Wednesday, May 23, 2007

An Apology for Mystery Writers

By G.M. Malliet
My husband and I have a small pond at the back of our patio. It’s a legacy from the man who previously owned our house. The pond is about five feet long, three feet wide, and two feet deep. About the size of a shallow grave, in fact. A small concrete turtle sits on the edge of this pond and picturesquely regurgitates water from a tube in its mouth.

I’ll admit, it’s a charming idea to have this thing around to create a Zen-like tinkling background noise all day long. The gurgling turtle serves as a daily reminder to us of mankind’s mysterious and eternal connection with nature, and so on. Birds and even raccoons often stop by for a quick bath. Cute.

But. The maintenance is nonstop. It’s painful to spend every weekend cleaning out the leaves and assorted gunk that collects in our little pond, and unclogging the turtle’s stopped-up tube for the hundredth time.

The other day the pond’s electric pump gave out, the turtle spat no more, and we stood looking at our bacteria-infested, mosquito-breeding pond water debating if it wouldn’t be better to just fill the thing up with dirt and be done with it. Plant rosebushes or an evergreen there, instead.

Or, better yet, pour concrete inside and top it all off with something useful, like an outdoor fireplace.

The latter option held the most promise. But as we weighed our choices, not to mention our chances of finding a bricklayer who would show up as promised, I said, thinking aloud, really: “Damn. It’s too bad we don’t have a dead body we’re trying to hide.”

It is at moments like these my husband gets a startled, wary look in his eyes, like Joan Fontaine when she realizes Cary Grant has probably just done away with his best friend Binky. You’d think Bob would be used to it by now. Any man who at least once a week finds a cryptic, scrawled note in the kitchen that says something like “Nightshade -- fatal dose? Cowbane better?” should really have learned by now to shrug off these mystery writer moments.

So I hastily added, “Just kidding, dear. You’re too large to fit in there. But what if…”

I wandered away, a glazed look in my eyes that he now recognizes as a sign I’m off to kill someone on paper.

This kind of thing probably does keep spouses on their toes.

But Bob has nothing to worry about.

Really.

12 comments:

Joe Moore said...

My wife got used to it a long time ago. She hardly gives me a second glance now when I announce that I’ve finally figured out how to kill someone. But others are not as understanding. Like the time Lynn Sholes and I were sitting in an airport on our way to Chicago to attend Bouchercon. We were verbally strategizing how we intended to write a scene in THE LAST SECRET involving the shooting down of a commercial airliner. Our discussion of security measures onboard the aircraft, flight attendant reactions, and storming the cockpit door did not go unnoticed by those around us. When we finally came out of our plotting zone and realized where we were, a number of passengers were giving us the evil eye. I believe that’s probably the day we both got placed on all those government watch lists. Must be why I keep hearing those clicking sounds when I talk on the phone. :-)

Kitty said...

My husband was freaked out when he saw my copy of Deadly Doses.

I can't write murder mysteries, but it's still a neat book ;~)

...

Candy Calvert said...

Heh, heh--ulp. Now I'm wondering if should be concerned about those visits to my website . . . from someone at the Pentagon. Seriously.

I can totally relate, of course. I belong to (too) many mystery and suspense writers' networking loops, and dozens of times a day I get e-mail subject lines like: Need Info on Torching a Car, Oleander Tea--How Lethal?, Need Help With Gunshot Wound, Body in Freezer, Strangulation Please . . .

I keep thinking of how those homicide detectives seize supsects' computers.
We'd have a lot of 'xplainin' to do, folks!

So, GM, would you have the killer brazenly entertaining folks pondside (after she's cemented the body underneath). . . and then the burbling, Zen-like atmosphere turns eerie as the turtle spouts ever-increasingly RED fluid? Sort of New-Agey Telltale Heart? ;-)

Joe Moore said...

Actually, there’s an old Mafia trick to bury the recently "bumped off" in the bottom of a newly dug grave the night before a funeral.

Mark Combes said...

I was sitting on the sofa the other night eating Starbucks Java Chip ice cream right out of the tub while my wife sat next to me reading a scene from the manuscript I'm currently working on. She turns the page over onto the pile and then turns to me and asks, "Where do you come up with this stuff?" I turned to her and winked....

I might get out of doing the laundry this weekend....

Mark Terry said...

Yeah, pretty crazy. My upcoming book, The Serpent's Kiss, pretty postulates on ways the Aum Shinrikyo cult might have more successfully used sarin gas to kill more effectively. I'm pretty sure that somewhere after Lynn Sholes comes Mark Terry on those watch lists. My wife's been saying, "Is this why the NSA is camped out on our doorsteps and monitoring all our phone calls?"

Well, honey...

Bill Cameron said...

It's not our fault. Is it?

Mark Combes said...

It's not our fault - but it is YOUR fault Bill!

Spy Scribbler said...

LOL, that's funny! Being a writer's spouse does make for some strange looks, eye-rolling and interesting conversations, doesn't it?

Sue Ann Jaffarian said...

It's not just spouses... one night last week over dinner my boyfriend of three years, after listening to me verbally outline my next book which involves a serial killer, said (imagine a very proper European accent):

"You really are quite an oddball, aren't you, my dear?"

My reply, in a not-so-proper American accent: "Bite me."

Nina Wright said...

The other night, over dinner in a nice restaurant, an enthusiastic male friend got into brainstorming with me ways to kill a specific character. I thought we were speaking quietly. With each glass of wine, we definitely became more graphic.

Our first clue that we had an audience was when the family of four at the next table asked to be re-seated. The little girl, who was probably six or seven, looked stricken, perhaps even traumatized; her parents just looked mad as hell.

I think I'll go with the murder method that ruined their dinner. The challenge will be to affect adult readers the way I affected that little girl....

Nina Wright
WHISKEY AND TONIC

Bill Cameron said...

I accept full responsibility for the dark and demented thoughts which randomly pop into the minds of mystery writers everywhere! Bwa hah hahahahah