The Murder Mystery Writers Club

Maryanne received an email from her town’s library inviting her to join the next meeting of the Murder Mystery Writers Club. Hmm, interesting. I don’t remember asking to join it.

She remembered that she had asked if there was such a thing, having read about a similar group in the town’s local paper. However, there was no time or day of the week listed for a meeting, so she decided to wait until her next visit to the library to ask about any writer’s club they might have.

Maryanne had been writing short stories and novellas for three years and felt good about her writing skills, but not great. She wanted some local readers or writers to offer her their critique on her most recent work; a murder mystery set in a small town.

The email invited her to a club meeting to be held next Thursday at 10am. Sounds good to me! I don’t know what to expect, but I think I’ll go. If nothing else, I can listen to others and maybe go back … or not.

Maryanne packed up her satchel and headed to the Corston Library on Thursday morning. It wasn’t hard to find a parking spot, except the ones near the door were all taken by elderly folks slowly walking toward the entrance. I wonder if they’re going to the same club meeting.

Upon entering the library, she saw a small sign with the words “Mystery Writers Club Meeting, Rm 102” with an arrow pointing to the right. She turned right and walked down a short hall past the restrooms on the right and a door on the left that had a small sign on the door that said, “Storeroom – ask librarian for key.”

She saw a room ahead of her with the number 102 on the open door. A group of tables were arranged in a rectangle and to her right was a large window that looked out at the beautiful mountains about a half mile away. The sun was out and there were just a few white clouds in the baby blue sky. Nobody was in the room.

What a beautiful conference room and what a gorgeous day! I’m glad I’m early so I can sit looking out the window.

Maryanne sat at the end of the first table on the left side of the room, facing the large window. This way I can leave without making too much fuss, if it becomes necessary.

As she sat down, she saw a tall shadowy figure walk into the room. It slowed at the door and nodded at her. A man appeared who was wearing a cowboy hat and boots and looked to be about seventy years old. He had a charming demeanor. He looked at her, nodded his head, leaned forward on one foot and said, “I’ve been watching you.”

Yikes! Is that creepy or what? Maybe I don’t belong here after all.

She said, “Oh, okay.” Then she nodded at the hallway and said, “I’ll be right back. I need to check my phone.”

She walked out of the room and, about halfway down the hall, turned to look over her shoulder. There were people seated at the tables! Maryanne stopped and turned to look closer. Out of curiosity she walked back to the room and the chair she had picked out was empty, so she sat down.

Where did they come from? There must be another entrance to the room.

The meeting was brought to order by the tall cowboy who asked the first writer to start reading her story. Maryanne listened and felt comfortable with the quiet reserved atmosphere in the room, so decided to stay for a while.

Susie was reading her story which was about a forty-year-old woman who was found dead on the sidewalk outside her apartment building. It appeared that the woman had fallen, or been pushed, out of her second story window. It was an unsolved mystery.

Hmm, the description of her victim is somewhat how Susie looks - fortyish, blond, petite, and well-tanned. Of course, we authors are supposed to write about what we know, so I guess that’s what she’s doing.

Susie went on about how police had interviewed everyone who might have known her victim. The protagonist in her book was a brunette police lieutenant who was also petite and well-tanned. Hmm, interesting. She could have chosen a large redhead with pale skin, or someone else who looked different from her. But she chose a woman who was the same size and had the same skin tone. Oh, well. She’s the author.

The next writer was Joe. He had written about a motorcyclist whose motorcycle was found halfway down the side of a cliff on Roundtop Drive. His body was fished out of the stream below. His victim was of medium build, with dark hair and mustache, and wore a leather jacket at the time he was found. Wow. Just like Susie, the author looks like the victim in his book and the detective investigating the case. Strange. Don’t they know to change the appearance of their victims and protagonists?

Then came the best story of all. Maya, a large woman about fifty-five years old was reading about a librarian who had been shot leaving the library after work.

The victim was of Croatian descent and was known to be very strict and vocal about following rules. She had been involved with a local doctor who had been accused of signing prescriptions for opioids at a local retirement home. The recipients of the opioids apparently were local teenagers, who may or may not have been related to the senior citizens in the home.

In the book, the victim was about to testify on behalf of a neighbor whose child had died of an opioid overdose. And there we are. These people apparently don’t know that you don’t describe yourself or your neighbor in any book you write. There’s a privacy issue involved. Her victim looks Mediterranean, just like her. Maybe this group isn’t what I want. I think it’s time for me to slide on out of here.

Maryanne looked at her phone and mumbled, “Sorry, I have to take this.” She stood up to leave when Cowboy Man at the front table said, “No, you can’t leave now.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I belong here,” said Maryanne, again looking down at her phone watching a local news reporter standing in front of her apartment building where someone was being wheeled out on a gurney.

“Yes, Maryanne, you do.”

Everyone sitting at the tables looked up at her and said in unison, “Yes, you do.”