tap, having taken my gloves off first, of course. Then put the gloves back on to mail it. So much to remember. But then I’d have to fly to Saskatoon to drop it in a far away mail box to throw them off the scent. Has some promise though, ‘Killer of local fruit farmer sought in Saskatchewan.’
So let’s see how it might look: Chapter 1.
It was a light and clear day when Herb, a grizzled veteran of the farming wars, standing in the middle of his treeless, forty-nine acre farmland gazed worryingly upon his fallow fields. How to make ends meet when the fruit flies outnumber the fruit?
Herb had faced disappointment before when he was pretty sure people would richly embrace his peach/cherry hybrid that he had, in a muse motivated moment, called a ‘Peacherry’. Trouble was this shriveled combination had more pit than pith and Herb’s dream had soured.
Although Herb had recovered from this blight, the seed of failure had germinated and he became susceptible to thinking that the farming he knew, the farming he loved, the farming that had made him the grizzled veteran he was, wouldn’t transport him to the successful future he had envisioned. And so it was, on this afore-mentioned inauspicious day, that Herb, faced with ruin or the challenge of coming up with another hybrid,
“I was this close to committing to ‘Pearcherry’, ‘Père chéri’ for the french-loving market”, turned, like his fruit, from sweet to sour. ‘No more Mister Sweet Grizzled Farmer,’ lamented Herb to no one in particular, calloused hands thrust heavenward, ‘I now declare I’m willing to put in a dishonest day’s work to get my just deserts.’
And so, now stamped as a person who doesn’t deserve sympathy, Herb hustled into town to buy a paper and scan the personal column for deals that looked too good to be true.
Aha! It’s all coming together as planned. The words just fly onto the page. But then I got ahead of myself; now I’m thinking I’ll need a second murder to avoid literary purgatory as a one book wonder. Whom next to bump off? Maybe a politician: there are a lot of them; they quickly fade from memory and they’ll do most anything to be in the news. Maybe even die.
‘Mayor, I have this tax-free, on-time, under-budget plan for a new waterfront development that will put you on the global map, so to speak. A permanent, over-sized bronze statue of you facing lakeward with a backward all-knowing glance to your triumph can’t be dismissed. Small children would forever look up to you. The ‘Little mermaid’ would pale by comparison; no fairy tale this. Meet me at my canoe and we’ll paddle to the middle of the lake and drink in the glorious vista of your future achievement. Your bio did say you can’t swim.’
And that’s when it happened; I froze. Just the thing I was trying to avoid. It had become too much. A horrible thought process had taken hold of me: I do the deed; I write the book; I get great press (‘…uncomfortable realism …’), strong consideration for a Giller; big sales; money; start having wine with meals and then there’s a knock at the door …
‘Interesting read,’ marveled the detective opening the book at the turned down page, ‘never thought ole Herb would be done in with a shovel; figured the missus would spike his sarsaparilla; put that pen down and your hands up.’
Twenty years eh? Maybe fiction is my forté and I’ll just kill this idea.