Death By Email. Carol Hadley
Читать онлайн книгу.
to allow time for travel between our respective locations.
Sticking to the publisher’s plan, he respected our strange pact, refusing to tell either of us anything about the other. From his travel time and other clues garnered over nearly two years, I deduced that GQ lived in the Deep South. Well, that might not mean much because I sort of let slip some hints that I lived in Australia.
Yeah, right. By way of Seattle!
Tomas described how we’d meet at a place known only to him. He was so good at keeping secrets. GQ and I happily complained to each other every time Tomas refused to tell us anything more until the big day.
CHAPTER SIX
That Tomas! He knew how much I like a good mystery and played it to the hilt.
The suspense was thrilling. I admit I rehearsed in my mind how I’d approach GQ. I couldn’t decide if I should just shake her hand or hug her like a long lost friend. After all, the scene would have national coverage and we were best friends who’d never met in person.
With moral support from GQ, and the stimulation from playing the plot machine game, I finally finished my novel.
I tried to interest our publishers. They politely but firmly told me they weren’t in the market for that type of book.
“When The Plot Machine Stories are on the shelves, it might help attract the right publisher,” Tomas offered helpfully on the phone. “I have some ideas, but we should finish our current project first.”
Yes, Twitwit was my victim. He died horribly, but you’ll have to buy the book if you want to know how and whodunit.
After putting the final period to my manuscript, I emailed GQ a description of the method I created for the murder. I asked her to poke holes in the idea and prove it couldn’t be done. I had to be certain that once I killed my Twit character no one could figure how I did it until the last page.
It was Sunday evening when I finished; a profitable weekend, well spent. With a satisfying yawn, I looked around the room, noting that I’d neglected my housekeeping chores. For once I had a good excuse. I retrieved the scummy coffee mug on the handy shelf beside my computer desk and added it to the stack of dishes in the sink.
Turning around, I tripped over the laundry basket filled with clean, but hopelessly wrinkled clothes. I hauled it into the laundry room and threw the clothes back in the dryer, setting it on the fluff and unwrinkle cycle. You know. You have one; it’s where you dampen a towel and throw it in with the clean clothes and — well, you get the idea.
Within two hours GQ replied to my email. While her response was faster than expected, I gratefully accepted the reprieve from too much housecleaning, which I’m told makes you ugly.
She had written a story for me.
Except for our plot machine stories, she’d never done that before. What she wrote was a vile tale filled with obscenities and threats. A very short story, it was about a stalker, written from the villain’s point of view.
“Once upon a time there was a sappy writer called MysterIous who sent me a story to read. I forced myself to read the drivel and it inspired me to write my own tale. Here it is:
“Queenie is a bad girl. If she meets someone who is inferior to herself, she stalks and kills them.”
It was a horrifying tale and ended with the words, “And so the sappy writer suffered unmeasurable pain and agony until death finally granted her relief in oblivion.”
My hand shook as I continued to scroll down the page.
“Well, Sappy Writer, are you ready? While your poisoned bullet is just too, too cute, I have so many more ways to kill that no one would ever guess it wasn’t an accident.
“Maybe I’ll find you and show you how. Don’t they say you should write about what you know? You should suffer if you expect to write about pain. Maybe you will feel the sting of a poisoned bullet, who knows?”
I deleted it, all of it. Then I sat shivering, teeth clenched to keep from throwing up.
That story creeped me out so much that I questioned the future of our joint venture. While we’d built a comfortable, although strange, online friendship, I had to wonder if I’d missed some vital clue. I was blindsided by GQ's sudden personality change.
Then I got mad. I opened a new message and pounded on my keyboard, “Why are you talking to me like this? I thought we were friends! That story was ugly and mean!”
I sent it off and returned to my housecleaning. About an hour later, I heard my computer ding. It was a reply from GQ.
“I wrote it because I can. Did I hurt your widdle feelings, huh? Poor baby, if you can’t stand the heat, don’t try to write about someone’s pain and suffering!”
I disconnected from the Internet that evening, needing time to think. I’ve had enough violence in my life to know I didn’t want any more. But it gave me an idea for another story.
@-:o)
That’s e-mote for me getting a bright idea. Oh, well —
>:o\
I searched the Internet for private detectives. Found one and called their 1-800 number right away before I forgot my idea.
Donner Harris from Cyber-Trakkers answered my call and agreed to set aside some time for me to pick his brain. It turned out that their offices were right here in Seattle. I think he was attracted to the idea of being in a book. He offered to email me their physical address so we could meet later in the week. That gave me a few days to think of some brilliant questions since he’d graciously offered his time gratis. That’s the best kind.
After we hung up, it occurred to me that he could have given me his local address while we were talking.
Aha! Bet he was checking me out to be sure I was who I said I was. Well, in this crazy world, you can’t be too careful. I must remember to put that in my story.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Work in the front offices had slowed to a stop by the time I arrived for work the next morning. Office staff huddled in a small group in the lobby. Six beautiful young people murmured in low and horrified tones. Ringing phones went unanswered.
I was running a teensy bit late, so it was my good luck that some minor crisis occupied them. Rather than give in to my natural curiosity, I slipped into the studio and went right to work just like the hard-working employee that I am.
Twitch was probably too busy to bother with me but if I’d suddenly arrived at the top of the country’s ten most- wanted list, he’d happily give me the bad news in person. Besides, I was way behind schedule on a design for an ad for a free Internet company. That Internet; it’s everywhere.
I didn’t have to wait long to learn what the ruckus in the office was all about.
“Excuse me. Are you Miss Ingalls?” My right hand shot up, halting the stranger’s next words. He stretched his neck and twisted his head from one shoulder to the other trying to read my work upside down. He remained silent until I completed the panel.
“I’m Mia Ingalls. Can I help you?” I raised my eyes to the intruder and saw a short, slightly plump man with thinning brown hair. He peered at me across the elevated end of the drafting board. Even though I sat on a stool he was still shorter than I was. He blinked dark brown eyes and stood quietly, waiting.
Occasionally, clients evaded security in order to show me their painstakingly drawn ideas, expecting me to translate them into spectacular ads. Their ideas were nearly always worthless, but I’m not supposed to tell them that.
“Detective Smith,” he finally offered his hand across the storyboard,