Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

Looking on the Bright Side by Betty Rowlands

© 1993 by Betty Rowlands

Betty Rowlands came to crime writing after a career writing instructional materials for students of English as a second language. But already she has produced a number of notable stories and books. She debuted in 1988 with an award-winning short story which EQMM reprinted this year. 1993 will see the publication of her fourth novel in both the U.K. and the U.S. (Exhaustive Enquiries/Walker & Co.).

Vince was out when I phoned so I left a message on his answering machine. He called back a couple of hours later.

“Pete? Is something wrong?”

“Why should there be?”

“You said you had something on your mind.”

He didn’t sound quite himself. I thought, Maybe he has problems of his own. His career has been one huge success story, but I’ve often heard him say it isn’t always wine and roses.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said. “It’s simply... I’d like your advice... as an old friend and fellow writer. Is it okay if I call round?”

“Sure.” He sounded relaxed again. “Come for a bite of supper. I’m doing sweet-and-sour pork, there’s plenty for two.”

“I’ll do that — thanks.”

Vince and I have known one another since our college days. He’s never married. Not that he’s gay; far from it. He just prefers to “eat a la carte” as he puts it — quite an apt turn of phrase, seeing how many dishy birds he’s pulled in his time. He’s a handsome bastard, the bronzed, muscular type they all seem to go for.

I picked up a bottle of wine at the off-licence before going to Vince’s flat. It’s pretty swish, all custom-made furniture and David Hockney originals. He makes a fortune from writing TV soaps and commercials. Mind you, I could chum out that sort of crap just as well as he does — better, in fact, if I do say so myself — only my literary aspirations have until now been a bit higher. Not that this has paid off in worldly terms, if you get my meaning. Trying to get a decent advance for a serious novel is like milking a plastic cow, but I don’t complain. I’ve always been one for looking on the bright side.

Vince came to the door wearing a cook’s apron over his designer slacks and surrounded by a whiff of onions and garlic. “Pete, old son, good to see you!” he said, with a flash of porcelain-capped teeth. His eye lighted on the bottle. “Come and pour some snorts while I get on with the stir-fry.”

I followed him into the kitchen, drew the cork, and filled a couple of glasses. We said cheers and drank.

“Mm, that’s a nice one,” said Vince. He put down his glass and began slicing carrots, his back towards me. Under the close-fitting knitted shirt I could see the movement of his shoulder blades. “Evelyn gone out this evening?” he asked casually.

“She’s away at the moment.”

“Oh, right.” He picked up a courgette and started work on it. Chop, chop, chop went the knife, pivoting up and down on its point. It looked lethally sharp, but he handled it like a professional. Food is his hobby. I munched a piece of celery and watched, fascinated.

Vince tipped the vegetables into a pan of hot oil and swished them around with chopsticks. With his spare hand he drained his glass and held it out in my direction. I gave him a refill.

We ate facing one another across the limewood kitchen table. I wasn’t very hungry, but the food was really good and I tried my best to do it justice. I said, “If you ever get fed up with writing you can get a job as a chef.”

He looked pleased as he lifted his glass in acknowledgement. “So, how can I help you?”

I’d thought very carefully about what I was going to say. I put down my fork and said, “It’s time I made some money. Real money, not the peanuts my books have brought in so far.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were doing all right. Wasn’t your last novel short-listed for some award or other?”

I laughed, a little bitterly. “Oh sure. If you measure success in terms of critical acclaim, Night Follows Morning was a wow. The trouble is, hardly anyone actually bought the bloody thing. I just about clawed back the advance.”

“I bought it. I even read it. Didn’t really understand it, mind.” Vince gave what romantic novelists described as an impish grin. I’ve seen quite sensible, mature women turn gooey as butterscotch sauce under its impact. “Anyway,” he went on, “you’ve always said you’re not interested in making a fortune.”

“I’m not, not for myself. It’s Evelyn. You were right. There is a problem.”

The grin faded. “What sort of problem?”

I swallowed hard. It was all I could do to get the words out. “Got herself pregnant, didn’t she?”

Vince’s jaw dropped. He took a pull from his glass, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and said, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” I waited for a moment and then said, “It isn’t mine.”

“Pete, I’m so sorry.” He looked genuinely concerned.

“I suppose it’s partly my fault,” I said. Vince, temporarily rendered speechless by another mouthful of wine, made swimming movements with his free hand and shook his head in contradiction. “Oh yes,” I insisted. “We always seem to be short of cash and I spend too much time holed up in my study. I’ve neglected her, haven’t I?”

Vince reached for the bottle and topped up his glass. He went to do the same for me but I waved him away. “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered. “I had no idea.”

“Neither had I until I heard her puking in the bathroom three mornings in a row.” I looked him straight in the eye. “Vince, you’re an old friend and I need your help.”

He looked puzzled. “You’ve lost me. You hinted it was about your writing...”

“It is. I’ve decided to write a crime novel. It’s mayhem and murder that bring in the big bucks, isn’t it?”

“Ye... es, I suppose so. Bit of a comedown for you, though.”

“Not necessarily. This will be an in-depth study of the psychology of a killer. I’m going to write from his point of view, live with him, share his thoughts and emotions from the day he realises what he has to do right up to the moment he confronts his victim. You see, Vince, this affair of Evelyn’s has made me understand what drives a man to commit the ultimate crime.”

I must have sounded quite intense, because he gave me a very strange look and got up from the table. He glanced over his shoulder once or twice as he filled the cafetière and got out cups and saucers. “Black or white?” he said.

“Black, please.”

He filled two cups, put them on the table, and sat down again. He fiddled with the sugar spoon, took a sip of coffee that appeared to bum his mouth, ran his fingers through his hair.

“Look, Pete,” he said. “You seem a bit overwrought, and it’s easy to understand in the circumstances. If you’re strapped for cash... for the operation, I mean... you can count on me for a loan.”

“Operation?”

For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed. “To terminate the pregnancy,” he said gruffly.

“Oh, that.” I put sugar in my coffee and stirred it. “That wasn’t what I had in mind at all. Anyway, it’s already been taken care of.” I shut my eyes for a moment. It had been messy and I didn’t want to think about it. “I want your help with the book.”

“But I’m not a crime writer, Pete.”

“I know that.” I took a sip of coffee and felt better. “Boy, that’s good,” I said.

“Costa Rican,” he said absently, and waited.

“Do you remember,” I said, “when we were at college, we once had to write an essay about ‘The anatomy of fear’?”

He frowned. “Vaguely. Weird sort of topic... but as I remember, we had a weird old tutor. What was his name, now?”

“O’Halloran. Very excitable. Always banging on about how writers handle emotion.”

“That’s the feller.” Vince half smiled, then the puzzled look returned. “What’s this got to do with...?”

“I’m coming to that. Before tackling that essay, I wanted to know exactly what it felt like to be shit-scared, so I talked you into holding my head under water as if you were trying to drown me.”

Recollection dawned in his eyes and he gave a shout of laughter. “I remember!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were out of your mind, but somehow you talked me into it. And then, after dunking you in the bath, I got a bit carried away.” He slammed the table with the flat of his hand as laughter threatened to overwhelm him. “I... ho ho!... picked you up by your collar... and the seat of your pants... and made as if I was going to throw you out of the window.” He flung himself back in his chair, nearly helpless with mirth. “You were yelling blue murder and clinging to the sill... as if you really believed I was going to let go.”

I thought he’d never stop laughing. It was a kind of hysteria. I pretended to join in, although it hadn’t seemed at all funny at the time — and it seemed even less funny now.

“My God,” he gasped when he’d got his wind back, “the bizarre things we got up to when we were students! We must have been stoned out of our minds.”

“It did the trick, didn’t it?” I said, a little smugly, while Vince mopped his eyes. “I was scared half to death, but I got alpha plus for that essay.” I leaned back in my chair. The adrenaline had started to pump like crazy. “So now,” I went on, “I’m going to do a similar experiment... and that, my old friend, is where you come in.”

“I don’t follow you,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” I said softly. “You’ve done enough already.”

“What are you driving at?” He wasn’t smiling anymore and his voice had developed a tremor.

“I told you,” I said, and my own voice was none too steady. “My new novel is to be written from the killer’s viewpoint, so I have to know what a killer feels like, what goes through his mind as he comes face to face with his victim.”

Now I really had him worried and the realisation gave me a great surge of pleasure. I felt exhilarated, all-powerful. I was lighter than air, I could fly out of the window if I wanted to, soar over the rooftops, climb to the stars. I was about to destroy the man who had blown my life apart. I leapt to my feet and went for the jugular.

The cunning bastard had read my mind. Or maybe, while he was making the coffee, he’d noticed that the knife was missing. His reactions always were quick, but this time they must have broken the light barrier. Next thing I knew, I was on my back with the heavy table on top of me and my arm numb from the karate chop that sent my weapon spinning from my hand.

I’m writing this from the hospital wing. They say I’ve got two broken ribs and severe internal bruising. I keep telling the policemen who come to ask me boring questions that I intend to bring charges against Vince of assault and causing me actual bodily harm, but they just laugh. It seems unfair when you take into account that I didn’t give him so much as a scratch, and yet they’re going to throw the book at me. Vince always did come off best, damn him.

Still, Evelyn got her comeuppance, didn’t she? It’s a pity I wasn’t able to bring off the double, but you can’t have everything. As I mentioned, I always try to look on the bright side, and the good news is that I’ll have plenty of time — several years, my lawyer has given me to understand — to get on with my novel without having to worry about money or what to have for the next meal. It’s going to be the best thing I’ve ever written.