Sharyn McCrumb - Foggy Mountain Breakdown and Other Stories

“Not one that my editor would buy.”

Although Rose Hanelon wrote what she liked to call traditional mysteries, she was well-versed in police procedure, first of all because she read widely within the genre, and secondly because the townhouse adjoining hers belonged to a police detective who liked to talk shop at his backyard cookouts. He particularly enjoyed critiquing the police procedurals written by Rose’s fellow authors. With no effort on her part, Rose had assimilated quite a good working knowledge of law enforcement. She wondered if it would serve her well in the current emergency. Probably not. People had to cooperate with police officers, but they were perfectly free to ignore an inquisitive mystery writer, no matter how knowledgeable she was about investigative procedure.

“Do you think you’ll be able to solve the crime?” asked Margie, who was scurrying along after Rose like a terrier in the wake of a St. Bernard.

“I doubt it,” said Rose. “The police have computers, and other useful tools for ferreting out the truth. Paraffin tests, ballistics experts. If Joe Villanova had to use his powers of deduction to solve cases, he’d be in big trouble. He’s a police officer; lives next door to me. He’d probably arrest me for even trying to meddle in this case. Too bad he’s not here.”

“Oh, but you’ve written so many mysteries!” said Margie. “I’m sure you know quite a bit.”

“I can tell you who I want to be guilty,” Rose replied. “That’s what I do in my books.”

“Do you want to examine Mr. Hawkins’s body?”

“No. I’m not a doctor, and I don’t want to get hassled for tampering with evidence. Let’s just go and badger some suspects, shall we?”

Margie nodded. “I asked the hotel manager to put the poets in the hospitality suite.”

“I hope they didn’t bring along any manuscripts,” muttered Rose. “The very thought of being cooped up with a bunch of bards gives me hives.”

“It seems strange, doesn’t it, to think of poets as murder suspects. They are such gentle people.”

Rose Hanelon raised her eyebrows. “Have you ever been in an English department?”

The door to the hospitality suite was open, and the sounds of bickering could be heard halfway down the hall. “I think we should just conduct a memorial service in Hawkins’s scheduled hour tomorrow,” Carter Jute was saying. “It would be a nice way to honor his memory. I wouldn’t mind conducting the service.”

Jess Scarberry, the poet lariat, sneered. “I’ll bet you wouldn’t mind, Sonny, but remember that I’m also scheduled to do a reading at that hour. You’re not taking away my audience for some phony displays of grief.”

Connie Samari, mothlike in a red-and-black polyester kimono, toyed with her crystal earrings. “I suppose we could all write commemorative poems in honor of John Clay Hawkins,” she murmured. “Read them at the memorial service.”

Snowfield held up a restraining hand. “Just a moment,” he said. “I think that I am the obvious choice for regional poet laureate, now that Hawkins has shuffled off the mortal coil. In light of that, the hour ought to be spent introducing people to my own works, with perhaps a short farewell to Hawkins.” He shrugged. “I don’t care which of you does that.”

The poets were so intent upon their territorial struggles that they did not notice the two self-appointed investigators watching them from the doorway. What, after all, was a trifle like murder compared to their artistic considerations?

Amy Dillow, Hawkins’s graduate student, glared at the upstarts. Two spots of color appeared in her pale cheeks, and she drew herself up with as much dignity as one can muster when wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and bunny slippers. “I am appalled at your attitudes!” she announced. “John Clay Hawkins was a major poet, deserving of much greater recognition than he ever received. The idea of any of you assuming his mantle is laughable. I will conduct Dr. Hawkins’s conference hour myself. I have just completed a paper on the symbolism in the works of Hawkins, and it seems logical to read that tomorrow as we pause to consider his achievements.”

Rose Hanelon strode into the fray, rubbing her hands together in cheerful anticipation. “Well, this won’t be hard!” she announced. “It sounds just like a faculty meeting in the English department.”

The poets stopped quarreling and stared at her. “Who are you?” Snowfield demanded with a touch of apprehension. He didn’t think any major women poets had been invited to this piddling conference. Anyway, she wasn’t Nikki Giovanni, so she probably didn’t matter.

“Relax,” said Rose. “If anybody called me a poet, I’d sue them for slander. I’m not here to replace Caesar, but to bury him. He was murdered, you know.”

Amy Dillow sighed theatrically. “Now he belongs to the ages.”

Margie Collier, ever the peacemaker, said, “Why don’t I get us some coffee while Miss Hanelon speaks to you about the murder. We thought it might be nice to get the preliminary questioning done while we wait for the police.” She hurried away before anyone could raise any objections to this plan, leaving Rose Hanelon alone with a roomful of egotists and possibly one murderer.

The poets sat down in a semicircle and faced her with varying degrees of resentment. Some of them were sputtering about the indignity of being a suspect in a sordid murder case.

Rose sighed. “I always find this the boring part of murder mysteries,” she confided to the assembly. “It seems to go on for pages and pages, while we listen to alibis, and tedious contradictory accounts of the deceased’s relationships with all present. And in order to find out who’s lying, I need access to outside documents detailing the life and loves of the victim. Obviously, I can’t do that, since we’re stormbound on this island.”

“Perhaps we could tell the police that Hawkins committed suicide,” said Carter Jute. “That would protect us all from notoriety, and it’s very correct in literary circles. Hemingway, Sylvia Plath.”

“We could blame it on Ted Hughes,” said Rose sarcastically, “but that wouldn’t be true, either. You’ll find that the police are awfully wedded to facts, as opposed to hopeful interpretation. They will investigate the crime scene, get fingerprints off the bottle, and that’ll be that.”

“Surely the killer would wipe the fingerprints off the murder weapon?” said Snowfield. He reddened under the stares of everyone else present. “Well, I’ve read a few whodunits. After all, C. Day Lewis, the English poet laureate, wrote some under the name of Nicholas Blake.”

“Never mind about the murder!” said Carter Jute. “What are we going to do about Hawkins’s time slot tomorrow?”

“Yes,” said Rose. “Why don’t you discuss that among yourselves? And while you do, I’d like to read that paper on the life and works of John Clay Hawkins. Do you have it with you, Ms. Dillow?”

Amy Dillow stood up, and yawned. “It’s in my room. I’ll get it for you. But why do you want to read it now?”

“It helps to have a clear idea who the victim was,” said Rose.

“Oh, all right.” She shuffled off in her bunny slippers. “I haven’t proofed it yet, though.”

In the doorway she nearly collided with Margie Collier, who was returning with a pot of coffee and seven cups. She set the tray on the coffee table, and beamed at Rose Hanelon. “Have you solved it yet?”

“Not yet,” said Rose. “It’s easier on television, where one of the actors is paid to confess. Real life is less tidy. This lot haven’t even decided what to do with Hawkins’s hour yet.”

“Well, you could read John Clay Hawkins’s last poem,” said Margie. “The one he was writing when he died.”