Florida Heatwave (15 page)

I sat down to write the next book of the series with my confidence at an all time high. However, much to my dismay, exactly the same thing happened. I simply could not get the death scene to work. It was déjà vu all over again. Somehow I must have known that I might have to reenact again what I’d had to do for the first book, for I had not only kept the items I’d needed to kill the first victim—garbage bags; electric saw; plastic jump suit, etc.—but I had also prepaid a year’s rent on the unit. And so, with the deadline looming, and Susanna’s calls getting more frantic, I broke my promise to God that I would never, ever, do that again, I found myself driving down to Florida City again.

It was quite eerie being back there. As I drove down the main street, heading towards my first stop, I was relieved to see that outwardly, nothing in the town had changed during the past nine months.

First, I went to the park, and drove to the place where I had disposed of the body. I was feeling very nervous as I looked over where I had parked the Land Rover before, next to the pond, but, thankfully, there, too, everything seemed to be exactly the same. The only difference I could see was that the water level was slightly higher. It was reassuring that the vultures were still perched high up on the branches of the leafless trees. Were they any fatter? I couldn’t tell.

Next, I drove to the storage unit, and again, everything seemed to be the way it had been months ago. I headed to my last stop, the food store, to see if the conditions there were also unchanged. There was a group of men loitering around, but these weren’t the same ones as before. Good. The men were more transient than I had thought, which lessened the chances that they would report another one of their own missing. The homeless men, not surprisingly, did not want to call attention to themselves so it was unlikely they would bring in the police to investigate.

Even though I was probably operating out of an excess of caution, just as I had done before, I drove down twice more to Florida City to make sure conditions were the same as on previous days. On the third day, on my trip to the food store, I picked out my victim—a slight, Hispanic looking male. Then, on the fourth day, after he had left the group to go and pee on the side of the building, I made my move, and invited him into my car. A beer spiked with a Roofie, followed by a quick trip to the storage unit, a few turns of the hunting knife purchased for just this occasion, and I had the information necessary to describe the death scene perfectly.

Just as before, the reviews had been outstanding—I had even scored a starred review in
Publishers Weekly
and a surprisingly positive one from
Kirkus
(known for nasty, negative reviews)—pleasing Susanna greatly, and prompting Tom to push up the publishing date yet again.

As before, there was no mention of the crime in any of the papers. Could committing murder be this easy, or, was I just clever in my planning and plotting? Or, could it be that I had chosen the perfect kind of victim, someone who was so under the radar that he would not be missed? Whatever the reason, I was becoming increasingly emboldened by my acts. And, so, even though I found it repugnant to have to do it again, I returned to Florida City for book three, but I wasn’t as emotionally detached as before.

When it came time to hand in book three, thankfully the last of the books under the contract, I found that I did not want to have to kill anyone anymore. I’m not sure if that came from my having developed a conscience, or it was the fear that what I was doing could not continue to be undetected and statistically the odds of my getting caught kept increasing. Or, could it be that maybe I was becoming too dependent on committing murder to be unable to describe a death scene without doing it? Or, it could have been that God was going to punish me for what I had done: killed three people, as well as broken my promises to Him.

I may have murdered three men in cold blood already, but in my eyes, I was no female serial killer. I sure as hell was not Aileen Wuornos, the Florida prostitute who had murdered seven men in one year, whose story had been brilliantly portrayed by Charlize Theron in the film
Monster
(I had seen it at least half a dozen times). I had done what I’d had to do for the sake of my novels and not because I had issues with men, or because I enjoyed killing. In my eyes, it had been a matter of self-defense—nothing less than the matter of my survival.

The Miranda Maples series may have been a huge success, but even if Tom were to have offered me another multiple book contract, I was going to turn him down (I hadn’t told Susanna of my decision yet). I was absolutely certain that I did not want to keep the series going. I was done with writing death scenes and all that that those entailed. I didn’t want to go back to writing romances, but there were other ideas I could come up with that that did not include describing death scenes in gruesome detail.

Not exactly surprisingly given the success of the series, Tom offered me another three-book deal, for double the money. I told Susanna that I wanted to move on, do something else, but she would not hear of it. I was unmoved by her entreaties, but her powers of persuasion—and my need for more money to support my increasingly lavish lifestyle (at that time I was supporting a few boy toys, young guys that I liked having around for my pleasure, but that were quite expensive)—were such that in the end, I gave in but only for two books. I held firm about that.

Sadly, the same happened—just as I feared it might. In the fourth book, I still could not get the death scene right—this time it was death by arsenic poisoning. I had written up a description that was marginally acceptable, but I could not risk having Susanna reject it. And now, time was running out. Susanna was back to calling, texting and/or emailing me several times a day, reminding me that the manuscript was overdue, and that Tom was on her case asking for it. Unfortunately, because of some very bad financial decisions I continued to make, I had no choice: back to Florida City I would go.

Even as I was planning my fourth kill, I knew that statistically, the odds of my getting caught were increasing. Three deaths—and now, a fourth. I was still being very careful, always meticulous, but eventually I was probably going to screw up.

As before, the fourth book was a huge success—this one a finalist for an Edgar for best hardcover—the mystery field’s highest award. I swore I would not kill again. I was determined to write the fifth—and last—book of the contract on my own. And then, no more contracts. Not for all the money in the world-it just wasn’t worth it.

I should have known that I couldn’t do it. Try as I might, I could not get the fifth book to come out right. This time, it was death by strangulation. At that point, I was just tired—I wanted to be finished with it all. I was willing to sell the apartment; break the lease on the timeshare in Aspen; even give up the pretty boys. If I were to live frugally, I wouldn’t have to worry about writing for a while. All I had to do was to finish the fifth book. Then I would be home free. It sounded so easy, but I couldn’t do it.

Exactly one week before the “drop dead” deadline for me to turn in the finished manuscript, the phone rang—Susanna. “What the fuck, Arlene? Where’s the fucking manuscript? You’ve already had one extension—Tom’s not going to give you another.”

“I’m almost done, Susanna.” I tried to soothe the agent. “It’s given me a bit of trouble, but I’m getting a handle on it. You’ll have it soon.”

“Well, you’d better be almost done. Remember, you don’t get paid until you hand it in—and, if you don’t get paid, neither do I. I know you need the money bad. I know you didn’t want to sign the contract for the other two books, but, you did—and now, you have to deliver.” Susanna took a deep drag of her cigarette. “I’ll give you until tomorrow afternoon or I’m coming down to babysit you.” Another drag followed by a drink of Diet Pepsi. “I want to make sure you’re sitting at the computer, working, and not going to the beach and fucking all those pretty boys you have on your payroll.”

“There’s no need for you to come down here.” I thought about what Susanna had just said. How did she know about the boys? I kept those a secret from everyone. Had she been spying on me? “I’ll get the manuscript to you, I promise.”

“Well, you’d better work day and night to get it in, otherwise you’ll be in big trouble with Tom. You may have made lots of money for him, but, Arlene, you signed a contract—a legally binding document,” Susanna pointed out unnecessarily. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I will so you know how much is at stake: he’s going to offer you a three-book contract after you hand this one in—for a shit load of money.”

My heart sank. “Another contract?” I blurted out. “For three books? Featuring Miranda Maples?”

“No, Arlene, featuring Nancy Drew.” Susanna snapped back. “Of course featuring Miranda Maples!”

“I don’t know, Susanna. I’m tired of Miranda. I want to start something new—a different series, maybe, or a stand-alone book.” I ventured.

“What are you, crazy?” Susanna screamed at me. “Miranda is a gold mine for you—and me! You want to give her up? Never! I’ll never let you do that! Never! You live the way you do because of me—you’d still be fat, ugly, wrinkled with buck teeth and fucking losers, living in a hellhole if it wasn’t for me. I made you! And, I helped you create Miranda! I got you the deals with Tom, and now you want to walk away from it? What kind of an idiot are you?” The venom spewing out of Susanna’s mouth was formidable. “You will finish this book, and you will sign the contract for the next three.”

“Stop shouting at me, Susanna. I’m not deaf, I can hear you perfectly well.” I spoke calmly. “I’ll finish this book and I’ll do it on time. I’ll honor this contract, but I won’t sign another one. And you can’t force me to. I’m sorry if that means you’ll drop me as a client. I’ll always be more grateful for what you’ve done for me that I can ever express to you, but my decision is final.”

There was silence on the line before Susanna spoke again. “Sorry to tell you this, but your decision is not the final one. I’m emailing Tom now telling him to get the contract ready for the next three books—that you’re so happy to write them.”

“Did you not hear me? I told you I’m not going to commit to writing another three books—I’m done with Miranda Maples. I’ll finish this book, and then I’m done. I’m not going to change my mind.” I was determined that I was not going to let her browbeat me.

“Are you in front of your computer, Mary dear?” Susanna asked, speaking in a sweet voice.

“Yes, I am, why?”

“I just sent you an e-mail—there are four parts to it.” Susanna informed me. “I’ll wait until you open it.”

I clicked on the new e-mail. Slowly, several images showed up on the screen, images of me. Shocked, I quickly scanned the photos: me at the entrance to the Everglades National Park; me at the edge of the pond; me outside the storage unit; me sitting in the Land Rover, first, outside the food store, then with the first victim sitting in the car; then, me loading the black plastic bags into the back of the car, and returning to the park. The last ones were of me in the gas station, entering and exiting the ladies’ room. The next four sets of photos were almost exactly the same, except for the victims.

I was paralyzed, my eyes fixated on the screen. “I don’t understand.” That was all I could manage to utter.

“I’m happy to enlighten you, Mary.” Susanna took a couple of drags of her cigarette. “When you couldn’t hand in an acceptable manuscript for the first book, I thought you weren’t doing it because you were fooling around—going out with your boy toys and partying at night, so I decided to contract a private investigator for a few days to take pictures of you screwing around, pictures I would show you to shame you into working.” Susanna took a sip of her Diet Pepsi. “Well, imagine my surprise when my investigator told me that for four days in a row you had driven down to Florida City, and had poked around different places there: the Everglades National Park; a place where storage units are rented; then, sitting in the dark for hours in front of a convenience store! In between trips to Florida City, you went shopping at Sears, several Home Depots, a uniform store. Curious places for you to shop, don’t you think? On the fourth night, you invited a young man to join you in your car, you drove him to the storage unit, then a couple of hours later, you come out, dragging five black, plastic construction-type bags, and head into the park! It was just too interesting, don’t you think? And, then, on the fifth day, you sent me the new chapters with the rewritten murder scenes perfectly—and realistically—depicted?”

So, my sense that someone was watching me had not been wrong after all. “You had me followed?” I still could not believe what I was hearing.

“Oh, yes, and I did it again for the next three books—I waited until the last few days, just before the deadline, when I knew you were getting frustrated. I knew what you were going to have to do, Mary. I just waited, and, voila! Off you went, to Florida City, your new favorite hangout!” Susanna was clearly delighted by what she was telling me. “It cost me a pretty penny in investigative fees, but that’s not all. The private eye I hired, well, he’s written a book, and part of my deal with him is that I’ll represent him, and get his book published. He’s assured me that he won’t say anything about your nighttime activities as long as I get him a book deal—and, I will. It’s a good book.”

I thought about what she had just said. “So, I guess I have no choice except to finish this last book, and sign the contract for the next three?” I asked unnecessarily. “You’re blackmailing me into continuing to write the Miranda Maples series?”

“Blackmail is such an ugly word with bad connotations, but, essentially, that’s right, Mary.” Susanna spoke in a chirpy voice. “Look at it in a positive light. You get to stay in your apartment, and continue with the lifestyle you love. There are lots of boy toys out there that the kind of money you are making will buy. You’ve got a foolproof system going—you’ve minimized any chance you would get caught. Really, the way you planned the murders is perfectly brilliant. You could keep this going indefinitely—unless you slip up, of course. But I don’t think you will, Mary.”