Death By Email

Carol Hadley

Description

Mia Ingalls, artist for a travel magazine and approaching retirement, revives an old passion–writing mystery novels. New to the Internet, she quickly discovers chat rooms and happily forms an anonymous relationship with another writer wannabe. For two years they enjoy sharing ideas and challenging each other in a writing game, but the fun ended the day she shared her idea for the perfect murder. Her young and obnoxious boss was nearly killed by her brilliant plot making Mia the prime suspect in a sadly more successful attack on his fiancée. To make things even worse, her internet pal suddenly becomes her deadly stalker.

Sujets

• Women Sleuths
• Detective
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 09 avril 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456607395
• Langue: English

Extrait

DEATH BY EMAIL
 
 
by Carol Hadley
 


Copyright 2012 Carol Hadley,
All rights reserved.
 
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0739-5
 
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
 
CHAPTER ONE
 
 
Like a bunch of school kids granted an unexpected holiday, the staff piled into the estate cars lining the drive. Alone and aching for a nap, I dragged my weary body up the stairs, hoping the effort would knock me out before my mind kicked into overdrive.
At least I thought I was alone until a metallic snick echoed in the stillness. I had just sat on the edge of my bed when I looked up and saw Millicent standing in my bedroom doorway.
The gun in her hand pointed at my heart. “This is your fault,” she hissed.
 
I write mystery novels. Sometimes the real mystery is how to create a plot that doesn’t fizzle and die before the blood dries on the corpse.
During a long spell of writer’s block I bought a second-hand computer. It was a dinosaur, but it fit my budget.
My first goal was to get organized. They said I can store everything on those little disks, meaning I’d save a lot of time once I transfer my notes, scripts and brilliant ideas to disks.
Wait a minute! I just made a mental inventory of the mountain of cardboard boxes stacked to the rafters in my garage.
When I transfer? Nah, I’d rather start over.
So, shortly after buying this gizmo, I tried browsing the ‘Net . That’s slang for Internet for you newbies . All I got was repeatedly kicked off line. Stupid machine! I don’t understand how people can spend their lives online. It’s just another brain drain — right up there with soap operas and vidiot games.
I searched for a site that might help me with my writer’s block, like a support group for the inspirationally impaired. Finally, I traced a link to artists-and-writers.com and there it was   —   a place where writers and artists can share ideas, post their own prose and art for others to enjoy. Members are urged to comment, offering encouragement and helpful criticism. It even had a chat room, whatever that was.
To join the club, all I needed was to coin a catchy pen name, so I made up one: MysterIous. I know. It’s lame, but all the good ones were taken and it was good enough to get advice on my stories. Free email came with the membership so I could read and cherish all the letters of praise from the other writers who’d be blown away by my skill with words.
After work the next day I rushed home and heated some leftover glop in the microwave — the only function I ever mastered with that appliance. From force of habit I paused and flipped through my mail. Just bills, nothing important. More outgo than income. So what else was new?
Plopping expectantly in front of the computer, I took a deep breath and logged onto the Internet to become a part of the WWW, or the Wide World of Writers!
My palms got sweaty and my throat squeezed so tight I couldn’t have swallowed if my life depended on it. Just as well — the leftover soup cooling in the mug looked and smelled even nastier than it had the day before.
My trembling hand slid the mouse across the pad to the login. I typed my password, and hit the Enter key. That click was to be my open sesame into the Chat Room of Shared Knowledge and Inspiration. I knew that this would solve all my writing problems.
The moderator informed me there were already six members in the chat room, so with a deep breath I clicked yet another enter tab. There was a pause then an announcement popped up on my screen: “MysterIous has entered the chat room.”
I firmly smothered a juvenile impulse to type “Elvis has left the building.”
Scintillating lines of prose raced across the screen. I watched eagerly for an opening in the traffic, to merge with the muse and master the mystery of monology. (That’s soliloquizing, or monopolizing a conversation, which is what writers do.) Yeah, I know I get carried away but I’m in love with words and my ultimate goal is to use every single one of them.
Eager to travel this magical highway to the heartland of creative writing, I watched the exchanges slow and then these words appeared:
Elitist wrote “Hello MysterIous. What do you say?”
Gulp. Someone was talking to me! What do I say? How do I answer a question like that? I had to say something.
MysterIous, “Helo.”
Good one! That’ll convince everyone I’m MENSA.
Professor, “Does your spellchecker work, MysterIous?”
Milo, “Do you speak English, MysterIous?”
Punctuator, “*LOL*”
Quill, “What kind of writer are you? Alien? *Grin*”
Unnerved, I looked for the log-out button. I pushed it. Repeatedly, and viciously, I stabbed it like I would have done a victim in one of my stories. If I were a real writer, that is.
Ransacking my files, I deleted everything.
Yeah, I might have a slight tendency to overreact.
Thank goodness for the recycle bin! After the shock wore off and I’d restored my files, I got mad. Those uppity, snobbity nobodies had no right to make fun of me. They couldn’t chase me away. I returned to that chat room and shouted: “HELLO!”
A new name appeared on my screen.
GossipQueen, “Hi MysterIous, wanna do a private chat?”
I wrote back, “What’s that?”
GossipQueen, “There’s a bar at the bottom of your screen. See a button labeled ‘private’? Click it. I’ll be there.”
I did then typed, “OK, here I am. Who are you?”
“I’m GossipQueen, call me GQ.”
I began to reply, but GQ continued, “Don’t mind them. They’re just a bunch of overeducated snobs showing off for their friends.”
I had to laugh. That’s exactly what I’d been thinking.
“Thanks for the fresh perspective, GQ. Call me MI.”
“Glad to meet you, MI. So, you’re a writer. Bet you write mysteries?”
“You win. And you write for a newspaper?”
“Very good! I freelance for now, but my real goal is to be an investigative reporter.”
GQ seemed to have his/her future mapped out. I wondered if it was good manners to ask him/her if he/she was male or female. This whole slash/thing was getting tiresome.
Not up to speed on Internet etiquette, uncertainty prevailed and I asked instead, “So, what are you doing hanging out with those low-life highbrows? Friends of yours?”
“I rarely join the chats. Mostly I just *listen*. You’d be surprised at what people say when they think they’re anonymous.”
It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t say too much about myself. I wouldn’t want to end up being misquoted in some checkout rag.
“Safe place to reveal secrets without getting caught?” I commented carefully.
“ Exactly, *LOL* ;-)”
“Wait a minute! What’s this *LOL* and *grin* and what the heck is my Spell(C=heck?” I spluttered, my fingers stumbling across the keyboard. “And how do you ‘listen’ on a computer screen? I can’t keep up with them in the chat room. They write too fast, and if they aren’t addressing me then I feel they’re talking about me.”
“Simple!” said GQ. “The symbols are called e-motes. You use your keyboard to create them. It’s just Internet shorthand and you’ll soon pick it up. Put your left ear on your shoulder and use your imagination.”
We chatted for a while, mostly trashing the elite in the other chat room, which made me feel so much better. We agreed that it might be fun if we never shared personal information. Being anonymous would make our chats more interesting; add spice to our lives without the danger.
Exchanging ideas and experiences with GQ would be good. Since this person was a stranger, I’d have the confidence to share my writing without fear. GQ could never know me well enough to be disappointed in me.
“Want to give me your email address? Mine is [e-mail] . I have to go to the — OOPS! Almost said too much. Well, I have to go now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, OK? ;-) PS, That’s me with a nose.”
“Ten four, good Buddy! [e-mail] is my handle. Over and out.”
Good grief! Who knew I could be so lame? You should see me when I really try to be clever.
 
CHAPTER TWO
 
 
Driving to work the next morning, I sat idling at a traffic light and struggled in my mind with the details for poisoning my victim. Other than eating my cooking, that is.
The poison delivery was brilliant, but I couldn’t decide how my detective solved the murder. The light turned green while I played with the germ of an idea.
While I absent-mindedly gnawed my thumb nail, a teenager driving a newer truck than mine pulled up beside me. That obnoxious brat flipped me the bird and sped away, flinging gravel at my windshield. He reminded me of that twitchy two-faced kid at work who actually believed he was my superior. I thought that if I had the guts I’d fashion my killer after the twerp. Maybe I would anyway, just for fun.
I am a commercial artist, temporarily employed by a small monthly magazine. We search out discount tours around the world. The ones we advertise are inexpensive because these adventures take place in the off-season. Our readers often need to get creative to reach the point of origin for their tour. Some have even resorted to camelback and dog sled.
One reader complained when she had to fly a hang-glider to meet with her tour group. An unusually long dry spell had left the river too low for the boat to take her. I believe that’s the whole idea. It’s why they’re called adventures. If you’re looking for a cheap tour, you shouldn’t expect limousines and five star accommodations.
Anyhow, I design ads that pay for our glossy publication named Cheap Seats . I say I’m temporarily employed there because I’d rather write for a living. Anything would be better than working for that juvenile troll who mistakenly believes he has the right to order me around.
 
~~~
 
Speak of the devil. Conrad Twitchel