Death By Email. Carol Hadley
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DEATH BY EMAIL
by Carol Hadley
Copyright 2012 Carol Hadley,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by 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?”