Not Your Grandmother’s Murders Part II

Gregory Adams Fiction

6 min read

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Just now

“Karen, listen, I’m sorry about, well, whatever it was that I did to upset you.”

This message wasn’t going well. Of the five or six voicemail messages Patrick had left her in the past few weeks, this one was the worst. No wonder she wasn’t calling him back.

Patrick hung up the phone and walked back to his computer. He realized that he was calling Karen whenever he got stuck in his writing, but that didn’t mean he could stop himself from doing it. Like rearranging his email inbox, it was something he drifted into when his neurons that controlled drafting and editing stopped firing.

Still, there was good news: these motivational blackouts were happening less and less. With a story published, Patrick’s energy for writing was stronger than it had ever been. Even after a day at the office, he could come home and spend three, five, even eight hours at the computer, putting stories together, cutting them down, and sending them out. At his best, he was too productive to miss Karen at all.

Patrick wanted to be published again as soon as possible, so he attacked on two fronts: he continued to write and submit his own, wholly original, more literate stories to the quality magazines. These stories Patrick wove together with exquisite care. The hardworking men and women in these tales suffered, struggled, and often failed, but in the end they were victims of nothing worse than poor decisions or the pitiless ironies of everyday life. These manuscripts were rejected with perfect reliability.

He also updated more old mystery stories. While this proved faster than writing a story from scratch, it wasn’t easy. Patrick had built a slush pile of his own—stacks and stacks of ancient mystery collections he had gotten cheap at a second-hand paperback shop. The books had an old, musty stink about them, and the smell hung in the air and clung to Patrick’s fingers as he handled them.

Once Patrick had settled on a good candidate for “inspiration,” the work really began. He had to turn the stories inside out to get something usable out of them: more character, more meaning, less shock and surprise. He submitted these stories to genre magazines, and these manuscripts were nearly always accepted, leaving Patrick awash in a flood of shame and delight.

Over time, the shame lessened, and Patrick began to feel like an author. And then, at the peak, when nearly everything was going Patrick’s way, it suddenly got better.

The letter came on a Thursday afternoon, and Patrick knew at once by the thick, bone-white paper of the envelope that the letter was something special. Inside was a note congratulating Patrick on his recent successes. The writer went on to inquire about the rights of his stories, with the intent of collecting some of his writing in a forthcoming anthology. The signature read George Lockerbie, President and Chairman, Mortal Coil Publishing.

Patrick did a small dance in his driveway before he ran into his apartment and at once telephoned George Lockerbie, President and Chairman.

They agreed to lunch in a pub not far from Patrick’s apartment. Patrick had no trouble identifying Mr. Lockerbie. On the phone Mr. Lockerbie had said “look for a distinguished older gentleman, and that will be myself,” and there could be no doubt. George Lockerbie was old—very old. His long face was creased with wrinkles so deep that his eyes were practically hidden in their shadows. His eyebrows were bushy tangles, and there were silver hairs jutting boldly from his ears. Patrick shook the man’s hand and it was like handling a dead fish wrapped in a plastic bag.

Despite his advanced age, there was a look of money about George Lockerbie, small glimpses of success and privilege, like the heavy gold wristwatch or the fine silver pen nestled in his pocket. His suit may have been out of style, but it was clearly expensive and well cared for.

“I am a great fan of your work,” Mr. Lockerbie said. “It’s quite… remarkable, if I may say so.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said.

“You will be our youngest contributor in some time,” Mr. Lockerbie continued, encouraged. “It will be well, to have some fresh perspective mixed in with our own writing.”

“This is such great news,” Patrick said. “No one had taken notice of me before. Mostly I was sending work to quality magazines, you know, the literary ones, and they never accepted anything.” He hadn’t meant to talk of his earlier frustrations, but found that he couldn’t help himself. “They didn’t even bother to comment on it, the high horse bastards. Then I discovered genres, and these editors know what they’re about. They know good writing when they see it.”

With an effort, Patrick reined himself in.

Lockerbie continued to smile gently at Patrick. “You speak as if being published were the principal point of writing. For most, writing is a quest to describe the truths of life, not to see their names in print.”

“Well, of course,” Patrick replied. “I get closer to truth every day, but if no one notices, what’s the point? It’s like with the mysteries I’ve been writing…”

George Lockerbie interrupted him. “Yes, your stories. They are quite brutal, you know.”

“I think it’s necessary,” Patrick replied. “I read a lot of the old collections—it’s part of getting it right, reading what’s already been done—but there is such a quaintness to these old stories.” He pronounced “quaintness” as if it were a dirty word. “People are more sophisticated today, they know the world’s going to hell and they know murderers aren’t little old ladies slipping arsenic into tea.”

Mr. Lockerbie dabbed at his colorless lips with a napkin. “I see,” he said.

Patrick went on. “Poe had it right from the very beginning: the killer in The Tell-Tale Heart didn’t do it for money or to repay an insult or for any cause at all. It was senseless, it was brutal, and ended in dismemberment.”

“Yet Poe left much to the imagination,” Mr. Lockerbie said. “There is something to be said for the unspoken.”

“Well, people have less imagination these days,” Patrick replied. “I blame the internet.”

“I still write a little myself,” Mr. Lockerbie said, surprising Patrick with the sudden shift from Patrick’s work. “I do seem to be experiencing less success in being published than I did in my younger days.” There was a palpable note of regret in his voice. “You would think it gets easier, but then, tastes change, editors you’ve come to rely on die…” The old man began to drift, but caught himself and returned to the moment.

“Perhaps you have a point. Something may be needed, to further define the murder mystery as a unique genre amidst the postmodern claptrap that passes for ‘good writing’ these days.” He gave a defeated sigh. “Modern literature is about the world outside our windows, the inner lives of our neighbors, perhaps even ourselves, to explore the commonplace miseries therein. Well, I’ve lived a long life, Patrick. I’ve been through all the loneliness and despair I care to experience. Give me an adventure, give me mystery, a thing I’ve never done but wanted to, a thing I’ve never seen, but wished for my entire life, even if I could never bring myself to ask.”

“Mr. Lockerbie, I could sit here and talk shop all day,” Patrick interrupted, struggling to get the conversation back to the topic of his future, “but I was hoping we could discuss the collection you suggested in the letter. What sort of terms were you considering?” He silently cursed himself for sounding so anxious.

Mr. Lockerbie gave a gentle smile. “I’m afraid you misunderstand the point of our meeting today. Yes, I am the Chairman but my responsibility is principally content. I am as adrift as any novice when it comes to the details of rights and such. I simply wanted to meet you, to talk shop and so on. Our lawyers handle the paperwork.”

He beamed as an idea took hold of him.

“You know, we’re having a bit of a get-together this weekend, at Bill Doctrow’s place. It’s our annual board meeting. We make a dinner out of it, nothing too fancy but it’s good to dress up occasionally. You know Bill’s writing, of course.”

Patrick thought for a moment. He had read scores of short story collections in preparing his stories but the name Bill Doctrow didn’t ring any bells. He shook his head.

Mr. Lockerbie held his look of anticipation for a moment longer, and then surrendered to disappointment when it became evident that Patrick didn’t know the name. “Well, you’ll get to meet him soon enough.”

Patrick made to decline, but the old man cut him off.

“I insist. I’m certain that the others are as anxious to make your acquaintance as I was. I’ll have my girl call you and set up the date and time.”

The word “girl” set off a spark in Patrick’s head. “May I bring a guest?”

Mr. Lockerbie rose from the booth and began to pull on his jacket. “Of course.” He smiled. “The more, the merrier.”

Patrick watched him leave. A uniformed driver helped the old man into a silver Mercedes.

Part Three Posts Tuesday, February 24th!

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