And Having Writ - Entry No. 4
Title: And Having Writ
Entry Number: 04
Author: Spikesgirl58
Fandom: Original fiction
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Horror
Word Count: 3137
"Just who the hell does she think she is?" Franklin Munroe shouted aloud, his voice amplified by the car's interior. Since there was no one else in the car with him, there could be no suitable answer. Even so, he found no comfort in the silence. "Okay, so she's my mother, but that doesn't mean anything. Anything! She has no right to try and run my life." He pounded the steering wheel and clamped his foot down on the accelerator.
The car responded, sucking up the asphalt as if it were a greedy child with a pixie stick. Franklin was glad to escape the confines of the city and leave the smothering walls of concrete and steel that loomed down upon him behind. Out here he felt more in control of his destiny and away from the strangling grasp of his mother.
He'd lived his whole life through women. How many 40 year-olds were still forced to live with their mother? Beverly McClarin was his ticket out.
A truly superior female horror writer was an unusual thing. Sure there was Mary Shelly, but for every outstanding woman writer in the realm of the macabre, Munroe could name a dozen men who were just as talented.
That fact that remained wedged in his mind long after the beads of perspiration had dried and the nervous twitch in his left eye had disappeared - the result of reading Beverly McClain’s first manuscript,
In his hands was something very special, he knew it and he intended to exploit it. Too many opportunities had wiggled through his fingers and this time he planned to hold on very tightly. So, carefully in fact that he crafted a handwritten note to Miss McClarin, expressing his awe of the sheer terror of her story, the believability of her main characters and their situations, and the clarity of her heart-gripping images. Mostly he assured her that he was delighted at the chance to run her story in the 'insignificant' magazine he slaved for. He also asked, casually as to not generate excitement, if she had any more.
She did and overnight, the circulation of the horror magazine mushroomed, nearly tripling in two months. Extra staff was hired just to keep up with the subscription demands alone. The strangling clutches of a looming bankruptcy loosened. Old Lady Wilson even smiled a time or two before remembering that it might make her face crack. No one had any real concrete reasons for why the magazine suddenly took off, but his boss thought it could be the new cover and layout. Old Lady Wilson only scanned the magazine and certainly didn't read any of the stories. Only Munroe, the fiction editor, knew the real reason and he wasn't talking.
It was natural that Franklin Munroe should want to keep this thing quiet and far away from the bigger magazines, publishing houses and most importantly, his own boss. If old Lady Wilson found out about his discovery, she'd jump on it, claim it as her own, and Munroe could kiss his potential gold mine good-bye.
If he could become McClarin s agent, then he could directly profit from her more. It was apparent from their discussions that she knew nothing about agents, their cuts, the bonuses when something sold big, but he could help her, guide her, and make her the biggest name in horror since Shirley Jackson.
More importantly, Franklin Munroe could make himself a very rich man.
He had, by this time, established an open line of communication between McClarin and himself and in his next letter to her, he casually broached the possibility of becoming her agent, for say, forty percent?
Her eager acceptance soothed his anxious eyes as readily as ice water did the parched throat of a hungry lion. Hurriedly, he made an appointment to meet her and discuss the terms of agreement. Munroe took extremely care to let everyone in the office know that he was going on vacation. If Old Lady Wilson found out what was happening, she kick his butt from one side of the city to another.
Munroe was desperate for Old Lady Wilson to have an accident, similar to the ones suffered by his first two wives and now dear sweet Mom, but so far the Fates had been kind to his boss. Too kind, if you asked Munroe. She managed to avoid her head caved in by a falling paint can, being hit by a run-away car, and being knifed by a mugger. Every accident carefully engineered by Munroe was doomed to failure from the first. The old broad was just too lucky.
A sudden 'thump' brought Franklin back to reality and he glanced up into his rear view mirror at the rapidly disappearing lump of the animal he’d hit.
“Ha! He won't have the guts to do that again," Munroe sang, increasing the speed of the car even more. He had no compassion for stupid animals that didn't know about the dangers of playing in the road. After all, accidents happen - ask his first two wives, if you could. Ask his mother, if you could.
Mother was going to be really quiet from now on. Munroe had often fretted to people at work about his mother's unfortunate habit of listening to the radio while in the bath tub. He'd tried to warn her and tried to explain the dangers of electricity and water, but his words went unheeded by the headstrong woman. His co-workers had heard him time and time again.
"Yup, it'll be a real shame when they discover her body today," Munroe said, grinning. Then he sobered, the properly bereaved son. He had to admit that his mother's expression was truly... shocked when he walked into her bathroom and was even more so when he pushed the radio into the tub with her. "She should have listened to me. God knows I had to listen to her. Too long I had to listen to her."
He slowed the car as a large white sign loomed into sight, Welcome to Beacom, a happy community! Yeah, sure, whatever, Munroe thought as he pulled the car over and looked down at the carefully-written instructions.
Munroe had to confess that while Beverly McClarin was a marvelous writer, she left something to be desired when it came to directions. Who the hell cared about Mrs. Winslow's prize daffodils? It would have helped more if she’d given him the street name that she actually lived on.
The burb wasn't big enough to really be called a town. Hell, it wasn't even big enough to get properly lost in - thankfully.
He anticipated an ugly, dilapidated house with overgrown grounds with an occupant that displayed the same signs of wear and age. Instead, he pulled up in front of a neat, white picket-fenced house. The lawn was carefully manicured and even the flowers were all the same height. Frilly curtains decorated the windows and brightly colored plaster gnomes decorated the lawn.
"Jez Louise, Suzy Homemaker lives," Munroe said, parking beside a perfectly-trimmed bush. He couldn't exactly tell what it was, only that it was supposed to be something.
The front door to the house opened and out stepped the second surprise. McClarin appeared to be in her mid-thirties, fairly attractive, and obviously delighted to see him.
"Mr. Munroe?" she called the moment he escaped from his car's restraining belts. She even waved to him.
"Yes, I am. Are you Mrs. McClarin?"
"Heaven's, that sounds so formal," she said, laughing. Munroe noticed as she drew closer that age was starting to chisel away at the corners of her eyes and tinge her brunette hair gray. She was dressed in a modest print dress with an old-fashioned, laced-edged apron over to top of it. She hardly fit his idea of a successful horror writer.
It didn't matter, really. He had already decide that he would woo her, turning the profits of an agent into the gains of a husband, especially since his last wife had died in a tragic accident three years earlier. It was time for him to marry again.
There was so much tragedy in Munroe's life. First Melinda, his childhood sweetheart, was run down by a semi just weeks after their third anniversary. Good thing they'd taken that insurance policy out the year before.
When the money run out, and it did much sooner than Munroe expected, he pursued and caught a pretty little thing called Maribeth. She was a southern belle, a former Miss America, and just exactly what Munroe had needed to fill the void in his wallet.
His mother hated Maribeth. She said Maribeth was out for Munroe's money when, in fact, it was the other way around. An only child, Maribeth inherited big when her father died suddenly from a heat stroke while on vacation with Maribeth and Munroe. Sadly, the daughter followed father not too many months after, frozen to death in a snow storm.
She'd apparently lost her way on their chalet at the lodge as they honeymooned in Switzerland. Lost in a bad snow storm and slightly intoxicated, poor Maribeth stumbled and hit her head. Unconscious, Old Man Winter had done his worst and she died of exposure. Or at least that's what the detectives eventually decided. Of course, they couldn't have known that she and Munroe had had a disagreement and that he'd pushed her back against the stone fireplace. It wasn't the blood caked rock found at the scene of her accident that had done Maribeth wrong, but the cops didn't know that and Munroe wasn't about to correct them.
That money lasted even less time than Melinda's and Munroe was back to square one again. With no prospects, he was forced to accept a job that was way below his standards just to keep his mother off his back. She and Old Lady Wilson were the best of buddies and that was enough to make his life hell.
Anytime Munroe got out of line, took too many breaks, didn't come in soon enough in the morning, Old Lady Wilson was all over him. Munroe couldn't kill her, although God know he'd tried, so it was time for action of a different sort. He needed an out and it was standing in front of him wearing an apron and a print dress.
If he could take care of Beverly as efficiently as he had his first two wives and his mother, then his only problem would be to have to grapple with all that dirty royalty money. Of course, he'd have to keep her alive for a while, in order for her amass not only a loyal following in hardback readers but in paperback and magazines as well.
He'd also have to be careful because he knew that there was too much death following him around and that the police might become suspicious if another of his wives’ suddenly dropped dead. No, Munroe would have to court Beverly McClarin slowly, marry her the same way and permit everyone to see just how happy a couple they could be before the inevitable finger of death poked McClarin between the shoulder blades.
"Come in and have some tea," McClarin said, leading him up the path to the house. Munroe had been hoping for something a little stronger, but that could wait. Business before pleasure.
"I spoke with that lawyer you mention. He drew up all the necessary paperwork."
Good old Jerry, you could always depend on him...for a price, Munroe thought. In a living room straight out of Good Housekeeping, they toasted to a long business partnership with tea and he could see the approval in her eyes. He was obviously winning a spot in her heart as well. This wasn't hard for Munroe knew he was a handsome man and he knew how to play the game.
He also knew that the realization of his plans were close at hand and that too much haste now might scare her off, so he played it very carefully, complimenting her on the flavor of her tea sandwiches without sounding simpering. Appreciating the June Cleaver appearance of her house without letting her know how much he hated the bright, happy rooms and carefully arranged brick-a-brack. His mother had such things and that was reason enough to hate them.
For her part, Beverly acted as if he'd been the first guest she'd entertained in years. She fawned over him, keeping his cup full, making sure he was comfortable.
The doilies on the arms of his chair were held on by straight pins, something he discovered painfully when one stuck him as he was settling back into the over-stuffed armchair. He was delighted that he managed to keep the look of surprise and pain off his face. Beverly would never know of his little faux pas. He was careful to keep his elbows close to his side from then on.
He sipped his tea, ignoring the tingling in his toes that told him his feet had gone to sleep, and easily brought the topic of conversation back to her.
"You've got to tell me, Beverly, how do you write such deliciously evil stories? Some of your torture scenes are too incredible to believe," he said, jiggling his knee slightly as the tingling travelled up his leg. "How do you come up with such lifelike characters? What sort of insight permits you to breathe such vitality into them?" He couldn't believe he was saying some of this crap. Obviously, he was more desperate than he realized.
Apparently his interest in her talent flattered her and she grew shy. Beverly smiled sweetly, placed her cup down on the table and crossed her hands neatly on her lap. "Well, I research my characters carefully, getting to know them as living, breathing people. It sounds silly, I know, but I learn how they feel about life and about themselves, in general. I get to know their weaknesses and strengths and how they react to certain situations," she said, her eyes never leaving his face. "It's sort of hard sometimes, but I uncover their pasts and their secrets, and then I invite them to tea."
"Just like me," Munroe said, smiling. They had written for nearly a year and Munroe had eventually mentioned his mother, his horrible luck with wives, his... He abruptly realized his cup had slipped from numb fingers. "Sorry," he said and tried to move to catch it, but he found himself paralyzed. Even worse was the definitely smile of delight on Beverly McClarin’s lips as she watched him.
"Well that certainly took its own sweet time.
"What the hell's going on here?" He tried to panic, but only his voice wasn’t working well. Even his gift of gab was starting to fail him, catching in his throat as if the words were suddenly too big for it. It was getting hard to breath; it was as if every muscle in his body was shutting down. Then he realized in a panic that the heart is a muscle.
"Oh fiddle de! Now you just stop your worrying; it's only a bit of curare," she said, brushing the crumbs of a tea sandwich off her apron. "You have to be careful with it though because too much can kill. I found that out with my first husband. Poor Lucius, it was over for him just like that. “She snapped her fingers. "Although he was very helpful with my anatomy studies. With just the right amount, I discovered that you don't have to tie a body down or even gag it. I find that all so..." she paused, gesturing with a slender hand, "so primitive. Definitely not ladylike at all. That's why I like curare so much. All the victim can do is watch and, well, maybe groan when especially motivated."
She arranged the doily on the chair arm, carefully picking the straight pin out of the intricate design. As the impact of her actions trickled through to Munroe, he realized he'd been duped, right from the start.
"I'm sorry I had to lie to you about the book offer. There isn't one, of course, but I have a feeling that it's only a matter of time before something comes up. Your friend, Jerry, was ever so helpful. I'll have to invite him to tea later on, especially after I discovered how shabbily he was treating his secretary. No one has the right to belittle a fellow human being like that. Even someone as handsome as you, Mr. Munroe. You were very terrible to your wives and even your own mother."
She caressed his cheek as he struggled for breath. His eyes grew wide as she withdrew a battery charger was taken from a mahogany drawer and set before him. A pair of pliers followed.
"I have been wondering how long a body can tolerate low amount of electricity and what effects, if any, it would have on the gangrene process," she explained to a slowly-panicking Franklin Munroe as she leaned forward to take one of his fingers with the pliers. "You see, I'm not much of a creative writer. At least, not in the usual sense. You see, I can only write from personal experiences."
******
Muldron stuck his head from around his door jam, "Have you seen Munroe?" he asked the secretary who he and Munroe shared.
“No, isn't it great?" She shook her head and laughed. "I haven't had as good time since the last time he went on his honeymoon. However, all good things come to an end." She consulted a calendar and sobered. “That’s weird. He should have been back two weeks ago. Wonder if they have told him about his mother yet."
"I think they let the guy live a little before hitting him with news like that. Even if she made his life hell, it's gonna be a terrible blow to him to know she's dead. Not even all that money she left him will change that. You know he worshiped her. Maybe he'll be a little nicer now that the old bat's off his back."
"I hope you're right. Why are you so interested in seeing him?"
“We just got in a new manuscript from that pet writer of his. You know the one he's been keeping so hush-hush. For some reason it was addressed to me instead of him and I was halfway through it before I realized who she was. This one's gonna make him crazy!"
"Why? What’s so special about this one?" Alice asked, reaching out for the sheath of papers he offered her.
"The victim in it, it sounds just like him."
Entry Number: 04
Author: Spikesgirl58
Fandom: Original fiction
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Horror
Word Count: 3137
"Just who the hell does she think she is?" Franklin Munroe shouted aloud, his voice amplified by the car's interior. Since there was no one else in the car with him, there could be no suitable answer. Even so, he found no comfort in the silence. "Okay, so she's my mother, but that doesn't mean anything. Anything! She has no right to try and run my life." He pounded the steering wheel and clamped his foot down on the accelerator.
The car responded, sucking up the asphalt as if it were a greedy child with a pixie stick. Franklin was glad to escape the confines of the city and leave the smothering walls of concrete and steel that loomed down upon him behind. Out here he felt more in control of his destiny and away from the strangling grasp of his mother.
He'd lived his whole life through women. How many 40 year-olds were still forced to live with their mother? Beverly McClarin was his ticket out.
A truly superior female horror writer was an unusual thing. Sure there was Mary Shelly, but for every outstanding woman writer in the realm of the macabre, Munroe could name a dozen men who were just as talented.
That fact that remained wedged in his mind long after the beads of perspiration had dried and the nervous twitch in his left eye had disappeared - the result of reading Beverly McClain’s first manuscript,
In his hands was something very special, he knew it and he intended to exploit it. Too many opportunities had wiggled through his fingers and this time he planned to hold on very tightly. So, carefully in fact that he crafted a handwritten note to Miss McClarin, expressing his awe of the sheer terror of her story, the believability of her main characters and their situations, and the clarity of her heart-gripping images. Mostly he assured her that he was delighted at the chance to run her story in the 'insignificant' magazine he slaved for. He also asked, casually as to not generate excitement, if she had any more.
She did and overnight, the circulation of the horror magazine mushroomed, nearly tripling in two months. Extra staff was hired just to keep up with the subscription demands alone. The strangling clutches of a looming bankruptcy loosened. Old Lady Wilson even smiled a time or two before remembering that it might make her face crack. No one had any real concrete reasons for why the magazine suddenly took off, but his boss thought it could be the new cover and layout. Old Lady Wilson only scanned the magazine and certainly didn't read any of the stories. Only Munroe, the fiction editor, knew the real reason and he wasn't talking.
It was natural that Franklin Munroe should want to keep this thing quiet and far away from the bigger magazines, publishing houses and most importantly, his own boss. If old Lady Wilson found out about his discovery, she'd jump on it, claim it as her own, and Munroe could kiss his potential gold mine good-bye.
If he could become McClarin s agent, then he could directly profit from her more. It was apparent from their discussions that she knew nothing about agents, their cuts, the bonuses when something sold big, but he could help her, guide her, and make her the biggest name in horror since Shirley Jackson.
More importantly, Franklin Munroe could make himself a very rich man.
He had, by this time, established an open line of communication between McClarin and himself and in his next letter to her, he casually broached the possibility of becoming her agent, for say, forty percent?
Her eager acceptance soothed his anxious eyes as readily as ice water did the parched throat of a hungry lion. Hurriedly, he made an appointment to meet her and discuss the terms of agreement. Munroe took extremely care to let everyone in the office know that he was going on vacation. If Old Lady Wilson found out what was happening, she kick his butt from one side of the city to another.
Munroe was desperate for Old Lady Wilson to have an accident, similar to the ones suffered by his first two wives and now dear sweet Mom, but so far the Fates had been kind to his boss. Too kind, if you asked Munroe. She managed to avoid her head caved in by a falling paint can, being hit by a run-away car, and being knifed by a mugger. Every accident carefully engineered by Munroe was doomed to failure from the first. The old broad was just too lucky.
A sudden 'thump' brought Franklin back to reality and he glanced up into his rear view mirror at the rapidly disappearing lump of the animal he’d hit.
“Ha! He won't have the guts to do that again," Munroe sang, increasing the speed of the car even more. He had no compassion for stupid animals that didn't know about the dangers of playing in the road. After all, accidents happen - ask his first two wives, if you could. Ask his mother, if you could.
Mother was going to be really quiet from now on. Munroe had often fretted to people at work about his mother's unfortunate habit of listening to the radio while in the bath tub. He'd tried to warn her and tried to explain the dangers of electricity and water, but his words went unheeded by the headstrong woman. His co-workers had heard him time and time again.
"Yup, it'll be a real shame when they discover her body today," Munroe said, grinning. Then he sobered, the properly bereaved son. He had to admit that his mother's expression was truly... shocked when he walked into her bathroom and was even more so when he pushed the radio into the tub with her. "She should have listened to me. God knows I had to listen to her. Too long I had to listen to her."
He slowed the car as a large white sign loomed into sight, Welcome to Beacom, a happy community! Yeah, sure, whatever, Munroe thought as he pulled the car over and looked down at the carefully-written instructions.
Munroe had to confess that while Beverly McClarin was a marvelous writer, she left something to be desired when it came to directions. Who the hell cared about Mrs. Winslow's prize daffodils? It would have helped more if she’d given him the street name that she actually lived on.
The burb wasn't big enough to really be called a town. Hell, it wasn't even big enough to get properly lost in - thankfully.
He anticipated an ugly, dilapidated house with overgrown grounds with an occupant that displayed the same signs of wear and age. Instead, he pulled up in front of a neat, white picket-fenced house. The lawn was carefully manicured and even the flowers were all the same height. Frilly curtains decorated the windows and brightly colored plaster gnomes decorated the lawn.
"Jez Louise, Suzy Homemaker lives," Munroe said, parking beside a perfectly-trimmed bush. He couldn't exactly tell what it was, only that it was supposed to be something.
The front door to the house opened and out stepped the second surprise. McClarin appeared to be in her mid-thirties, fairly attractive, and obviously delighted to see him.
"Mr. Munroe?" she called the moment he escaped from his car's restraining belts. She even waved to him.
"Yes, I am. Are you Mrs. McClarin?"
"Heaven's, that sounds so formal," she said, laughing. Munroe noticed as she drew closer that age was starting to chisel away at the corners of her eyes and tinge her brunette hair gray. She was dressed in a modest print dress with an old-fashioned, laced-edged apron over to top of it. She hardly fit his idea of a successful horror writer.
It didn't matter, really. He had already decide that he would woo her, turning the profits of an agent into the gains of a husband, especially since his last wife had died in a tragic accident three years earlier. It was time for him to marry again.
There was so much tragedy in Munroe's life. First Melinda, his childhood sweetheart, was run down by a semi just weeks after their third anniversary. Good thing they'd taken that insurance policy out the year before.
When the money run out, and it did much sooner than Munroe expected, he pursued and caught a pretty little thing called Maribeth. She was a southern belle, a former Miss America, and just exactly what Munroe had needed to fill the void in his wallet.
His mother hated Maribeth. She said Maribeth was out for Munroe's money when, in fact, it was the other way around. An only child, Maribeth inherited big when her father died suddenly from a heat stroke while on vacation with Maribeth and Munroe. Sadly, the daughter followed father not too many months after, frozen to death in a snow storm.
She'd apparently lost her way on their chalet at the lodge as they honeymooned in Switzerland. Lost in a bad snow storm and slightly intoxicated, poor Maribeth stumbled and hit her head. Unconscious, Old Man Winter had done his worst and she died of exposure. Or at least that's what the detectives eventually decided. Of course, they couldn't have known that she and Munroe had had a disagreement and that he'd pushed her back against the stone fireplace. It wasn't the blood caked rock found at the scene of her accident that had done Maribeth wrong, but the cops didn't know that and Munroe wasn't about to correct them.
That money lasted even less time than Melinda's and Munroe was back to square one again. With no prospects, he was forced to accept a job that was way below his standards just to keep his mother off his back. She and Old Lady Wilson were the best of buddies and that was enough to make his life hell.
Anytime Munroe got out of line, took too many breaks, didn't come in soon enough in the morning, Old Lady Wilson was all over him. Munroe couldn't kill her, although God know he'd tried, so it was time for action of a different sort. He needed an out and it was standing in front of him wearing an apron and a print dress.
If he could take care of Beverly as efficiently as he had his first two wives and his mother, then his only problem would be to have to grapple with all that dirty royalty money. Of course, he'd have to keep her alive for a while, in order for her amass not only a loyal following in hardback readers but in paperback and magazines as well.
He'd also have to be careful because he knew that there was too much death following him around and that the police might become suspicious if another of his wives’ suddenly dropped dead. No, Munroe would have to court Beverly McClarin slowly, marry her the same way and permit everyone to see just how happy a couple they could be before the inevitable finger of death poked McClarin between the shoulder blades.
"Come in and have some tea," McClarin said, leading him up the path to the house. Munroe had been hoping for something a little stronger, but that could wait. Business before pleasure.
"I spoke with that lawyer you mention. He drew up all the necessary paperwork."
Good old Jerry, you could always depend on him...for a price, Munroe thought. In a living room straight out of Good Housekeeping, they toasted to a long business partnership with tea and he could see the approval in her eyes. He was obviously winning a spot in her heart as well. This wasn't hard for Munroe knew he was a handsome man and he knew how to play the game.
He also knew that the realization of his plans were close at hand and that too much haste now might scare her off, so he played it very carefully, complimenting her on the flavor of her tea sandwiches without sounding simpering. Appreciating the June Cleaver appearance of her house without letting her know how much he hated the bright, happy rooms and carefully arranged brick-a-brack. His mother had such things and that was reason enough to hate them.
For her part, Beverly acted as if he'd been the first guest she'd entertained in years. She fawned over him, keeping his cup full, making sure he was comfortable.
The doilies on the arms of his chair were held on by straight pins, something he discovered painfully when one stuck him as he was settling back into the over-stuffed armchair. He was delighted that he managed to keep the look of surprise and pain off his face. Beverly would never know of his little faux pas. He was careful to keep his elbows close to his side from then on.
He sipped his tea, ignoring the tingling in his toes that told him his feet had gone to sleep, and easily brought the topic of conversation back to her.
"You've got to tell me, Beverly, how do you write such deliciously evil stories? Some of your torture scenes are too incredible to believe," he said, jiggling his knee slightly as the tingling travelled up his leg. "How do you come up with such lifelike characters? What sort of insight permits you to breathe such vitality into them?" He couldn't believe he was saying some of this crap. Obviously, he was more desperate than he realized.
Apparently his interest in her talent flattered her and she grew shy. Beverly smiled sweetly, placed her cup down on the table and crossed her hands neatly on her lap. "Well, I research my characters carefully, getting to know them as living, breathing people. It sounds silly, I know, but I learn how they feel about life and about themselves, in general. I get to know their weaknesses and strengths and how they react to certain situations," she said, her eyes never leaving his face. "It's sort of hard sometimes, but I uncover their pasts and their secrets, and then I invite them to tea."
"Just like me," Munroe said, smiling. They had written for nearly a year and Munroe had eventually mentioned his mother, his horrible luck with wives, his... He abruptly realized his cup had slipped from numb fingers. "Sorry," he said and tried to move to catch it, but he found himself paralyzed. Even worse was the definitely smile of delight on Beverly McClarin’s lips as she watched him.
"Well that certainly took its own sweet time.
"What the hell's going on here?" He tried to panic, but only his voice wasn’t working well. Even his gift of gab was starting to fail him, catching in his throat as if the words were suddenly too big for it. It was getting hard to breath; it was as if every muscle in his body was shutting down. Then he realized in a panic that the heart is a muscle.
"Oh fiddle de! Now you just stop your worrying; it's only a bit of curare," she said, brushing the crumbs of a tea sandwich off her apron. "You have to be careful with it though because too much can kill. I found that out with my first husband. Poor Lucius, it was over for him just like that. “She snapped her fingers. "Although he was very helpful with my anatomy studies. With just the right amount, I discovered that you don't have to tie a body down or even gag it. I find that all so..." she paused, gesturing with a slender hand, "so primitive. Definitely not ladylike at all. That's why I like curare so much. All the victim can do is watch and, well, maybe groan when especially motivated."
She arranged the doily on the chair arm, carefully picking the straight pin out of the intricate design. As the impact of her actions trickled through to Munroe, he realized he'd been duped, right from the start.
"I'm sorry I had to lie to you about the book offer. There isn't one, of course, but I have a feeling that it's only a matter of time before something comes up. Your friend, Jerry, was ever so helpful. I'll have to invite him to tea later on, especially after I discovered how shabbily he was treating his secretary. No one has the right to belittle a fellow human being like that. Even someone as handsome as you, Mr. Munroe. You were very terrible to your wives and even your own mother."
She caressed his cheek as he struggled for breath. His eyes grew wide as she withdrew a battery charger was taken from a mahogany drawer and set before him. A pair of pliers followed.
"I have been wondering how long a body can tolerate low amount of electricity and what effects, if any, it would have on the gangrene process," she explained to a slowly-panicking Franklin Munroe as she leaned forward to take one of his fingers with the pliers. "You see, I'm not much of a creative writer. At least, not in the usual sense. You see, I can only write from personal experiences."
******
Muldron stuck his head from around his door jam, "Have you seen Munroe?" he asked the secretary who he and Munroe shared.
“No, isn't it great?" She shook her head and laughed. "I haven't had as good time since the last time he went on his honeymoon. However, all good things come to an end." She consulted a calendar and sobered. “That’s weird. He should have been back two weeks ago. Wonder if they have told him about his mother yet."
"I think they let the guy live a little before hitting him with news like that. Even if she made his life hell, it's gonna be a terrible blow to him to know she's dead. Not even all that money she left him will change that. You know he worshiped her. Maybe he'll be a little nicer now that the old bat's off his back."
"I hope you're right. Why are you so interested in seeing him?"
“We just got in a new manuscript from that pet writer of his. You know the one he's been keeping so hush-hush. For some reason it was addressed to me instead of him and I was halfway through it before I realized who she was. This one's gonna make him crazy!"
"Why? What’s so special about this one?" Alice asked, reaching out for the sheath of papers he offered her.
"The victim in it, it sounds just like him."