Readers of mystery will recognize some names, in this story where mystery writers meet murder face-to-face!

Murder at the GMMC

By Warren Bull

When the phone rang at two in the morning it wrenched me out of a dreamless sleep. I peered into the unfamiliar gloom trying to remember when I was. Manhattan . Kansas , of course. I was at the second Great Manhattan Mystery Conclave where, wonder of wonders, my short story had been included in the Manhattan Mysteries anthology launched the day before. Until then, I had one novel published after a mere nine years of trying which qualified me as an overnight success, garnered stellar reviews and produced sales in the high tens. (Thank God for independent bookstores or I would have no sales outside my family.)

Sales in the tens of original books, that is. Used book sales benefit neither me nor my publisher. The used book market took off just when the spread of SARS reached epidemic proportions. Coincidence? I don't think so.

What was that annoying noise? The phone. I reached for the phone, backhanding the clock radio half off the nightstand and stinging my knuckles.

I managed, “Uh.”

An obviously disguised voice announced, “I'm going to kill you. Sorry to wake you up. Sweet Dreams.” There was a click followed by a dial tone.

“'S all right.” I answered. “I was awake anyway ‘cause the phone rang.”

At seven in the morning the phone rang with my wake up call. I thanked the recorded voice, before recalling the strange dream from last night. Then I noticed that the clock radio was half off the nightstand.

Who would want to kill me and why? I'm middle aged (assuming I live to be one hundred twelve), balding, monogamous and solvent. In other words - boring. I' m a psychologist in my day job. The only thing unusual about me is that I write well and I have the delusion that someone will pay to publish my writing. Could that be it? I resolved to ask other authors with stories in Manhattan Mysteries if they got similar threats.

At breakfast I sat at a table with some my fellow authors, although not many of the authors were fellows.

“I see you remembered to wear your rosette award,” said Beth Groundwater, touching the ribbon of hers.

“Yes, I figured out I was supposed to wear it during the conclave just as soon as you told me.”

“I hope we weren't too hard on you last night,” said Linda Berry. “We have to take into account your inherited gender disadvantage.”

“Testosterone poisoning. At least I chose an orange rosette so it will go with anything I wear. I've been telling people I won it at the county fair for best sweet pickles. Listen, I got a phone call early this morning threatening to kill me. I was wondering if you got similar calls.”

They exchanged knowing looks.

“We were just discussing that,” said Beth. “We did but we decided not to say anything unless you asked. It could be a prank. We asked Margaret Shauers and she said she got a threatening call.”

“If anyone is killed, she should go first,” said Linda.

“I agree. She had three stories accepted. If they didn't have the rule limiting the number of submissions you could make, it would have been the Margaret Shauers anthology.”

Beth said, “Jerry A. Peterson should go next. He had two accepted. Marolyn Caldwell and Robin Higham collaborated on two. Does that put them third and fourth or does it just count as one each?”

Linda said, “I vote for them getting knocked off third and fourth.”

“Sounds fair to me.”

Beth said, “Maybe the killer will start alphabetically.”

Linda said, “Then I'd go first. I prefer to think the assassin will use the order the stories are in.” She smiled at me. My story was first. Hers was last.

“I think we should at least mention it to Marolyn. She's an author as well as the organizer of all this.”

After breakfast I headed out to my car to put copies of the anthology into my trunk. I noticed a man nearby who had the hood up on a white Honda Accord. It looked just like mine. He was even in a parking space I used for most of yesterday before a space opened closer to my room. He slammed the hood but I didn't hear it close. That was because of the explosion and the fireball that engulfed the man and the car. I was knocked off my feet and I nearly dropped the books.

As I lost consciousness I muttered to myself, “I'm definitely talking to Marolyn.”

I awoke in a hospital bed some time later. Eventually the ringing in my ears quieted down enough for me to talk to the police. I recognized Alan Riniker of the Riley County Police Department and the department director, Mike Watson from a law enforcement seminar at the conclave. I described what I had seen.

Alan said, “Who would want to kill you?”

“Nobody I know of but I did get a threatening phone call around two in the morning.”

Alan said, “Did it occur to you to call the police?”

“I just told you.”

Mike cleared his throat. “The deceased has been identified as a local gentleman with ties to the Kansas Konspiracy, spelled with a ‘K.'”

“Who are they?”

Mike said, “They left the Klu Klux Klan when they thought it became too liberal. They commit crimes to make money. The deceased apparently was trying to rig a pipe bomb to explode when the motor started.”

Alan snorted. “He was dumber than a box of rocks. The car he blew up belonged to an eighty-five-year-old Sunday school teacher. We think he was after you. Do you know anyone in the mob?”

“No. And I don't know anyone who'd want to kill me or any reason someone would want me dead.”

Mike said, “We checked with all the contest winners who got stories into the anthology. They all got threatening calls. Apparently no one else did. We think that's a cover for someone who wants to kill one of the winners. Maybe you. We're checking on the writers who got turned down to cover all the bases. It doesn't make sense to us that someone whose story was not accepted would be so upset that he or she would try to kill the winners.”

“You're not writers are you?”

They questioned me about my time in Manhattan . I missed the tour of the town early in the morning and arrived in time to attend the seminar by the Deadly Divas. Sadly, this year they didn't wear tiaras and boas. Denise Swanson talked about creating a character. Marcia Talley offered information on references and writing. Letha Albright told us about chasing dreams. The founder of the group, Susan McBride, defined Chick Lit and gave fashion tips. I asked her why she was known as, the “Chanteuse of Chick Lit.”

She answered, “I think they mean chartreuse. It is one of my colors.”

“I talked to her alone later about making book signings into events. She had some great ideas.”

“You can skip telling us that part,” said Alan.

“I spent the rest of the afternoon at the Prairie Tea to launch Manhattan Mysteries. I met Nancy Pickard and Marcia Talley, two of the judges. I saw the bookstore owner who sponsored my first book signing, chatted with the other authors, ate entirely too much and rode back to the motel on the van.”

Alan asked, “So at the tea and afterward you never alone? The killer didn't have a clean shot at you?”

“I guess not.”

Alan asked, “What did you do that evening?”

“I talked with writers sitting around the lobby. That was the best part of the conclave. I suggested book titles to Carolyn Hart and Shirley Damsgaard. The rest of the evening I talked to Linda Berry and Beth Groundwater. Other people stopped by from time to time. Margaret Shauers, Pamela Fesler and Michelle Mach joined us at different times. I don't know if any of this is helpful.”

Mike said, “Neither do we. Unlike in mystery books, real police work consists of gathering lots of mostly useless information and doing paperwork. We keep asking questions and eventually, piece by piece we find out what we need to know.”

“There's a meeting tonight with the judges to talk about publicity. The doctor says I can go. If you're done with your questioning, I'd like to get dressed and get back so I can attend it. I hope you're covering the meeting. All the threatened people will be together in one place.”

Alan shook his head. “I still think the threats are a distraction. Someone is out to kill one of the winning authors. The car bomb might be a distraction too. We're spending time with you instead of investigating the rest of the writers. Maybe one of the writers wants to kill another one. As far as we can tell, nobody wants to kill you.”

“That's good to hear.”

I got back to the motel where the charred husk of the bombed out car still sat behind crime scene tape. I shivered when I thought it could have been my car with me in it. Alan's words were not as reassuring when confronted with the wreckage.

To my surprise, Susan McBride met me just outside the door.

“Hi, there,” she said.

I jumped. “Sorry, I didn't see you in that black outfit. You were in something bright red and shimmering during your seminar.”

Before she could answer a group of Kansas State football fans burst out of the door singing and laughing. They flipped a football toward Susan and cheered when she caught it. She tossed it to me and I passed it back to them. They marched away singing their fight song.

Susan said, “How nice of you to notice. I heard you were in the hospital. I hope you're all right. What happened?”

“I'm just bruised and battered, thanks. Somebody blew himself up and I was too close. Apparently he was putting a pipe bomb in a car. I think it was a failed hit.”

She nodded, “There are easier ways to commit suicide. Whoever hired him must be upset. It just goes to show how hard it is to get good help these days.”

“Especially out of town where you don't know anyone.”

“Too true. You have to do everything yourself. I'm glad you're not hurt.” She slipped away silently.

The painkillers they gave me in the hospital were wearing off as I limped down the hall toward Conference Room IV. When I entered the door, the judges – Carolyn Hart, Nancy Pickard and Marcia Talley started to applaud. My fellow authors joined in. I noticed that Margaret Shauers was especially pleased. Then I remembered that one of her stories was second in the anthology. If the killer was using the order of the stories in the book, she was safe as long as I survived. The applause stopped. Everyone stared past me. I turned around to see Susan McBride, carrying a black pistol with long barrel. I stared at the gun.

She said, “Don't you think it matches my outfit?”

I nodded without speaking.

She said, “I do want to apologize to you. I meant to kill you, but I didn't mean for you to suffer. And I have good news.”

She smiled brightly.

“I was going to kill the contest winners one at a time. There is too just much competition writing mysteries and too few publishers. But I've changed my mind.”

We applauded. She gave a neat curtsey.

She continued. “Why should I worry about people who are mostly just starting out when I can kill three authors who are at the top? The best publishers will be begging for experienced authors.”

She turned the gun toward the judges. “Carolyn Hart, they call you America 's Agatha Christie. You were nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. That never happens for a mystery. Nancy Pickard, you won an American Mystery Award, an Agatha, an Anthony, a Macavity, and a Shamus. Is there anything you haven't won?”

Nancy answered, “An Edgar.”

Susan shook her head, “You've been nominated three times. You'll win it for sure, if you survive.”

She turned the gun toward Marcia Talley. “You are the new hot author. You won an Agatha and an Anthony. Malice Domestic gave you a writing grant. Getting paid before you finish a book? I can't forgive that.”

Wincing in pain, I limped toward her. “Susan you can't be serious. Tell us it's a joke. We'll all laugh and forget the whole thing.”

She swung around to face me, turning her back to the judges. “Don't push it. You're lucky to be alive.”

“You don't want to kill me.” I limped closer. “You already had at least two chances and you let me live.”

She said, “Don't come any closer.”

“I talked to you alone after your seminar. You could have killed me then and no one would have known.”

She snapped, “Idiot. Think back to what I was wearing. Something bright red and shimmering, remember? It was fine silk and not color fast. It is impossible to get bloodstains out of that material. Men!”

“Outside the motel?”

“Remember the football fans? They noticed me. I mean who wouldn't? But still they got a good look at me with you. Why take the chance?”

I exhaled. “This outfit?”

She said, “It's an easy care fabric. Besides, I'm tired of it already.”

“If you kill the judges, the authors will be witnesses.”

Susan said, “So I lied about not killing all of you. So you've gone from the prime target to collateral damage. So arrest me.”

“Freeze!” Susan turned her head toward where the judges had been. Two police officers in uniform and Alan stood pointing their weapons at Susan.

“Drop the gun!”

With a graceful move, she bent her knees, laid the gun on the floor and then rose again. An officer handcuffed her and started to read from a small card. “You are under arrest…”

You could have warned me,” I said to Alan. “When I saw the officers emerge from hiding, I nearly jumped out of my skin.”

He said, “We didn't know for sure if you were part of her plan. You wouldn't have behaved normally if you'd been clued in.”

“So you used me as bait without my knowledge.”

He said, “Yep. Got a problem with that?”