Chasing MHC, Part 1

**Trigger warning: Part 3 of this piece contains a short section of violent content.**

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“When someone is mean to me, I just make them a victim in my next book.”
~Mary Higgins Clark~

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Fall had always been my favorite season. I loved walking in the evening, breathing in the smell of the leaves in the air, watching them as they turned colors before floating down to the ground. 

I even loved the sound they made as I walked over and through them. It reminded me of autumns past, when my sister and I used to rake a pile of leaves just to dive in and roll around before my father would light them up, sending the flames and their autumnal scent high into the air.

But that night, the night it all happened, felt different; it didn’t have that soothing effect I’d been looking for. Call it paranoia, or an imagination on overdrive, but I couldn’t shake that feeling of being watched. Irrational? Maybe. But I somehow sensed a gathering storm coming for me, and it had nothing to do with the approaching winter.

Looking back, maybe I wasn’t as concerned as I should have been. I guess my mind had become too wrapped up in fake mysteries and all the obsessions they entailed to be able to focus on the real one.

***

I once met Mary Higgins Clark at the taping of a John McLaughlin show on CNBC. She was my favorite mystery author, and I prided myself on having read every book she had ever written. At the end of the show, I hung around like a groupie so I could shake her hand and introduce myself, and she was just as cordial and elegant as I had always imagined.

She actually said, “Hmm, Elaine — I like that name!” and in hindsight, I suppose she was simply being polite. But no matter. To me, there was a spark, a beginning of some special bond between us, and from that moment on, I hoped to be forever linked to her.  

As it turned out, it wasn’t the link I’d hoped for. But ever since that day, I would actually talk about her to friends, family, or anyone who would listen, as if we’d known each other for years. I even referred to her as “MHC”, as if we had some special or familial relationship. 

I would also read up about her family, and then talk about them as if we were close friends or something. Mind you, I’d never met any of them, but I talked about Mary and her children as if I was privy to their private goings-on. 

I might smile knowingly and say, “Oh, you mean Warren? Why yes, he was just sworn in as a Municipal Court judge.”  

Or, “Oh, no, Marilyn is a Superior Court Judge, not Supreme — not yet, anyway.” And then I’d add a wink. 

Or, “Ladies, listen up!” And after all eyes had turned to me, “Dave is single again!”

Pure fantasy, of course. And pathetic? You bet — but I didn’t care. I needed this woman in my life, no matter how fantasy-based or delusional it got. To me, she seemed the epitome of elegance, grace, and success. And that meant that I somehow needed to become just like her. 

My first order of business? Naturally, to write my own bestselling murder mystery novel! Now, I hadn’t written so much as a word before this, nor did I know the first thing about being published. But I envisioned my destiny: At the next murder mystery awards dinner, MHC and I would surely sit at the same table. 

I would act surprised, of course, to win the Edgar award, and would humbly accept it amidst the room’s wild applause, just as I imagined Mary Higgins Clark would do.

“Hold the applause, you’re embarrassing me!” I might say. Then I would then make an incredibly brilliant, totally spontaneous acceptance speech. I mean, if you’re going to fantasize, why not go the whole nine yards, right? 

After humbly gliding back to my seat, Mary would introduce herself, and she and I would talk shop until late into the night. We’d cement that special bond, and life would only get better from there. Or so I imagined.

***

But before all that, I had a book to write, and my own mysteries to bring to life. 

So I settled in to give myself what I thought was a legitimate shot at my dream. I bought myself an expensive laptop that I couldn’t really afford, set up a compact, sturdy table and gooseneck lamp in a small alcove in my bedroom, which faced the street, and began setting my alarm for 5:00 a.m. 

“A tip from MHC herself!” I told people, even though I’d only gleaned it from reading an interview she’d once given. Apparently, Mary would set her alarm early so she’d be up before her children, and would write for two hours. Such commitment! 

I may not have had any kids myself, but I loved the idea, and resolved I’d do the same. And I found after a couple of weeks that the house felt different during those hours — the small thumps or creaks I heard from various quarters, likely the house settling from the night, fueled any number of exciting plot concepts. 

That first morning, I brought my coffee into my little writing nook and began outlining my first bestselling novel with all the anticipation of a first date. I taped to my wall a saying by W. Somerset Maugham: 

“There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.” 

Thus assured that I could write a book despite my inexperience, a book that would give me glowing reviews — not to mention comparisons to Mary Higgins Clark — I continued to write page after page, totally immersed in the mystery I was creating.

If the wind hit the house and made it sound like footsteps upstairs, I put that in. If the leaves swirled outside like a shadow of someone watching, that became fodder for my main character’s next biggest fear. When Brody’s car drove past at 6 a.m., I scowled and inserted a new villain.

I had fleshed out my main characters and imagined any number of scenarios by the end of that first week — quite a bit more progress than I’d expected. But then, by Day Two, I wasn’t limiting my writing to just the mornings before work. I guess in my hurry to achieve my goals, I probably became a little obsessed. 

As soon as I got home from work that second day, I prepared a quick dinner — lemon chicken breast and a green salad — and brought it to my desk with a small glass of Merlot. By Day Four, I had begun working pretty late into the night. I was on a roll, and my regular work was probably the only thing that kept me from going off the deep-end.

I was one of those lucky few who enjoyed their job, mainly because I had my own office and worked with numbers all day rather than people. My immediate, high-maintenance boss stayed in Florida half the year, which meant the only person I had to have consistent contact with was my assistant, Norma.

Norma felt compelled to stop by my office every morning, ostensibly to see if I needed anything, but really just to rattle on about herself. She could not stop talking if you paid her; I’d tried. I don’t think she ever even heard a word I said that first day, when I’d tried to awe her into silence with news about my novel. No, Norma just plowed ahead.

I’d already taken to slinking past her desk in the morning, trying not to be noticed, but that only seemed to increase her need — she started finding more excuses to barge in on me, more reasons to bombard me with her cache of words-words-words. 

And I always knew when she was coming in, too, because her cosmetically enhanced boobs entered through my open door ten minutes before she did. 

I mean, what’s with people like that? Do they really not see your eyes glazing over? Norma had crossed every nerve in my body well before I’d started my book. But now? Maybe it was the timing of my break-up a few weeks ago, but it seemed like overnight she’d become ten times worse! 

But if I had a break in my workday, I now wanted to work on my novel, not bemoan over Brody or listen to her drone on about her new boobs, which she managed to work into almost every conversation. 

One recent nugget, “Oh, I love cooking, but you know, my boobs…”  Like, what, you can’t reach the stove because they get in the way? If I could have locked that door — but then she’d only have kept knocking.

One morning at the end of that first week, as I saw the shadow of those Dolly Partons heading toward my office door, I was literally saved by the bell: It was Ethan on the phone, a friend who was changing the locks to my apartment. The Dollys receded.

“All done! You’ve got three keys for each lock, so you’re all set,” Ethan said. “Where should I leave them?”

“Really, thanks so much, Ethan,” I told him. “You can leave all three sets in the mailbox. I really appreciate it. Let me know what I owe you.”

“Hey, safety first, that’s what’s important,” Ethan said. “And don’t worry about paying, you get the friend discount. I’m happy to do it.”

With a sigh of relief, I hung up. One less thing to worry about. Let Brody drive by all he wanted — he could leave his useless apology roses on the doorstep instead.

As I looked toward my door, I was startled to see Matt, lurking just outside my office, apparently listening in on my conversation. I sighed — my other fly in the ointment. As a part of the mailroom staff, Matt seemed to have attached himself to me, probably because I was the only office worker who would talk to him. And even my patience had worn thin.

I stood up, pretending to have just realized I needed something, and hurried toward the door. I’d been learning recently to bolt at the very sight of him — to do otherwise risked conversation worse than Norma’s. Unfortunately, Matt had moved to block my exit. 

He never acted creepy — just out of touch, the social awkwardness that comes with an inability to connect. And today, an extra dose of that indefinable air of disquietude surrounded him. 

“Every morning, she’s been leaving ads for apartments right next to my cereal bowl,” Matt said, not looking up. “Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know, Matt, why don’t you ask her?” I said. I squeezed past him and made a run for the elevator. Guilt almost stopped me. Would MHC have responded differently? It was a sad situation really — he lived with his mother, who apparently wasn’t all that fond of him anymore.

But I remembered that disturbing moment some months before, when he’d said he wanted to come by my home to cook me dinner, and actually recited my address. I could still feel that shock, that numbness as I realized just how different a playing field he was on from the rest of us, unable to pick up any social cues at all. 

And not just that, but how in the world had he gotten my address to begin with? I slipped into the elevator and punched a random button with maybe a bit more force than it deserved. However he’d managed it, I had to re-think exactly how innocent his intentions were. The new locks would keep more than just Brody out. Maybe my story could have two villains.

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To be continued in Part 2 and Part 3.

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While you wait, check out a few other pieces we have available!

• Man in the Shadows – Christmas-time fiction
• Perspective – Poetry
• The Twelve Suspects of Christmas – Book review
• Dark Enchantments – Personal Essay