Update 11-18

I have a few updates. I spent a while reworking Where There’s Smoke, There’s Pazuzu. I can honestly say that it’s one of my favorite things that I’ve written. I’m glad I went back to it and chipped away until it satisfied me. Then, I went back to The Last Gaze. It was terrible. Nothing happened in the story! Not one damn thing! A little disheartening, but I quickly threw it out. Once again, I have failed to write an optography mystery. Someday…

My next story was meant to be the country house mystery, but I fell in love with a dying message story. The working title is Quartet. Here is the opening scene :

Two people were in the living room. One lay dead; the other stood above her, gripping the murder weapon with a furious fist.

   The room looked like something out of a dollhouse—pristine, suffocatingly tidy, and utterly false.White curtains with embroidered flowers framed the windows. A crocheted pink blanket draped the sofa, and on the coffee table, a vase of cheap flowers sat as if she thought she was putting on airs. A faint smell of lavender lingered, cloying and fake—the kind he hated.

   Dickie grabbed the lace doily from his old chair, balled it up, and flung it onto the corpse.

   “Thought you could erase me, huh? You look stupid now, don’t you? Bet you wish you hadn’t done that.” He tsk-tsked. “Slut.”

   Even in death, Julie’s face carried a ghost of the softness he used to adore. Now it was twisted, ruined until a mortician could fix it. Her lips were tinged faint blue, her half-open eyes dull and glassy. The delicate chain of her necklace had left a cruel groove around her throat, the faint impression of its design stamped into her skin like a mocking signature. Bruises bloomed on her pale cheeks, and her mouth hung slightly open as though she had one last word stuck inside.

   He shook his head in disgust, pocketing the necklace. “Gotta get your carcass hidden. Give myself a couple of days. Enough time to settle this business once and for all.”

   Transporting the body was a laborious affair. The only entrance to the attic was a scuttle hole. Dickie fetched a rope, neatly coiled and looped, of course—that was Julie’s way. He tied her arms and legs close to her body and dragged her under the opening. Standing on a chair, he leapt up, catching the edge of the hole. His legs dangled as he scrambled for leverage, grunting as he hauled himself into the attic. From there, he tugged at the rope round his waist, lifting Julie’s corpse toward the scuttle hole. Her head banged against the ceiling, again and again.
   “Come on, bitch!” he snarled, straining with a final heave. She slipped through the narrow opening at last. He shoved her into a corner, draping her with old sheets. For a moment, he considered punching the lifeless bundle but decided against it. “Not one more ounce of effort. You’re not worth it.”

   Dickie lowered himself through the scuttle hole, landing silently on the living room floor. He moved deliberately, his boots making no sound on the frilly floral rug. His eyes scanned the room and zeroed in on the small writing desk by the window. His lip curled in disgust as he approached.

   Inside the first drawer, neat rows of stationery, a half-used ink pen, and a bundle of tied letters greeted him. Carefully, he set them aside, digging deeper. His hand brushed against a folded paper tucked beneath the stack of correspondence, and he pulled it free. Unfolding it, he scanned the handwritten words. It was a schedule—Julie’s music group.

   His finger trailed down the list of names scrawled in her small, tidy script. Most of them meant nothing to him, but then he stopped.

   “Pearl,” he muttered under his breath. He remembered her—a sharp-tongued broad who didn’t care much for him. His finger moved down again. “Alice.” A name he recognized. Shy thing, always looking at the ground when he was around. Cute, though.

   Finally, his finger reached the last name that mattered. “Vivian.” He lingered on it, his expression darkening. Then, with a snap, he folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

   Standing still for a moment, he surveyed the desk, making sure everything was in its place. No sign of a struggle, no sign he’d ever been there. Dickie turned toward the door, moving carefully to avoid disturbing the room. He stepped outside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Let them wonder. Let them think she ran off with someone else. By the time they figured it out, he’d settle the score. He walked down the street without looking back, the list burning in his pocket.

   The house fell silent. Julie’s corpse lay alone, quietly rotting beneath the attic’s dust.

—- One of the victims in this story will utter a dying message. These stories are taking longer than I anticipated and I have no idea when the project will be finished. I’m working every day with all my available time. March of next year would be wonderful. Knowing me, it might not come out until the summer. I’ll keep you abreast.

I’m currently reading a collection of Julio Cortezar stories. So far, they haven’t blown me away, but there’s one coming up about a man reading a mystery novel who discovers that he is the intended victim. It sounds promising. I’ll report back with my reaction.