A Missing Body

100 words

A Detective Story

For The Roseneath Writers Circle

“Where is the body?” asked the Detective”

“There was a body here. I saw it with my own eyes,” replied Billy Boone.

“You lost a body?” The police searched to no avail.

“Not lost,” Billy cried. “It’s just gone. Not really sure.”

The detective eyed Billy with growing suspicion.

The next day the detective arrived. “I see you found a body.”

“I was a day early,” Billy responded quickly.

“You are a little too eager,” the detective stated, noting  the cherry-red coloration of the skin, and the wide open windows. “You committed murder. By carbon monoxide poisoning. You’re under arrest.”

November Challenge—"A Detective Story"

I refer to it as my first apartment. In fact, it was only an attic room. I shared the space in Mrs. Lipstick’s house with a girl named Grace. We called our landlady Mrs. Lipstick, and it didn’t seem to bother her—though it was actually spelled Liptschtik. Grace  lived there first and wasn’t pleased when I moved in. My mother had heard good things about Mrs. Lipstick from mutual acquaintances and only agreed to let me leave home if I boarded with the old lady.

So Grace and I shared the small room in the attic and quickly became good friends. Directly below us was Mrs. Lipstick’s room, and next to that a small bathroom the three of us shared. The floor below held a narrow kitchen, a dining room, and a rather large sitting room we rarely used, with an electric heater that was never turned on. 

The house was always cold.

Thanksgiving

 For the last Thanksgiving, the two sisters sat across from each other at the old oak dining table.  Lavinia opened the envelope and withdrew the single piece of lined paper.  She read it quickly, blinking away tears.  Finished, she handed it to Beryl without comment.  Beryl read even faster before tossing it on the table with a noise of disgust.

            “Nothing surprising, then,” Beryl said, “No need to read the will, the favourite child gets it all.”

            “She didn’t mean it like that.”  Lavinia said softly, pleadingly.  Beryl stood up.

            “Enjoy the house,” she said coldly, and left.

 

            Lavinia spent the rest of the evening putting away the fall decorations.  She didn’t want to be reminded of Thanksgiving anymore.  Instead, she pulled out the Christmas bin and began sorting through her mother’s beloved tchotchkes.  Reverently, she arranged the hand-painted nativity scene, smiling as she remembered her mother carefully touching up the paint.  She sifted through the shoebox of ornaments, including some rather garish pieces that she and her sister had made.  Nevertheless, her mother had hung them up every year.

            By the time all of the decorations were up, the house was bright and merry.  Lavinia sat down and looked around the house that held all of her warm and loving memories and would hold her as long as she needed it.

 

            Beryl came home to her husband in a dither.

            “Candace has been crying for you all evening,” he explained.  Beryl hurried upstairs to her daughter’s room.  She pulled Candace into her arms, stroking her hair.

            “I don’t like it when you go away, mommy,” Candace murmured.

            “I try not to, honey.  And you know I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of when I’m gone.  Derek too.”  As though he had heard his name from across the hall, Beryl heard her son’s voice calling for her.  Beryl started to move, but Candace’s grip tightened on her.

            “I have to go, I promised Derek I’d read him the train book tonight.  Love you, my sweet Candy.”  Reluctantly, Candace disengaged herself.  Beryl gave her one last kiss before heading to Derek’s room.

            Derek was fully awake with the train book on his lap.  Beryl sat next to him and started reading, looking at her son rather than the book as she knew it by heart.  Even after dozens of repetitions, the silly rhymes still made Derek beam.  Beryl beamed back.

7 Steps to Writing a Detective Story

 

 

(Thought this might be useful for November's challenge. Use it as you will.- Adrian) 

 1. Work out a crime.

Don’t make this in any way mysterious. You, the author, must know every detail about this crime. You must devise who did it, how they did it when they did it, where they did it - everything. This isn’t the time to add in unknowns, that comes later. Write it all out in elaborate detail. It can be a murder, a robbery, whatever you wish, but leave nothing out of this initial account.

Here’s an additional thing to work into the framework at this stage: devise a clash between a protagonist and an antagonist which takes place in the past. In other words, a hero and a villain have had some sort of titanic contest years before, and the crime, whatever it may be, is a kind of revenge or follow-up action to that original conflict. You are laying the groundwork here for the motivation of whoever commits the crime. A simple bank robbery, for example, might work as a ‘crime’, but it will not attract readers unless there is an emotional undertow: perhaps the bank is being robbed as an act of vengeance or in order to obtain something which the antagonist needs to attack the protagonist.

Time spent on this first step is worth it: a well-worked-out foundation here is where your story gains its strength from later.

2. Now begin to cover it up.

What does your culprit do to hide his or her tracks? How is the crime itself concealed? What attempts are made to deflect attention? Be convincing, but make sure you leave enough for step 3.

3. Leave three definite and accurate clues.

Work out for yourself which exact pieces of evidence are going to be left scattered around in various ways to lead your detective to the real criminal. These clues have to be real and accurate, not tricks.

4. Develop at least three ‘red herrings’ or false clues.

Scatter these around in the same way that you do the real clues. These are the things which distract and mislead the readers’ attention, the tricks and misdirections which engage readers, but to a false end.

5. Now invent your detective.

You can be entirely original about this, but you will notice some patterns in the most famous detectives of fiction: the most well-known have some ‘defect’ in their make-up, something which sets them apart. Sherlock Holmes has his genius, but the flaw in his character is his predilection for cocaine; Poirot is meticulously vain; Miss Marple is ancient, and so on. They are not just your average ‘man or woman in the street’. This is on purpose. They have to command reader attention in some way; they have to be some kind of authority figure either physically or mentally.

6. Invent some other potential culprits.

Of course you know ‘whodunit’, but the reader doesn’t. You need to have enough false villains on the scene to hook a reader’s interest. Your actual villain can be around too, and should be, but he or she shouldn’t stand out. These extra culprits have to have dark secrets in their past, each one, secrets that entice the reader into thinking that they could be ‘the one’.

7. Create a scenario.

Your actual story can open some time after the crime has been committed or just before. Your detective usually fortuitously arrives on the scene or is present by accident or coincidence. A group of people has gathered - on a train, on a boat, in a village, at a dinner, and so forth. The crime is revealed and the detective sets about piecing things together. The reader, tracking along and observing the same things as the detective, tries to ‘second-guess’ who the villain is. Everything is obscured and muddled by the red herrings.

Sometimes, things are made even more confusing by additional crimes, which take place in an effort by the real culprit to hide the initial crime. In the end, only the detective has been able to see through the fog and spot the real bad guy.

Work this back and forth until you have mastered the sequence. It has laid and will lay the groundwork for many an entertaining tale.

John Steinbeck's 6 Writing Tips

1. Abandon the idea that you are ever going to finish. Lose track of the 400 pages and write just one page each day, it helps. Then when it gets finished, you are always surprised.

2. Write freely and as rapidly as possible and throw the whole thing on paper. Never correct or rewrite until the whole thing is down. Rewriting in process is usually found to be an excuse for not going on. It also interferes with flow and rhythm which can only come from a kind of unconscious association with the material.

3. Forget your generalized audience. In the first place, the nameless, faceless audience will scare you to death and in the second place, unlike the theater, it doesn't exist. In writing, your audience is one single reader. I have found that sometimes it helps to pick out one person - a real person you know, or an imagined person - and write to that one.

4. If a scene or a section gets the better of you and you still think you want it, bypass it and go on. When you have finished the whole, you can come back to it and then you may find that the reason it gave you trouble is because it didn't belong there.

5. Beware of a scene that becomes too dear to you. Dearer than the rest. It will usually be found that it is out of drawing. (I take this to mean that you, the writer, are particularly drawn to your  own brilliance. I could be wrong. AT)

6. If you are using dialogue, say it aloud as you write it. Only then will it have the sound of speech.

 

October Thanksgiving

 

Thanksgiving at Juno Beach

The beach was all deserted

The waves crashed to the shore

Looking out across the vastness

Thinking of men who were no more.

The land was very open

There was no protection in sight

They were young and scared and innocent

Not prepared for the Germans to fight.

Now they rest in a peaceful garden 

It is the peace that they never knew

They lie side by side together

The Christian and the Jew.

The stones are very simple

A name, a date, a place

Young men alone in Juno

Never to see their mother's face.

Inscriptions of love are chiseled

Into that very plain cold stone,

Young men with waiting families

Now they rest so all alone.

There was a special reverence

As we walked past row by row

A very special thanksgiving 

With the men at Beach Juno.

"Someday we will understand?"

October Theme—Thanksgiving/Gratitude

 

Other kids looked forward to the gifts and glittering lights of Christmas. But for Jake, it was Thanksgiving—the smell of pumpkin pie, the oven warming the house as the turkey roasted, his mother in her worn old apron. It was the one holiday she didn’t have to stress about. The old man always worked that day.

Now, strolling along Yonge Street beside Amy, he found himself reminiscing about those dinners from his childhood. The wind scattered trash and crisp brown leaves that crunched beneath their feet.

“Even in the city, the fall colours are amazing,” he said casually.

“We should take a walk in Riverdale Park. I’ve been there the past few days. You’d like it,” Amy urged.

Jake was distracted. He stopped outside a restaurant, breathing in deeply. “Mmm—do you smell that? Roast turkey.”

Amy smiled. “Come to the mission with me. It’s not home-cooked, but it’s good—and they don’t skimp on the gravy.”

Jake’s laughed. “I used to have Thanksgiving dinners that’d make you jealous,” he said softly. “Back before I left home.”

Amy glanced at him but didn’t press.

“Me and my old man, we never got along,” Jake went on. “He worked every Thanksgiving, which was probably why I liked it so much. Mom would cook all day, humming to herself. She looked happy then.”

They paused at a busy intersection, and Jake watched as leaves spiralled across the road on the don’t walk signal. “After I left, she’d meet me once a month at the same park bench. She’d bring fruit, muffins—sometimes pie if she could manage it. I’d share it with the guys.” The walk signal illuminated, and they continued on their way, heading nowhere in particular.

Amy whispered, “Ah, that’s sweet of her.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Last year she promised to meet me the week after Thanksgiving. I waited on the bench all afternoon. Then he showed up instead.”
Amy frowned. “Your father?”

He nodded. “Said she wasn’t allowed to see me anymore. As he walked away, I noticed my brother sitting in the car. Just staring straight ahead. Never even looked at me.”

Later that evening, the line outside the mission stretched down the block. The smell of roast turkey drifted onto the street. Once inside, Amy guided him toward the serving table, where volunteers spooned out turkey and stuffing. Jake took a plate, nodded his thanks, and scanned the crowded hall for two empty seat. Then he stopped.

At the far end of the room, hunched over his own tray, sat his brother. His hair was longer, streaked with grey, his hands shaking slightly as he cut into the meat. For a moment Jake thought he must be mistaken. But when his brother looked up, their eyes met. Neither acknowledged the other. 

Amy touched his arm. “You okay Jake? Something wrong?”

He exhaled slowly. “No, it’s nothing,” he said. “just… someone I used to know.”

They  carried their trays to the next table and sat down, joining in the laughter and chatter.

Jake ate slowly, savouring the turkey. When he looked up, his brother was gone. That was okay. Thanksgiving wasn’t about family anymore—it was gratitude for a warm meal shared with friends and strangers.

October's Challenge

 HOW NOT TO COOK A TURKEY

Tom

We had been invited to Thanksgiving dinner at the house of my partner, Susan’s, family and as much as I was dreading having to dine with those deadbeats, I was determined to at least make it interesting for myself in some other way. So, I volunteered to make the turkey. (Is that the right word; make the turkey?)

Now I fancy myself a pretty good cook and I have made some pretty wild dinners for Susan and friends. I learned most of my skills online during the covid years, so it was kind of a forced education. At any rate, one thing I had never done was roast (yes, that’s probably the right word) a turkey. How hard could it be, I thought. Cover it with some goo or another, shove some stuffing into it and stick it in the oven for like ever.

So, I made the call and the commitment some month before the event and then promptly forgot all about it. About a week before Thanksgiving, I was fast asleep on a Sunday morning when Susan greeted me with a cup of coffee and a question.

“So, you’re doing the turkey. Have you bought it yet?”

A shiver went down my spine like a cold worm. Good god, I had forgotten all about it.

“Yes, of course,” I responded. “How could I forget?”

“Well, good, because I didn’t see it in the fridge or freezer.”

“Oh, that’s because I wanted a fresh one, so I ordered it at Taylor’s Meats.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I’m picking it tomorrow.”

“Great. Well, I’ll go make us some breakfast.”

The next day I headed down to Taylor’s. The busy woman behind the counter frowned and said that they didn’t have any turkeys because there had been an outbreak of avian flu and all the turkeys in the area had to be put down.

“What!” I screamed at her, way too loudly. “You’re telling me I can’t get a turkey? I have to have a turkey!”

“Well, I’m sorry,” she replied, “but it can’t be done. You might try one of the grocery stores somewhere, but from what I understand, they’re mostly gone.”

I ran from the shop in tears, knowing that my lie to Susan and the forthcoming wrath of my in-laws was going to be like hell on earth. Why had I lied to Susan? I drove home, despondent and lonely and with my head hung down to my knees walked in the front door. Susan was in a great mood. She was really looking forward to the dinner party. She had had a rough time lately with some bad news from work and it was great to see a smile on her face for a change.

“So, where’s the turkey?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s in the car,” I replied, furthering my predicament. “I’ll bring it in after I get back… from… the farmer’s market!” Yes, the farmer’s market. Maybe they’d have something. Even if it was some scrawny turkey runt. “I’ll be back in a bit!”

I drove like a maniac to the farmer’s market down the highway a bit and screeched to a halt by the front door, almost hitting an elderly couple as they came out. I waved hello. This market was a popular one and I hoped I wasn't too late. I had bought poultry there before and it had turned out pretty well. I started to feel a bit better.

I walked up to the counter and stared at the glass case.  It was empty. Not just of turkey but every other non-flying bird. Ken, the guy at the meat counter called over to me.

“There’s no birds this week,” he said.

“What? Why?” I felt the panic starting to whisper to me from somewhere under my sweater.

“Chuck died.”

“Oh,” I said. “So, no turkeys then?”

Ken scowled at me and turned back to his hog butchering and started to smack down with his cleaver on some meat. I guess my lack of sympathy had hit him the wrong way. In hindsight, I suppose it was a bit crass of me.

Then a voice popped up from an old fella who was shopping at the bakery counter.

“You know, in my day, we’d just go out into the field and shoot one,” he said, with a wink. There’s plenty of them at this time of year.”

“Is that legal?” I asked.

 “Sure, all you need is a gun.”

“Where are these wild turkeys?” I asked.

“All over the place. Just drive around the countryside for a bit. You’re sure to see some. The toms are the best ones for eatin’.”

“What’s a tom?” I asked.

“It’s the male turkey. You can’t miss him. Especially if he’s doing his mating dance. The tail feathers are something to behold.”

I left the market in a daze. A wild turkey. Was it possible? When I was a kid, I had some rifle training as an air cadet. Why they chose to teach long gun skills to someone who wanted to be a pilot, I never quite understood.  But there you go. 

I didn’t own a gun, but I knew where I could get one. My buddy Stan, who I sometimes bowled with, had a full complement of them as he was an avid hunter.  He’d probably have something I could borrow.

When I got to Stan’s house, he was there, practicing his bowling in the back yard.  He had actually constructed a bowling alley back there. He was a bit strange, was old Stan.

“Well, hi ya, Greg! What’s happening man?” he called out, cheerily, as I entered through the back gate.

“Hi Stan. Listen, I was wondering if I could borrow one of your guns.”

“Who ya gonna shoot?” he said with a laugh.

“Well, I’m not going to shoot anybody. I want to go turkey hunting. You got anything like that?”

“Sure do. A few of them in fact. Got a Remington 870, pump action that would do the job. Used it myself on turkeys down by the river.”

“That would be great. Can I borrow it?”

“I guess so.” He paused. “You have your firearms certificate, right?”

I hesitated. “Yes,” I lied.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

He was gone a few minutes and returned with the shotgun in a leather case and a box of shells. I thanked him, put the weapon in the back seat of the wagon and drove off to find a turkey.

As luck would have it, I had only been driving around for about a half hour when I spotted some big black blobs moving around in what had been a corn field. And there in the middle of them, with his tail feathers splayed out in an amazing fan of orange and black feather s was a tom. He was huge. If I was standing beside him, his head probably would have reached my chest.

I parked the car and retrieved the gun and stuck a couple of shells in the chamber. There was a wind break to the north of the field, closer to where the birds were and I made for that. After a few minutes, I managed to get close enough to the tom. Stan had said I could probably get a good shot from around fifty feet, and I was much closer than that. I trained the sites on him and gripped the trigger.

Just then the antics of the dancing tom attracted a pretty bird from the flock, and they started to, well you know, mate. It was quite the sight. I lowered the barrel of the gun and watched it play out. Then I looked down at the gun. What the hell was I doing? This wouldn’t just be murder. It was like murder is probably like in France. Full of sexual intrigue and the like. I returned to the car.

Anyway, if there’s one thing I know how to cook, it’s ham.  I think everyone liked it. Of course, Susan didn’t talk to me for about a month. I sometimes drive out to the field and watch that flock. Of course, thanks to me, it’s bit larger now.