Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) (6 page)
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Authors: Jessica Fletcher
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)
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“He’s a little strange, Jessica. He showed up yesterday thinking the signing was then. When I told him it was today, he became angry. Started swearing under his breath.”
“I suppose he was inconvenienced by getting the date wrong. Is he a regular at the shop?”
“No. Never saw him before yesterday.”
“He probably lives locally,” I said, “since he’s comingback again today. Either that or he’s a tourist with plenty of time to spare.”
His laugh was gentle. “Fans of murder mysteries come in all shapes and sizes,” he mused. “I’m aware of that every time I attend Bouchercon.”
Bill was referring to the annual Bouchercon gathering, the world’s largest convention of mystery writers, editors, publishers, agents, and fans of the genre. It was named after the late beloved mystery writer, editor, critic, reviewer, and fan Anthony Boucher. I’d attended a few of the gatherings myself and enjoyed them.
“He’s been here for at least an hour,” Bill said. “In and out of the store. He already has your new novel. Must have bought it someplace else. Don’t you just love people who buy a book at another store and come to this one to have it autographed?”
“Nothing new,” I said, going to the table and settling in for the signing, which was scheduled to run for an hour and a half. Some of the customers already in the shop gravitated to me as others came through the door. I know writers who dread signings, but I’m not among them. I receive, and reply to, hundreds of e-mails each month, but I especially treasure the opportunity to actually meet the men and women who buy and read—and, I hope, enjoy—my books. They represent a diverse cross section of people, old and young (I especially like it that many teenagers write to tell me how much they enjoyed a particular book of mine), rich and not so rich, men and women (although women account for the largest percentage of book buyers, not only of mine but of books in general), gregarious and shy, talkative and quiet. Often their comments provide me insights into my works that I hadn’t recognized when writing them. All in all, book signings provide an author the sort of direct feedback that is not only gratifying but helpful, too, when working on the next book.
I invited Kathy to sit next to me at the table and asked her to help me by gathering from each person the name of the individual to whom the book should be addressed and any special messages to be included— happy birthday to a family member or friend, or something else personal. Soon we were engaged in a spirited conversation with some of the women who’d approached, and I started the signing process. As I fulfilled my reason for being there, more people entered the shop, which pleased me. The only book signings I’ve not enjoyed were those when very few people showed up. I always feel bad for the store owners when that occurs.
The line of book buyers continued to grow, to my satisfaction, and I chatted with customers and signed copies of the book. Every once in a while I looked for the man whom I’d met outside the shop. He hadn’t come inside as far as I could tell, and I wondered why. Had he decided not to bother having his book signed? That was a possibility, of course. Perhaps the number of people in line had discouraged him.
I excused myself and took a brief break to rest my hand, which had begun to cramp. Kathy and I went to the window and looked outside. No sign of the disgruntled gentleman.
“I’m going to get some air,” Kathy said. “Can you do without me?”
“Of course.”
She left the shop, and I resumed my seat at the table.
“Where do you get all your ideas?” a woman asked.
“I really don’t know,” I said. “Sometimes from something I’ve read in a newspaper or magazine. At other times, a plot just comes to me at odd hours. Usually, I play the ‘What if?’ game.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I ask myself that question. ‘What if someone were to—?’ ”
A commotion at the front door caused everyone, including me, to stop what we were doing and look in that direction. I saw Kathy come through the door, followed closely by the disheveled man from outside. The look on my friend’s face was sheer panic. The man shoved her ahead of him, propelling her into a group of people who’d already had their books signed and were chatting. Then I saw what the man carried besides his canvas bag. It was a lethal-looking hunting knife with a very long blade.
Someone else who also saw the weapon screamed. Bill Farley came around the counter and shouted, “What are you doing?”
“Shut up!” the man said, waving the knife above his head, which sent people scurrying down the aisles in search of a safe haven.
I didn’t know what to do. I stood frozen in place. I saw that Kathy was all right. I considered trying to reach an aisle or ducking beneath the table. But before I could do anything, the man came to me, parting those who were still standing there with their books for me to sign. He held the knife in one hand, the canvas bag in the other. The blade was pointed straight at me.
“Sir,” I said, “why don’t you put down that knife and—”
“Shut up!”
I obeyed.
He slammed the canvas bag down on the table, sending copies of my books flying in all directions. The hand holding the knife began to shake as he reached inside the bag, withdrew a copy of my new book, and slapped it down in front of me.
I know it sounds silly, but the only thing I could think of to say at that moment was, “Would you like me to sign that?”
He seemed as surprised at what I’d said as I was. His eyes darted back and forth, and he started to say something, but no words emerged.
“Please, put down the knife,” I said, taking advantage of the momentary emotional lull.
“You stole it,” he managed to say.
“What?”
He pointed to my book. “You stole it from me.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“I gave you the idea for it,” he said in a voice that sounded on the verge of breaking.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“I sent you the idea,” he said. “You stole it from me.”
My mind raced. He was clearly demented. I searched my memory for having had some contact with him in the past, something to make sense out of what he’d just charged.
“The whole story was mine,” he said. “I told you about it, and you said it was a good idea but that you were already writing something just like it.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember anything like that. You must be mistaken.”
The moment I said it, I was hit with a recollection of an e-mail exchange I’d had almost two years ago with someone who’d suggested an idea for one of my books. In the hundreds of e-mails I receive each month on my Web site, there is occasionally one that offers an idea for a plot or a setting. The people who send them mean well and are trying to be helpful and to interact with the writer’s creative process. Every writer who receives such suggestions is aware, of course, of the possibility that one day a novel might parallel in some small way an idea put forward by a fan, and that that fan could decide that his or her idea was “stolen.” It simply doesn’t happen. Successful writers don’t have any need or inclination to steal the ideas of others.
The man brandishing a knife in front of me obviously didn’t believe that.
“California,” the man said. “It was my idea to set the book in California.”
My recollection of the e-mail exchange was clearer now. I’d received a message through my Web site from someone who thought that I should set one of my novels in California. Obviously, this was that person. As I recalled, he wasn’t more specific than that. Just California. Had I replied to him? I was sure that I had. I personally answer every e-mail. What had I said in my reply? I’d undoubtedly thanked him for the suggestion and indicated that I was already at work on a book set in California.
“Could we sit down and discuss this?” I asked, trying to inject calm into my voice. “Without the knife?”
“You won’t get away with it,” was his nonresponsive reply.
“Please,” I said. “I think we can work this out if only—”
The sound of sirens caused both of us to look out the window. Two marked police cars came to a screeching, haphazard halt in front of the shop, and uniformed officers jumped out and dashed to the front door. Thank heavens someone in the shop had called for help. The crazed man grabbed my arm across the table and pressed the weapon against my neck. I closed my eyes and waited for the thrust that would end my life. When it didn’t happen, I opened my eyes and saw that everyone else in the shop was on their way out the door, Kathy, who’d been hiding in one of the aisles, emerged and took a few steps toward me.
“Go, Kathy, go,” I said.
Her face reflected her conflict, but after a few moments she joined the others, leaving me and the man alone in the shop.
An amplified male voice said from just outside the door, “Let the lady go. The building is surrounded. Put down your weapon and come out with your hands up.”
I suppose it was the appropriate thing for the officer with the bullhorn to say under the circumstances, but his words of warning seemed only to further agitate my captor. He lowered the knife from my neck and took a few steps away.
“We can talk about this,” I said. “Your idea to set a book in California was a good one, but nothing will be accomplished this way. Please—I have no reason to want to hurt you, or to steal your ideas. I would never do that. This is just a misunderstanding that we can rectify—but only if you give me the knife.”
I was pleased at how rational I was able to sound. My voice was steady. Inside, I was a mass of jangled nerves. I’d never encountered a situation like this in all my professional writing life. Yes, there had been a few fans who’d expressed their displeasure over the years at something I’d written, or took me to task for what they considered a lapse on my part. Some of my science-fiction-writer friends have told me about an occasional irate fan who threatened bodily harm for something they’d published, especially if they’d written a tie-in novel using familiar characters from a TV show or motion picture. Science-fiction fans are especially zealous and proprietary about beloved characters from those media. But I wasn’t aware that it had ever happened to writers of murder mysteries. If I survived this, I’d have quite a tale to tell my fellow mystery writers.
The police continued to send amplified messages through the open door. At one point, I was afraid they were about to burst in, guns blazing, which was the last thing I wanted to have happen. My assailant seemed to have calmed down some; perhaps he’d become fatigued. He sat in the chair that Kathy had occupied and lowered the hand holding the knife to the table, the blade still pointed in my direction. I, too, sat, and continued to try to talk sense to him. His eyes were wet, and I wondered whether he would soon break into tears. Along with the abject fear I was experiencing, I also felt a parallel sense of pity for him. I wondered what his daily life was like. Was he delusional, hearing voices that told him to act irrationally? As best I could remember, his e-mail to me had been rational. I assumed he had a computer since he’d e-mailed me, but I also realized that he might be homeless and could have used a library computer.
I looked through the window to where a large crowd had gathered across the street and saw Bill Farley standing with others from the store. Kathy was with them.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Walter.”
“Well, Walter, you know who I am,” I said. “Are you a writer?”
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