March 2, 1977
I gave Mrs. Zaborowski my story today, and she read it over the lunch hour. She thinks I ought to submit it somewhere. There are a few spelling mistakes and some other things I should fix, but then I’ll send it to EQMM. Who knows what might happen?
March 4, 1977
Ellery Queen, Editor
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
380 Lexington Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Dear Mr. Queen:
Enclosed you’ll find “The Ubiquitous Fairchild,” my latest mystery story. I hope you’ll like it. I’ve enclosed a SASE for your response.
Many thanks,
Christopher Kenilworth
1203 Macmillan Street
Manderton, Minn 56031
P.S. I’ve just finished reading The Wrightsville Murders. I asked for it as a special present for my fourteenth birthday, which was last month. I had to write to a bookstore in Minneapolis to find it. It’s brilliant. When will your next novel be published? I know your fans are waiting!
April 25, 1977
It is now two o’clock in the morning. I’m listening to Hobbs’ House on WCCO and drinking a cup of tea with milk. I shouldn’t be up this late—tomorrow’s a school day—but I can’t get to sleep. Too full of thoughts.
Played “I Am a Rock” over and over again this evening. It keeps going through my mind. It seems so bitter, so calmly despairing. “I have my books and my poetry to protect me. I am alone.” Will that be me someday, an encrusted, friendless old man? I hope not.
A rejection letter was waiting for me when I got home from play practice. (I’m essaying the role of Dr. Howard Fersig, an evil doctor, in The Skeleton Walks. It’s a great part. Aunt Kathy’s helping me memorize my lines. We open on May 13th.) I really thought “The Ubiquitous Fairchild” was a good story. I guess I’ll try again. I know I can do it.
Uncle Wes’s car just pulled in. He’s back really late tonight.
I must try to sleep.
April 26, 1977
A few thoughts, waiting for the bus. Should I join Mensa? Isaac Asimov is vice-president. Is my IQ in the top 2% of America’s? I could send in the six dollars and see if I qualify, after taking the test they’ll send me. All I need is a little self-confidence.
I’ve had an idea for a story. A murder story. Inspired by something that happened last night. There’s the bus—more later.
After Supper
I am being driven insane. By my classes. I’ve only got one I truly enjoy (English, with Mrs. Zaborowski). There are a few others that I can bear (I won’t name them) and one that is downright intolerable: Drafting.
I just wasn’t meant to hunch over a desk and draw geometric trifles on paper. I’m not a person who naturally can draw, use rulers and compasses. I am not fast at picking up mechanical techniques. I am fine in theory but dreadful in execution. It’s torture. Mr. Calvin tries to help, but it’s just no good. There’s only one more month left in drafting, but guess what my next class is?
Woodworking.
They’re trying to kill me.
Later
Here’s the background for that story idea.
Uncle Wes and Aunt Kathy have been living with us—me and my grandmother—for the last three months. Their house sold faster than expected, so they’re staying here until construction on their new home is finished.
I like Aunt Kathy. She’s soft and nervous and nearsighted and always interested in what I write.
Uncle Wes is a big man with a big gut and big gold teeth and a big square head covered with graying hair he combs over and over in the mirror before he goes out in the evening. He was in the Philippines during World War II and saw things he doesn’t want to talk about. He scares me. Aunt Kathy’s frightened of him, too. I can tell by the way she flinches whenever he calls for her. They fight sometimes—or, rather, he yells at her. He yells at her, then slams out of the house. She doesn’t say a word. I find his behavior loathsome. I’m pretty sure that once, and maybe even more than once, he’s hit her. And that is unforgivable. I swear that I will never be mean to any woman at any time under any circumstances. We must have standards.
Uncle Wes came home very late last night. He’s a pal of the man who runs the A&W stand by the lake, and sometimes he brings back root beer and hamburgers, so I waited for him, just in case.
After a minute or two of silence, I went to the kitchen. No one was there.
I looked out the window. His Olds 88 was parked in the driveway, but Uncle Wes was nowhere to be seen.
I went down the stairs to the back porch, opened the screen door, and peered out.
Still no sign of him.
I was about to step back into the house when a flickering light appeared across the street. The flame of a cigarette lighter fluttered in the breezy darkness.
Uncle Wes was lighting Ava Templehoff’s cigarette.
They were under the elm tree on the front lawn of the Templehoff house.
But, I asked myself, where was Ava’s husband, Don?
That’s when I had the idea for a new story. What if Uncle Wes and Ava Templehoff were having an affair? And what if Don wouldn’t give Ava a divorce? And what if they had to kill Don so they could be together? How would they do it? It’d have to look natural. It’d have to look like an accident….
The Templehoffs’ house is at the end of the block, right next to the splintery old bridge that crosses Whiskey Ditch. Uncle Wes and Ava could ply Don with drinks and then push him down the slope into the water. Or lead him down there, hit him on the head, and drown him. Or—
The scrabble of paws sounded on the bridge. Gretchen, the Templehoffs’ blind eleven-year-old dachshund, waddled into view. Leash in hand, huffing and puffing, Don waddled along behind Gretchen. Don is in lamentable physical condition. He smokes too much and eats too much. He wears a copper bracelet on each wrist, which he says helps his arthritis, but I doubt it. Whenever he comes over for some of Grandma’s coffee cake and a chat, his joints hurt so much he can barely get up to leave.
… Or it could be a heart attack. They could get him mad and he’d drop dead. Then who’d ever know it was murder?
I can do something with this. I’ll give it some serious thought in homeroom and see if I can’t work out the details. It could be a real Jack Ritchie kind of story.
I even have a title for it: “No Hamburgers Tonight.”
Even Later
Uncle Wes arrived home at 2:29 a.m. Ava T. waited for him on her front porch. A pattern is forming. And I’m going to figure out just what that pattern is….
April 27, 1977
Horrible day in school. That’s all I’ll say.
I will never forget the cruelty of others.
I’ll never forgive it, either.
To make matters worse, there was an accident with the typewriter this evening. When I’d finished transcribing some notes for my story, I set the typewriter on the bed so I could sweep the eraser crumbs off my desk. I went out to the kitchen to get a cup of tea. When I came back, without thinking, I sat down on the edge of the bed—and that’s when it happened. The typewriter slipped off the bed and hit the linoleum with a sickening metallic chunk. It’s broken.
I loved that typewriter.
A bad end to a bad day.
Uncle Wes arrived home at 1:36 a.m. He parked his car, walked across the street, and went into the Templehoffs’ garage through the side door. My mind is working frenetically to weave circumstance into the stuff of fiction.
April 28, 1977
A note on my methodology might be in order. When I hear the Olds 88 roll in, I go up to the attic and watch from the window at the head of the stairs—I can see the driveway, the street, and the Templehoffs’ house quite easily from there.
Uncle Wes pulled into the driveway around 12:56 a.m. and went straight to the Templehoffs’ garage.
I’ve figured out how they’ll kill him. The character based on Don is crazy about his little blind dog. His wife accidentally lets the dog out, although it’s far from any kind of accident, and the man drops dead from worry and overexertion. A perfect murder.
April 29, 1977
Waiting for my allergy shot. Four-thirty in the afternoon. Today Mrs. Zaborowski read to us from Notes to Myself, by Hugh Prather. I’ll look for a copy the next time we go to the B. Dalton’s in Sioux Falls. It was beautiful and moving, and it really made me think.
I always seem to be looking for an idol, a hero. I revere Isaac Asimov, Alfred Hitchcock, Ray Bradbury, Robert Bloch, and Groucho Marx. I don’t drift around without one, but I like a hero. I suppose I admire the person I want to be. I want to match their achievements and make a name for myself in the world.
Play practice from six to nine tonight. I intend to work on my story afterward if I’m not too tired. Mr. Christiansen told us we have to be off-book by Monday. I’m going to ask Kevin to help me with my lines during study hall.
Dilemma: I enjoy both writing and acting. What if I had to choose between the two disciplines? Which would it be? I think I would have to choose writing, though the rewards of the theatre are immediate and vastly pleasurable. There’s something deeper about writing, I feel, something that calls to the deepest part of me.
It’s just after midnight, so it’s technically Saturday, April 30th. The CBS Radio Mystery Theater has just finished: “Good night, and pleasant dreams…” The reception from WBBM in Chicago was okay tonight. Not a lot of static, and I was able to hear the whole show. I hate it when sun spots, for instance, mess up the radio waves and I can’t listen to E. G. Marshall and company. That’s a show I’d like to write for. Himan Brown is a genius.
Uncle Wes isn’t back yet. I’m worn out and I don’t know how much longer I can last. I think I’ll listen to Allan McFee’s show on the CBC. I hope I can stay awake….
It’s almost five o’clock in the morning as I take pen in hand. I’m exhausted, but I have to get this down before I crash into sleep—if I can sleep at all.
The facts. Concentrate on the facts. Write it all down.
About forty minutes ago, I awoke to the sound of a car door closing. I reached my perch in the attic window just in time to see Uncle Wes help Ava out of the Olds 88. Arm in arm they walked unsteadily across the lawn, stumbled at the curb, then staggered through the streetlamp’s amber, leaf-dappled light to the darkness of the Templehoff lawn. After a minute or two, Ava left the shadow of the tree and Uncle Wes lurched back across the street to his car, got a bottle from the trunk, and followed her.
It looked like that was it for the night, so I went down the stairs, headed for bed. I was getting a glass of milk from the refrigerator when it happened.
Someone—a woman—screamed.
And a gun went off.
And went off again.
And again.
Then silence.
But not for long.
May 3, 1977
The Daily Globe reports that the authorities view the events of the night of April 30th as a murder-suicide. An ailing Don Templehoff discovered that his wife, Ava, was involved in an illicit relationship with their friend and neighbor Wesley Lannen. Catching them in a compromising situation, he shot them both to death and then killed himself. Templehoff had a history of mental and physical problems dating back to his service in the Aleutians during the Second World War. He’d suffered a breakdown and been sent back to the States with an honorable discharge, a pension, and a Purple Heart.
The best part of the story wasn’t printed in the paper, though. I’ve been keeping my ears open, and I’ve learned a few things. It’s amazing what people will say in front of you if you pretend you’re not interested.
Don met Ava at the Veterans’ Hospital in Minneapolis in the summer of 1967. He was being treated for his joint problems. She was there visiting a former high school boyfriend—Wesley Lannen.
Ava quickly married Don, who’d come into a lot of money after the death of his mother. At her suggestion, Don sold his house in a suburb of Minneapolis and moved to Manderton… where Wesley was living with his wife, Kathy. The affair between Uncle Wes and Ava Templehoff began shortly after.
That was back in 1967. Which means their affair had been going on for ten years.
I will never understand people.
Don and Ava Templehoff were buried today. Uncle Wes will be buried tomorrow. But not in the same cemetery.
May 14, 1977
Things have returned to normal—mostly. Other people, other events have drawn the public’s attention away from Don and Ava and Uncle Wes.
One of those people who are drawing attention happens to be none other than Aunt Kathy. The change that’s come over her since Uncle Wes’s death is phenomenal. She reminds me of a prisoner who’s been released after years in jail. Her natural warmth and exuberance, so long crushed by Uncle Wes’s brutal behavior, are readily apparent. She has blossomed. Everyone in the house is happy for her. Me most of all.
My happiness is tinged with sorrow, however. Aunt Kathy is leaving. Not just the house, but the town itself. Uncle Wes’s will left her a dairy farm in Wisconsin, and she’s going to live there and run it. She should be very good at that, as she worked in an office before she got married. She’s going to Rice Lake at the end of the month. I’ll miss her greatly.
I don’t miss Uncle Wes at all. I’m glad he’s gone. Is it wrong of me to say that? Even if it is, it’s the truth. And a writer must always tell the truth, if only in the secrecy of pages like these.
I’ve gone back to the idea I mentioned earlier. I’m still using it, but I’ve shifted some things around—names, details, etc.—in light of what’s happened. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was exploiting the situation. I’ve come up with a twist I think is very clever, and I’ve written a couple of pages already. I hope to have a draft by the end of this week or the beginning of the next. I might have had one done by now, but the school play has taken up all of my evenings lately. It’s been worth it, though. The Skeleton Walks opened last night at Memorial Auditorium. I’m happy to say it went very well. Lots of people were in attendance and there were many words of praise for me after the show. We have another performance tonight, and a matinee tomorrow.
Once again, the dilemma: writing or theatre? Who do I want to be? Harlan Ellison—or Peter Sellers? John Dickson Carr—or Alec Guinness? William Faulkner—or Tom Conti?
May 17, 1977
I finished “No Hamburgers Tonight,” and this morning I gave it to Aunt Kathy to type. She has a very nice Silent-Super Smith-Corona manual portable that I covet. It’s the kind of typewriter I could sail to Europe with. Is it still possible to sail on ocean liners? I hope it is, because I crave adventure. I’m going to live in New York and Paris and London. And write stories and novels while I’m there.
Later
Here I am, stuck in social studies. Per capita income and what causes inflation. Mr. Dahlquist is a good teacher, but I don’t want to be here. I want to go to the public library and pick up the book that’s on hold for me: Tricks and Treats, edited by Joe Gores and Bill Pronzini. Oh, will this class never end? Will this torment never cease? When will I be free to read and do whatever I want?
4:30 in the Afternoon
I’m sitting in the library, near hardcover fiction. I’ve just had the wind knocked out of my sails.
Aunt Kathy caught me as I was entering the library. I was surprised to see her, but before I could say anything, she took me roughly by the arm and dragged me down the stairs. She hurried me past the historical society’s exhibits to the farthest part of the library basement. The scary part, with the barbed-wire samples and the iron lung and the American flag shot with bullet holes.
She took a crumpled mass of papers from her purse and thrust one of the pages at me. I recognized my handwriting. It was the manuscript of my story.
“How did you know that?” she said, pointing at the sheet of paper.
“Know what?”
She brought the page up to her eyes and read aloud: “ ‘The police were more than willing to accept Ron Templeton’s death as a suicide but for one thing: the gun was found in his right hand. Chief Sikorski was an old friend who knew that Ron was left-handed. Why would a left-handed man shoot himself with his right hand? The answer is—he wouldn’t. It wasn’t suicide at all. It was murder.’ ” She lowered the page and fixed her gaze on me. “How did you know that?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
She grabbed my arm again and pushed her face close to mine. “Yes, you do, and you damn well better tell me.”
“Stop,” I said. “You’re hurting me.”
“How did you know I put the gun in Don’s left hand? How?”
“I made it up!” I said, jerking free of her grasp. “It’s a story. I don’t know anything.”
Aunt Kathy looked at me for a long, long moment. “You didn’t know,” she said finally, so softly I could barely hear her. “You didn’t know….”
No. I was just guessing. It’s like I told her: I made it up. I didn’t know a thing.
And so does Mrs. Zaborowski. Earlier today I gave her my other handwritten copy of the story because I couldn’t wait for her to read it.
And now I’m really worried.
Because Mrs. Zaborowski is married to the chief of police.
And Chief Zaborowski was an old friend of Don Templehoff’s.
May 18, 1977
Aunt Kathy was arrested this morning and charged with the murders of Don Templehoff, Ava Templehoff, and Wesley Lannen. She quietly packed an overnight case and left without a fuss. As she went, she told me I could have her Silent-Super Smith-Corona manual portable typewriter. And then she was gone.
I feel horrible beyond my capacity to say.
I have learned a mighty lesson: words contain a ferocious power. We must be careful how we use them, for the consequences can mean life or death.
The human heart is a trunk filled with mysterious contents: lust, envy, hatred, fear. It is a trunk we open at our own risk.
All of this happened because of me. I looked into my own heart, and I am appalled.
I will never write another story.
May 20, 1977
I had a talk today with Chief Zaborowski. He said they’d suspected Aunt Kathy from the start, and that my story played no real part in the investigation. He told me that murders usually aren’t committed by strangers or enemies from the past who reappear after twenty years in prison or in any of the ways they occur in stories. Most often people are killed by people they know, people they love, people they thought loved them, and that’s what happened here. He finished by saying the best thing for me to do is to get on with my life and not worry too much over recent events. I should feel no guilt. I did nothing wrong.
I want to believe him, but I still feel horrid. I don’t know what to do. My life seems ruined, a blasted heath, a mess.
May 23, 1977
I’ve finished a new version of “No Hamburgers Tonight.” I’m not happy with it. In fact, I think it stinks. I’m just not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.
Evening
I showed the revised story to Mrs. Zaborowski, and she read it over the lunch hour. She says it’s “quite accomplished,” and particularly admires the way I dealt with the boy’s guilt over his role in the murder. She says I ought to submit it somewhere once I’ve fixed a couple of things.
Should I fix them and send it out? Do I have the heart to do it?
What would Stanley Ellin do?
May 25, 1977
Ellery Queen, Editor
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
380 Lexington Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Dear Mr. Queen:
Enclosed you’ll find “No Hamburgers Tonight,” my latest mystery story….