The Mystery Writer

Despite the cold night I slept with the window open. It was too tempting to fall asleep to the sound of the water.

Though now that I’d shrugged off the two quilts that decision didn’t seem so smart and now I was forced to close it.

The small room was cold. Mostly because of my preference for the sound of the surf at night, but also I knew Mary lowered the heat in the building to try and keep the costs down.

I looked around the room, pretty spartan, but it had all I needed, a bed, and a desk. The furniture was old but beautiful, made by hand by Mary’s father, a carpenter of local renown.

And of course, the window. The window sat perfectly over the desk in such a way that it would add the perfect ambience to a lazy day of writing. It had everything, a little bit of forest, a little slice of beach, and of course the water lapping gently at the shore.

But the writing could wait, I had to get up and move around a little before praying to the typewriter gods.

I gathered my things, a leather bound notebook, some pens and pencils, my computer, and a jacket, piled it into a leather knapsack that had been my constant companion throughout my career.

The stairs creaked as I made my way down them to the little cafe attached to the Inn. Besides a place to sleep, the cafe also had the best food on the little island. Mary’s mother owned the Inn originally, but Mary opened the cafe to try to expand the business as it got harder to compete with the bigger hotels.

A small, nearly white haired woman came around the corner as I nestled into a corner table.

“Sleep well?” Mary asked.

“Always.”

“Would you like anything for breakfast?” she asked.

“Just coffee please.”

“You sure? How about some toast at least. I just got some good stuff from the Farmer’s Market.”

“Well, if you insist.”

She came back with toast made from bread she’d baked that morning and generous helping of apple butter from the market. I thanked her and asked, “When’s Lawrence coming back?”

“Oh he’ll still be gone at least a week.”

Lawrence went deer hunting in the UP every year. Since tourist season was over Mary could easily handle the few patrons at the cafe.

“Do you need any help today?” Mary and Lawrence let me stay as a long term guest. I got a cheap place to live in summer, and they got tenant in the fall and winter when they weren’t any guests at all. I also helped out with some odd jobs here and there.

“Oh no dear,” she said, “There’s a couple things to do but I’ll take care of it. During the slow season it’s hard to keep busy.”

I munched on toast while reading the local paper. There wasn’t much news on this little island, especially at this time of year, but it was still nice to see what was going on. I’ve always been a fan of small towns. Most of my writer friends flocked to the big cities in search of stories, but I’ve found my share of interesting characters in the little hamlets that dot the Midwest. I took my plate to the kitchen where I found Mary prepping for dinner.

“I’m going for a walk. Can I leave my stuff at the table?”

“Yeah. I’ll have to give up your spot if there’s a rush though,” she said laughing.

“Expecting a big lunch crowd?”

“Oh ya, maybe two or three if we're lucky. Have fun dear. And take a jacket. It’s cold out there,” her northern Michigan accent making the last word sound closer to “dare” than there.

“Way ahead of you,” I said holding the jacket.

She was right though. It was chilly. That late Autumn sneaky kind of cold. But it was pleasant in its own way. The grass turned brown, the sky was grey, and the trees were all bare. Not to mention the wind coming off the water had a bite to it.

But it felt good. I’ll never be able to explain my love for this time of year. Maybe it’s because I’m an author. It’s perfect writing weather. It’s the kind of weather where you want to be hunkered down next to a fire working on a story. It helped that it had a gothic ambiance I try to capture in my books.

I wandered around the the streets, waved to a couple people on bicycles. I walked down by the beach for a minute before the wind drove me away from the shore.

Finally, I headed back to the Inn where I found a concerned looking Mary.

“Oh Jack,” she said, “We’re out of a couple things. I’ve got to make a run to the store. Would you mind watching things around here. I don’t expect many people but there’s a fire going and I didn’t want to put it out.”

“Of course. Take your time.”

“Thank you. Help yourself to anything. There’s fresh coffee and I just made some pumpkin bread.”

“Then you can definitely take you your time.”

Mary left and I had the place to myself.

While I wished for more business for Mary, the abandoned cafe made the perfect writing place. The fire crackled and I sat at the corner table with a notebook and pen writing a new scene. Of course the pumpkin bread with a generous spread of maple butter helped greatly.

I was roused from my work when the bell over the door jingled. I got up expecting to see Mary, but it was a young woman.

“Hello,” she said looking a bit confused.

“Can I get you something?”

“I thought this was Mary’s place. Am I in the wrong spot?” she asked.

“No, no I’m just watching things until the owner gets back. Are you hungry or do you need a room?”

“Well I guess the room can wait. I really wanted to see Mary. Could I get some coffee?”

“Sure,” I said pouring a cup.

She took her coat off and sat down at one of the tables.

“Do you work here?”

“No I live upstairs actually.”

“You live in a hotel?”

“Yeah. When I first got here I stayed here until I could find a more permanent spot, but Mary and Lawrence never kicked me out. I think they like having someone around in the winter.”

“Oh I’m sure they do.”

“So you know Mary?”

“I do. I grew up here.”

“Oh wow. That must have been fun.”

“Yeah for the most part. What do you do…?”

“Oh sorry, I’m Jack.”

“Beth.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. So what are you doing in a place like this? You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“Should I take that personally?”

“That depends.”

“So what brings you up here?”

“I had some time off work and wanted to do a little traveling.”

“What kind of work?”

“Oh you know regular stuff. Some office work. Things like that. What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Anything I’ve heard of?”

“I doubt it.”

“You never know. I’ve got a lot of free time.”

“I write a lot of mysteries.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Ever solved any?”

“Couple. But mostly just fictional ones.”

“So what do you write? Books? Articles? Let me guess poetry right?”

“Haha I’ve written poetry but it was so bad the pen went on strike after.”

“Is that what you were working on when I came in?”

“Oh no. I was working on a new book.”

“New book? So there are other ones?”

“Yes.”

“And these books, might I have come across them in a book store?”

“Possibly.”

“You’re really going to make me work for this aren’t you?”

“I mean there aren’t many people to talk to around here. I’ve got to make it as interesting as possible.”

“You think I need help being interesting?” she asked smirking.

“I doubt you need help with anything.”

“Oh good answer,” she said. “Now tell me writer boy,” she rested her head on her chin, “Name a book.”

I named one for her. I also felt it getting colder. I checked the fire but it was still going strong.

She perked up, “I’ve heard of that one.”

“Oh really?”

“Oh really? Oh really. Hi I’m Jack. You mean Jackson Gray.”

“I’m aware what my full name is.”

“You’re like a big shot.”

“Hardly.”

“Are you kidding. You wrote Michigan Winter, Motown Crown, not to mention North Country. That was one of the best books I’ve ever read. It had serious Daniel Woodrell vibes.”

“Oh now you’re just being silly.”

“Please. If I knew a big shot was hiding out up here. I might have come back a lot sooner.”

“Oh really why?”

“I’ll let you imagination handle that one,” she said winking.

I nearly gulped. Now the room was suddenly getting hotter.

“What are you doing up here?” she asked.

“Looking for stories. For mysteries.”

“Well I got a mystery I’d let you investigate.”

I was sitting there trying to figure out if that was innuendo or not when Mary came through the door.

“Thanks for watching the store Jack,” she said, “Oh who’s this?” she asked when she noticed the woman sitting across the table.

“Oh my god, Elizabeth” Mary dropping the bags. Several jars smashed on the floor.

She looked back at me, “Told you I had a mystery.”

Then it clicked. Mary had a daughter named Elizabeth. The only problem was they found Elizabeth’s body in Lake Michigan three years ago she drowned in a boating accident.

“I’ve always wanted to write a ghost story,” was all I could say.