by Aaron C. Palmer (1901 words)

The group of weary writers loitered in the lobby, not sure if the morning session—or the retreat would even occur. With each gust of wind, the old fluorescent lights flickered. 

It was plain to everyone that Bunny was in denial, as acting was not her forte. She giggled, “A murder at a mystery writers’ retreat! Sure, I’ll play along.” But her eyes, magnified by thick lenses, could not hide her trepidation. 

Chuck was already in cop mode. “No, ma’am, I don’t think you—”

“Uh oh, Mavis left her journal on the couch.” Bunny picked it up.

“I’ll take that, Chuck demanded,” swiping it out of Bunny’s hand. “Might be important.”

“Why so grabby? Don’t they have manners where you came from? Sheesh, New Yorkers!”

Ignoring Bunny, Chuck opened the journal. The cover was red and embossed with three black roses. He began to read while Bunny watched, seething.

“You are a rude man, that’s not yours to read!” Bunny yelled loud enough for the rest to hear. 

The journal was written with an expensive pen in longhand, and featured flowing letters that echoed the curves of wild vines and the beauty of rare orchids. However, the meaning of the words belied the elegance of the lovely cursive script.

Day 1 or the Day of Days…
It used to be that when I felt frightened, I would pretend I was in a dream or watching a 3-D movie. That was long ago. I am not afraid now. This is because I am a believer in fate. Freewill is an urban legend as far as I’m concerned. Time—don’t get me started—is a myth. Everything has already happened, so why fret? No, life as we know it is like being inside the Matrix or a very expensive set in a play in which most of us are unwitting players. Not me. 

Not anymore. I laugh at “it,” and give a silent shout to the cosmos, “Bring it on!”

I sometimes have strange thoughts. Like, I wonder if anyone’s ever made cheese from the bacteria of a decaying body. Holy Limburger! I once had the wholesome dream of becoming a cheese monger, so I do know my cheeses. I remembered that in the making of Limburger, the same bacteria used to inoculate the cheese are what are commonly found on human skin, so in all possibility… Or perhaps sourdough bread might be the better choice. I know many sourdough fiends who are always looking for the most sour bread they can find. Be careful what you wish for, bread-boys! This fetid culture would surely produce a unique “tang” that no one else could duplicate. Eat that, San Francisco!

Enough of the playful wordplay. I’ll give you what you want, because believe me, dear reader, I know what you’re squirming grey matter craves! 

The Whys, if not the Hows: 

My life followed a plot; I just hadn’t been given the outline. For many years, I perceived I was “pantsing” my life (and writing) until I came upon SicFic’s work. It was elegant as it was unclean. The characters were hideous, but somehow charming. But what really inspired me was how he’d incorporate heady ideas from different philosophical and scientific disciplines into his narratives. It literally made my head spin. I would have to lie down and stare at the ceiling just to try and make sense of it all. Prior to A-I, I was Googling and sourcing information from Wikipedia for the Cliff Notes. 

This is how I came across the idea of fate versus free will. I read Sam Harris and listened to his podcast, Making Sense—and it did! He is a devout believer in Fate. This led me to eventually conclude that it was pointless to feel guilty about the things I do—or plan to do. After all, it’s out of my hands. 

Some may call me a psychopath, but that’s not accurate. I wasn’t born without feelings for others. I have or had a conscience. I fall into the definition of a sociopath—but who cares about labels, right?

And I’m not unaware that there were whispers in our critique group that I had daddy issues. But honestly, Sic was the only older man I ever had an interest in. He and the singer from Nine Inch Nails—but that’s different. I was in love with Sic’s mind, even when he was an asshole; he was insightful. I just needed thicker skin. And I toughened it up. I became tanned full-grain leather in no time. But I couldn’t control it. The skin grew over every aspect of my life. Imagine a social media influencer covered in elephant hide, metamorphosing into Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre! Right, I became a troll in real life. 

It’s all made me so very weary.  A sigh escapes my lips every time I think about my conundrum. Have I gone mad? Or perhaps…I am “the murderer?” While everyone else was pacing or hiding, and just trying to figure out if this was some kind of game or the new Knives Out movie. I let it all revolve around me, soaking in the weird energy. For twenty minutes, I sat still as a pillar of salt in the center of the room, trying to engage with what was left of my once stable mind. You all thought I’d had a panic attack and froze or were stuck frozen in fright. Nope. I was meditating upon my mental state. And when I found the answer…

But did I do it? I still don’t know. I’ve been having very detailed, disturbing dreams—even disturbing to me. But I wake up each morning in a clean bed. However, I always find it interesting that I have somehow managed to do laundry at night. I mean, I do have a history of sleepwalking— but I digress. Yes, even I’m suspicious. The thing is there’s a lack of motive. I don’t feel enough passion to care about killing anyone except for Sic or maybe…his lover.

Now wait, did you think this was a confession? Silly fool(s). Perhaps I’m only sharing the plot of my soon-to-be-released novel, Fate’s Crimson Critique. 

Maybe.

“Holy crap! She’s buggin’.”

Bunny leaned in. “She’s what?”

Everyone took in the drama in their own way. Lucy, being curious in nature and full of maternal instinct, came over to see what Bunny was yelling about. She recognized the journal as Mavis’. “Chuck, why are you looking through Mavis’ personal journal?”

His eyebrows went up. “Take a look for yourself.” He thrust it toward Lucy. His face suddenly had more wrinkles than features. 

Lucy reluctantly took the journal and sat on the worn couch. She’d never done anything like this before and had difficulty opening the journal.

“You’ll want to read this. We all should,” Chuck said it like a command.

Lucy opened to the first page and read the words. At the end of each paragraph, she looked up at Chuck, and he would nod. 

Bunny’s face was twisted into consternation, but she was too curious to leave.

Once finished, Lucy put the journal down on the couch as far as her arms would reach. She’d felt like she’d touched something radioactive. Her lips tightened around the words. “Has anyone seen Mavis?”

***

The old fluorescent lights flickered again as mousy Mavis appeared at the entrance. She fought the wind to get the door closed, but she was stronger than she looked. With her hair down and soaked by the horizontal downpour from the atmospheric river, she wasn’t mousy anymore; this woman looked both cunning and feral. She took off her soggy Patagonia puff jacket and walked up to six accusing eyes.

Mavis pretended not to notice, focusing on her journal. “There it is!” She looked at the three rubberneckers. “I bought this just for this retreat, and I haven’t written a single word.

“Yes, you have,” Chuck said with the confidence of a field doctor pronouncing the death of a headless soldier.

Mavis double-checked that her name was on the bottom right side of the cover, written in silver ink, and opened it. Her mouth dropped open. She read a couple of paragraphs and began to laugh. 

“Are you playing a joke on us, or?” Lucy asked.

Mavis closed the journal with a curious smile. “I should ask you the same question. I don’t know who wrote this, but it’s hilarious.”

“I’d like to see a sample of your handwriting.” Chuck’s tone was dry as a funeral drum.

Mavis’ smile evaporated when she saw that the three were all awaiting her reply. “Fine! I’ll write something right now. First, she drew her hair back in a ponytail and slipped on her glasses. Mavis no longer appeared dangerous; she was back to looking like a serious academic again. She opened to the last page and produced an expensive pen from her pocket and wrote: 

I am not a sociopath. I haven’t decided whether fate or free will matters. And I am certainly not a murderer. One more thing, I never use em dashes! 

Mavis handed it first to Lucy. 

Lucy compared the writing and shrugged, handing it to Bunny.

After two long minutes of her paging back and forth, Bunny spoke. “I took a forensics class a couple of years back, as you know, I like police procedurals, and these two samples don’t look anything—”

“Give it here,” Chuck demanded, again, ripping it out of her hand. 

Bunny was ready to explode.

Chuck leafed through it and pronounced it, “Inconclusive. I would need an expert to analyze it. Therefore, I’m hanging onto it.”

“No, you’re not. It’s my property, and besides, you’re no longer a cop.”

She grasped for it, and a tug-of-war began. 

Ed rushed over with the calmness of a judge and held out his hand. Without a word, they released the journal to him, as if the principal had caught the two of them fighting over a ball on the playground. “I have a safe in my room. And between having the phone service knocked out and the roads being blocked by trees and debris, I’d say we’ll all be here together for a while.” He made eye contact with each of them and continued, “Let’s work on getting along and keeping each other safe.”

Lucy considered the strange situation she was in and thought of her family. She missed Eleanor’s sweet little face and Paul’s heavenly back rubs. Even though she wasn’t a bestselling author, she realized how blessed she was. But she was here, and something inside whispered for her to be patient and take notes. A book of some merit may come out of this. Isn’t that what I’m here for? Calmness enveloped her. She knew she would be safe as long as she stayed vigilant and kept her pepper spray close. 

Lucy decided to believe Mavis for the time being.

***

Still in Sic’s room that smelled of iron and dead roses, Margaux was unsure of what to make of what she was seeing. She knew it was some kind of evidence, so she took out her phone and photographed the scene. As she was taking her last shots, footsteps approached, and she quickly included a picture of the blood-stained novel. She exited the room, into the worn vinyl-tiled hallway, and around the corner out of view.