Bree Carver was practical. Mom just smiled and assured me she didn’t take offence. She was the calm, rational parent with nerves of steel. Dad was the drama-coach, the firecracker. My brother was the younger version of the firecracker and I was left alone to settle my emotional preferences. Dad had a tendency to see the blackest of black. White to him was merely an absence of color. Was my nutcase subscriber a criminal or merely an overzealous fan who indeed wanted to be involved in plotting fictional murders? If he hacked Jake’s email account then he was a criminal. I should alert our corporate parent to such a possibility. Unfortunately that meant alerting Ganz and it was the last thing I wanted.

  I spent the next two days plotting murder number three even as the deadline loomed over my head. I needed a distraction. I needed a murder-muse. I needed a Starbucks barista to whip me up one of their specialty lattes. I’d done so much research that nothing left an impression on me, no matter how gruesome or cunning. By the end of the second day, I wondered how our species managed to survive this long if murder was such a commonplace occurrence. Heck, between wars, pestilence, famine and murder, I was surprised there were nearly seven billion of us, crowding our globe. Medical science might have helped a little to keep us buoyant but even the healers were not exempt from murderous madness.

  “I’m going out for lunch,” I announced to no one in particular, knowing everyone would be listening. “I need to clear my head. I’m just not getting any inspiration….” I muttered to myself until I was through the door. My colleagues probably didn’t believe me; then again, they knew another deadline was upon me and I wasn’t ready—again. I was uncommonly brave and checked my blog three times in the last couple of days. My tormentor did not feel the pressure to lecture me, nor threaten me again. Was I out of the woods and if so, was it good or bad?

  I drove to Frankie’s, parked for twenty seconds and then spooled out on to the highway. The owner of the Paradigm criticized my blog posts as harshly as the WrongQuestion. Was he the kind of person who always spoke his mind? Or was he just someone with a sense of entitlement because of his family’s wealth? I liked the Ben who let my colleagues play cards in his kitchen, but I hated the Ben who offered what he no doubt considered constructive criticism. Were the two part of the package or was Ben Doublinth just a stage performer? Were the two inseparable or was the man who ripped apart my brain-child just patronizing me, laughing at me…I should find out. It took me fifteen minutes to find Ben’s Downtown Garage and Gas Station, though for the life of me I could not find downtown. Kinematic Town was a cluster of new experimental dwellings that could be uprooted and moved on a moment’s notice. But they clustered around nothing. Once I convinced myself that people in rural Idaho liked to express themselves in a metaphorical sense, my mental state improved.

  The business owner himself came out when he saw my Sentra coast in. The trio of his best friends followed. I never thought that all dogs looked alike but these were identical triplets. He raised a hand but didn’t speak to them, yet they knew exactly what was expected of them. They sat down and remained in watchful position. I wondered who had trained them. Ben just didn’t seem to be the type to train; he would step in and take over when the job was done.

  “And what brings you to my humble establishment?” He approached me with those words, totally sure I would roll down the window even before he spoke.

  “A flat tire,” I said, opening the door and getting out. I slammed the doors shut a bit harder than I usually did. The dogs didn’t even flick their tails or prick their ears. They sat like statues, their attention on their master and nothing else.

  He didn’t bother bending down to see if there was a flat tire, merely cocked his head. “Don’t see one.”

  “Flat spirit.”

  “Wrong place for that. Come back to Paradigm tonight and maybe we work on fixing that.”

  “Are they always this…peaceful?” I indicated with my eyes the trio of canine statues.

  “You’re not threatening them—or me. Would you like to see what they’re like if you come at me with a bat?”

  “I don’t own a bat,” I made a face. He was patronizing me and maybe I deserved it but I was just trying to determine the extent of my freedom—before I heard a low-rolling growl.

  “They’re well-trained and though they are guard dogs, they’re not vicious. Fang,” he said without looking at them and then pointed at me. “Say hello to Bree-Ann, nicely.”

  “Ah, you don’t have to….” I didn’t get a chance to finish. Fang who sat in the middle, rose and was beside me before I could blink. I extended my hand, feeling foolish and annoyed at the same time. The dog licked it a couple of times and then sat back. He stared at me, his tongue half-hanging out, panting softly and effortlessly. I scratched him behind the ears, half expecting to hear him purr. It’s what I was used to hearing when I scratched a pet behind the ears; then again, my pets were always cats…and two Guinea pigs. Dogs didn’t frighten me but I was never sure what their reaction might be when I came across them. Fang felt…different. In a matter of minutes we’d bonded and I’d have bet my internship that if I wiggled my fingers at him he’d walk away with me.

  “White Fang,” I said softly, moving my hand to scratch more vigorously under the ears. “Do you know you’re named after a very famous dog-wolf? I bet you could teach him a thing or two…” I caught myself. Ben stood by, watching in silent amusement.

  “Well, you’ve made a friend. How about that. Fang doesn’t make friends easily.”

  “You’re his master. He makes friends with whoever you tell him to make friends,” I mumbled.

  He shook his head. “Not at all. He took to Jake and that’s about it. The rest of your colleagues keep their feet well away from the pack when they’re playing cards in my kitchen. I considered asking them to invest in work-boots to safeguard their pedicures.” He was openly laughing now.

  “I guess Fang serves as a leading example to his…are they from the same litter?”

  “No. Cousins, months apart. So, why are you here in the middle of your work-day?”

  “Flat imagination,” I finally confessed.

  “When’s your deadline?”

  I made a motion of looking at my empty wrist since I haven’t worn a watch in years. Smartphone was all I needed to tell not just time but everything under the sun.

  “Four p.m.,” I finally said.

  “Less than four hours. That’s cutting it close.”

  “I’m not cutting it at all.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “be.paradigm@ibnet.com,” I said.

  “I told you many times. It’s my email address but I have not registered for your blog. I read both posts, but I’m not a subscriber. Besides, if he hacked my email account and used my email address to register as a subscriber, I can’t.”

  “It’s gone now. It’s WrongQuestion now. You could register with your email…if you wanted to. Doesn’t it bother you that your email account was hacked?”

  “Sure, but not as much as it would have bothered me when I was still working in Seattle. I read the comments too. They’re annoying but otherwise benign.”

  “Did you read his suggestion for post number two?”

  “It sounded to me like he gave you a real case. Are there restrictions on your murder cases?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you have to make up everything from scratch or can you borrow details from actual historical murder cases?”

  “No restrictions but I’d rather not use actual murder cases, even if I’d change the names and setting.”

  “Why?”

  I grimaced. “The blog’s supposed to be entertainment. There is nothing entertaining about an actual murder case, no matter how old.”

  “Agreed. So, why didn’t you tell your annoying subscriber that you don’t want to use actual cases, historical and otherwise?”

  “He struck me as someone who would have a great problem accepting ‘no’ for an answer.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “No. But I think he’s in one of my chat groups, a new member.”

  “Then try explaining yourself in the chat room.”

  “I can’t be sure it’s him. It’s just…I feel…his diction is the same—terse, angry and very direct. My father thinks he’s a criminal.”

  “Well, he is a hacker and could well be a criminal but why does he spook you so much?”

  “It’s not that I’m spooked…it’s things like the case that’s supposedly a real murder case. It’s bogus. I checked. There’s no record of it. So, either it’s very old and never made it to the electronic database, or it’s made up…false but why? For what purpose?”

  “Then don’t play his game anymore. Stop answering, regardless of what he comments about.”

  “That’s hard but I’ll try. Would you have any suggestions for murder number three?”

  “You’ve done a teen and a widow. How about a young career woman victim this time?”

  “I’d like to keep my small town setting. You’d not find many young career women in small towns. They’re the ones who leave small towns to work on their careers in the city.”

  He inclined his head and stared at me with a bemused expression. “I’m looking at one. And Kinematic is not even an organic small town. It’s an artificial experimental settlement though if you ask I’d be hard pressed to tell you what the experiment is supposed to yield.”

  “What would be my motive?” I avoided eye contact.

  “How about jealousy? That’s a powerful emotion. If it could be harnessed it would move mountains.”

  “Jealousy over a guy—in a small town?” I must have sounded shocked because he laughed.

  “Especially in a small town. Aren’t there three of you back in that rustic office? You’re all city girls, born and bred. Let’s say one of you was recalled back to New York Times head office tomorrow—wouldn’t that make you just a bit jealous?”

  “No,” I said tartly. “I haven’t gotten over being jealous of the Managing Editor’s protégé in disguise who was given the fellowship and the internship that should have rightfully been mine.”

  “You know, speaking your mind has probably saved you tons of money,” he said, openly laughing.

  I sneered at him and got in the car. His words trailed after me through the open window.

  “I meant that as a compliment. Speaking your mind to me means that you don’t need therapy. You’re your own best therapist. If you don’t like to shop for victims in the corporate ranks, why not do it in the sports? Now, there’s the field that’s rife with jealously and competition, healthy and otherwise.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I returned to the office with a grilled cheese and soda-pop. I didn’t want my co-workers asking questions, though I doubt it fooled them. Truth was that even the brief chat I had with Ben was energizing. Once, I went to a friend’s birthday party with a gift I didn’t wrap on purpose. I don’t know what it was, but wrapping that gift would have somehow diminished its meaning and value. Ben felt that way to me as well. He was solidly put together and didn’t need to define himself with designer clothes, expensive watches and haircuts. He could afford them. His family was old money, with long standing business in lumber, timber and power cascades. His whole family was in the business; in the corporate ranks of the parent company and in operations of its many subsidiaries. Yet he chose to be a Seattle cop. Was that a statement or just a personal choice? Except for people who came from money such personal choices would be chalked up to eccentricities. Ben didn’t strike me as eccentric. He was just a nice, normal guy who liked hands-on involvement in his own ventures and didn’t shy away from hard work, whether behind the bar counter or in the car mechanic’s pit.

  Everything about him felt right…when it should have felt wrong. Was I losing my perspective on human condition, as my father would say? Is this what working in a barn in the middle of nowhere in Idaho did to city folk? And why couldn’t the Starbucks have a traveling coffee wagon, the kind that blew a siren when nearing your rural location.

  I was consumed with reflections and character analysis and didn’t notice that I’ve already developed the habit of working 24-7; at least my fingers did. When I finally focused on the screen in front of me, I saw I’d logged into the blog site. I had six more subscribers and three comments that made me smile. My subscribers wanted me to know they enjoyed puzzling out my murder scenarios and rejoiced if my solution that came out later was close to their own. It was precisely what the blog was supposed to be—an entertainment site that would appeal to the mystery lovers.

  The fourth comment made me want to bang my head on the pine plank to knock myself out. It was from the WrongQuestion.

  “Pick up your email. It’s been sitting unopened for two days. Do I have to do all the work for you?”

  I obeyed because I knew that in this case procrastination would not serve me well. He would harass me until I did as he asked. My father was right. I was bullied by a criminal. He had means to hack email accounts; he might even be watching me.

  “Elyse Prescott, a pivot with Hi-O-LoloRollers came off the floor at eight p.m. because she didn’t feel well. She was just getting over a fierce cold but the team doctor cleared her for participation; as did her own personal physician. She sat down on the team-bench, twisted and bent over to be able to reach back for her bag where she had a towel. She remained in that position for about a minute when her teammate, blocker Piper Smyth-Jones, went to see if she was all right. She found Elyse dead, hand clutching her white towel. The coroner’s verdict was that Elyse Prescott died of undiagnosed complications brought on by a severe case of flu.”

  Sports! Isn’t that what Ben advised just as I put the stick in drive. This time the message came from his email, not Jake’s. Ben also laughed too easily. Was he playing this game from the shadows and denying it was just another part of his strategy?

  He also advised not to respond. Was that a challenge or did he gamble on the stats that claimed four out of five people did the opposite when told not to do something?

  “It sounds interesting and thank you for your contribution,” I typed. “But it’s not a murder. It’s a tragedy, for sure, but my blog is called “C-Murder of the Week.” I don’t see why Elyse’s death would go down as murder.” I paused, thinking and then added, “Did it?” And clicked send.

  “Murder is just the beginning of evil,” came back.

  I swallowed a curse that bubbled upon my lips and typed, “That sounds like a famous quote but I don’t have time to play this game. I have a deadline. Now, either provide the motive and solution or resolution, or stop sending me these lame scenarios.” I took a gamble that the word “lame” would score where it hurt—in his pride bucket.

  I expected an angry tirade and was surprised to see one very long line of text appear. “What comes after murder is investigation. Sometimes it’s done well. Sometimes it’s botched. Regardless of ineptitude of the law, there are always consequences. Reflect on that.” So far the email exchange was uncharacteristically swift. I felt it was about to slow down and was right. I was set to spin my own scenario for week three.

  Two career girls, vying for the same management position, at a CostMart style retailer who just opened up its newest store in small-town Washington. Both girls were recent repatriates, having obtained their college education on the East Coast, returning to their grassroots home town. Both were qualified, both were fiercely competitive. They served on overlapping shifts since their employer was still a wholesaler-warehouse and ran 24-7 as a rule.

  I left it again until the last moment so I went for emergency weapon—allergen. One girl was allergic to fermented food such as yoghurt; the other wasn’t. That’s why the one who was allergic offered the container of yoghurt that someone gave her to her rival….who was allergic to peanuts. The fermented food had crunchy granola bits in it, but was supposed to be peanut-free—as per its label. The girl who ate the yoghurt went into anaphylactic shock and died before the ambulance could get to her. Small towns had many components that contributed to murder.

  I posted my blog literally a minute to deadline and felt like running until I ran out of land. I closed my email. Ganz never emailed me because for him it was more pleasurable to torture me over the phone, and the rest of my world was imbedded in my cell phone. It was four o’clock in Idaho so it would be six p.m. in Maine.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said when she picked up.

  “Sweetie, how nice of you to call. I’m just reading your blog. I don’t mean to criticize but death by allergy is a bit of an urban legend.”

  “You’d be surprised, Mom, how many really dangerous allergens….”

  She cut me off. “Yes, but that’s not what I meant. These days practically everyone is allergic to something so people are much better educated about allergens than they used to be. Those who have life-threatening allergies are very knowledgeable and very careful when it comes to food and drink. I don’t think your victim would have so readily accepted a container of yoghurt from someone she knew was her rival—her enemy, as your father would say. Was the poor soul who gave the unfortunate girl the yoghurt arrested?”

  “No, Mom.” I checked my smile. I hadn’t published the solution yet. The two girls who were going after the same promotion were blinded by each other’s ambition. It prevented them from seeing that there was a third candidate in the wings, equally thirsty—even bloodthirsty—for the promotion. The girl who gave away the yoghurt believed she was giving away a nut free dairy product. The girl who gave it to her, knew otherwise.