All writers kill. Not just us mystery authors, but every writer has to mercilessly slash and cut and bury beautiful, worthy-of-life…words. Gorgeous, take-your-breath-away scenes. Descriptions so detailed you can smell them. Hysterically funny bits that might just bring world peace if the bad guys read them. We all have to kill our darlings, but every so often, I resurrect one and let it run around in the open air for a while.
The dead darling below was
cut from The Sound
of Murder,
the second in the Ivy Meadows series of madcap mysteries set in the off, off
OFF Broadway world of theater (and “a definite delight,” according to Suspense Magazine). I really liked this scene, and even did the research for
it (yes, Doritos do burn, though they take a while to light), but it just
didn’t fit into the final draft. I hope you’ll enjoy it all on its own. A few
notes: It’s written from Ivy’s point of view, Zeb is a teenage dishwasher at
the dinner theater where she’s working, Candy is an actress, and Arnie is the
theater’s producer.
#
When I got to the theater
that night, I was anxious and distracted. Maybe that’s why I set the drapes on
fire.
“What’s wrong?” Zeb sat
down next to me at the long table in the greenroom. I’d just finished dinner.
“Nothing.”
“Not true.” Zeb leaned over
in front of me so I had to look at him. For the first time, I noticed that his
pimply young face had old eyes.
“You haven’t asked about
dessert,” he said.
Busted. “I’m just
stressed.”
“I know what to do.” Zeb
jumped up out of his chair.
“She is not having sex with you,” Candy said.
Zeb just smiled and walked back toward the kitchen. He came back a few minutes
later, carrying a bowl.
“Stress relief,” he said to
me, setting the bowl down in front of me. It was full of Doritos. I politely
ate one, even though I’d been hoping for chocolate ice cream.
“They’re not for eating.”
Zeb laughed. “They’re for a science experiment. Thought maybe you’d want to
help me. You know, clear your mind before the show.”
“Sounds good.” I did need
to get my mind off producers and suicides.
“I’m researching flammable
food.” Zeb took a lighter out of his dishwasher apron pocket. “So far I’ve set
marshmallows on fire and found out that orange peel is an accelerant. Now I
want to test Doritos. I heard they’re good fire starters.” He flicked his
lighter into life and held the flame to the chips. Nothing.
“Maybe if you lit some
paper underneath them?” I said, crumpling up my napkin. Zeb lit it.
“Zeb!” The cook appeared in
the doorway.
Zeb scrambled toward her.
“Let me know if it works,” he said over his shoulder.
My napkin flared and went
out as the stage manager’s voice came over the P. A. system: “Half hour ‘til
places.” The entire table got up as if on cue. The Doritos were blackened but
not doing much, so I stood too. Just then my cell buzzed.
(Ivy
picks up the call and goes to her dressing room to get ready for the show.
Then…)
“FIRE!” I heard someone
yell. “Gotta go,” I said as calmly as I could. Then I hung up and raced toward
the noise. By the time I reached the greenroom, Arnie was spraying fire
extinguisher foam onto the blue drapes behind my seat and the bowl of flaming
Doritos.
“How?” I began.
“You tell me.” The fire now
out, Arnie put down the fire extinguisher and collapsed into a chair, a sheen
of sweat on his face.
Zeb ran into the room. “It
worked!” He caught Arnie’s glare. “Ivy was supposed to watch it.”
“Why, Miss Ivy, you are
turning into a regular little firebug.” Candy stood behind me, staring at the
smoldering mess.
“That’s ‘cause she’s hot,”
said Zeb, trying to get back into my good graces after throwing me under the
bus.
I stared at the drapes and
table, which were now covered in an acrid-smelling fine white powder. The
Doritos were all still in the bowl—none on the floor or near the drapes.
“Everyone out of the room!”
said the stage manager, who had come in and taken charge. “This stuff can
irritate your throats, and you all have to sing tonight.”
The crowd skedaddled,
concern about their performances overriding their curiosity. Not me, though. I
lingered, taking a mental snapshot of the scene so I could ask a certain
budding arson investigator about it. I didn’t get it. I may have been nervous
and I may have been distracted, but even if the chips had caught fire, how did
the flames travel to the drapes?
#
Thanks for breathing some
life into my dead darling!
Cindy
Brown has been a theater geek (musician, actor, director, producer, and
playwright) since her first professional gig at age 14. Now a full-time writer,
she’s the author of the Ivy Meadows series, madcap
mysteries set in the off, off, OFF Broadway world of theater. Macdeath, Ivy’s first adventure is “a gut-splitting mystery…a hilarious
riff on an avant-garde production of the Scottish play” Mystery Scene Magazine). Cindy and her husband live in Portland,
Oregon, though she made her home in Phoenix, Arizona, for more than 25 years
and knows all the good places to hide dead bodies in both cities. She’d love to connect with readers at cindybrownwriter.com (where they can sign up for her Slightly
Silly Newsletter) or on Facebook or Twitter.
Hi, Cindy --
ReplyDeleteIt is painful to cut some of your darlings. I'm glad to see that one of your darlings is getting a bit of life. I heard you on a panel at Malice and thought that your books sound delightful. Wishing you every success with the books in your series. I look forward to reading them.
What fun! Thanks for sharing with WWK.
ReplyDeleteThis book sounds like so much fun, can't wait to read it.
ReplyDeleteThanks, you all! I love giving life back to a dead darling. Hope you like the books (and now you have a little extra info no one else does:)
ReplyDeleteSurely that scene has to find a home somewhere. Maybe as the centerpiece of a short story, if it doesn't fit in a nove.
ReplyDeleteOoh, a short story - what a great idea!
ReplyDelete