Installments

Installments

By Robert P. Hansen

Copyright 2016 by Robert P. Hansen

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgments

Cover copyright 2016 by American Book Design.

Special thanks to Ronda Swolley, of Mystic Memories Copy Editing, for the copy edit, and Linda Foegen of American Book Design for the cover art.

Dedication

For Dr. Grant Tracey.

This story began in his fiction workshop

and germinated for a long time

before blossoming into what it is now.

Table of Contents

Title Page

The Group

Starks Has a Problem

Suggestions, Anyone?

Harry Has a Problem

Starks Writes a Poem

The First Poem

Dreamscape

Reluctance

You Have Mail

Feedback

Cover-Up

Resistance

Sublimation

His Poem

Displacement

Retreat?

Scooped

Drip Drip Drip

Confusion

Vlad the Impaler

Confirmation

Garth Sippowater

Rocks and Other Stuff

#6

It’s Not You, It’s Me

The Key

You Got the Bastard

Inspector Vaughn

Tears Are Not Enough

Psychosomatic

What Are You Afraid Of? A Fairytale Mystery

A New Beginning

Connect With Me

Additional Titles

The Group

Hi Harry, Ingrid said as she answered the door. Come in out of the cold, she added as she stepped aside to give him room to enter.

Hi Ingrid, Harry said, stomping the snow off his heavy work boots before stepping over the threshold. I hope I’m not too early, he added, holding out a plastic container. Here are the cookies.

Great! Ingrid smiled as she took them and closed the door behind him. You can hang your coat up on the rack in the foyer, she said, brushing by him in the narrow entryway. There’s a mat underneath for your boots.

Harry frowned. Are you sure you want me to take off my boots? he asked. My feet sweat a lot in them.

Ingrid paused, glanced over her shoulder, and shrugged at him. I’m sure it will be all right, she said. Don’t worry about it.

Harry frowned, but there was no point in pressing the issue with Ingrid. Once she had made up her mind, it was better to go with it than to protest. Matronly, he thought. An old mother hen. Then he shook his head. No, a young one. She’s barely forty-something. All right, he said, but let me know if my feet reek. I have a very poor sense of smell, and I wouldn’t want to disturb the group.

If your feet get cold, I have blankets, Ingrid called from her kitchen, her rugged, rustic alto rising sharply even as it was muffled a bit by the distance. The others ought to be showing up pretty soon.

Harry bent over—not an easy task with his spare tire in the way—and sniffed. He couldn’t smell anything, but that didn’t mean very much. He had been hit in the face with a volleyball in high school, and it had broken his nose and severed most of the olfactory nerves. He touched the sole of his left foot, and the sock was nearly dry. Maybe they don’t smell like stagnant pond water, he muttered, putting his foot down on the cold floor and rubbing his palm on his faded blue jeans. I’ll have to wash, he thought as he started down the narrow hallway.

As he made his way to her tidy living room, he thought about how he might describe it in a story. It is a cozy home, well-manicured and sophisticated. In the dimly lit hallway, it was difficult to tell if the thick shag carpet was dark blue, black, or a rich forest green, and the short, yarn-like strands squeezed between his toes like maggots—

He frowned. That was not a very appealing image, but the carpet’s stubble did feel like insects squirming between his toes. Besides, it was a first draft and he could eradicate the maggots during revision.

The narrow hall exploded into an expansive, well-lit room papered in a bright, busy floral pattern. Red and pink roses, white lilies, and purple violets are weaving around each other like ballet dancers following a simple, repetitive, five-step maneuver. A long, L-shaped couch with plush gray upholstery—felt? velvet?—looped around from the wall to his left to the wall across from him. A deep-set picture window hovered above the couch, and in the cone of illumination from the streetlight—

He shook his head. Cumbersome use of language. It would have to go.

Snow erupted from the night, falling like volcanic ash caught in the wavering glow of the streetlight. A soft, chill breeze blew the snow about like dandelion seeds caught in a soft summer breeze. Here and there, a snowflake struck the glass and clung to life for a long moment before its lifeblood dripped down the window—

He sighed. Why does it always turn dark? He smiled wanly, knowing that subtle descriptions like that helped to build suspense in his mystery stories.

A stubby-legged, walnut-stained table nestled up against the waist high partition separating the kitchen from the living room, filling up the space between the partition and the couch. Five coasters had been evenly distributed around the edge of the table near the couch, and in its middle was a kitschy penguin-shaped vase with an arrangement of flowers sprouting from its head. The delicate budding pink roses were a variety called Taboo, and they were surrounded by an army of baby’s breath and little blue flowers he didn’t recognize. He leaned forward to touch the petals, surprised to find they were real and not plastic. It was strange to find fresh blossoms in the midst of winter, almost ostentatious. Perhaps they were a gift? A—

Do you like them? Ingrid asked from the kitchen as she organized his cookies on a plate.

What are these blue ones? Harry asked.

"Agapanthus, Ingrid said. You might know it as lily of the valley. It is a nice centerpiece to the arrangement, isn’t it?"

He nodded, and turned to her. I liked your story, he said. It—

Ingrid frowned and gave him her naughty boy look as she stepped around the partition. Not until the group gets here, she said. You know the rules.

He nodded. You know what they say about rules, he said. It’s a dreadful cliché, he thought, but, like all clichés, it is also an apt one.

Her eyelids scrunched up until they half-covered her chestnut-brown eyes. Her lips puckered up, but she said nothing; she didn’t need to.

All right, he capitulated as he set his laptop down beside the coaster nearest the edge of the couch. In case I have to pee. I won’t talk about your story, he said. You have a nice place, here. A pampered one.

Yes, she replied as her face righted itself with a smile. It was a pretty, sly smile, one that pretended to reach her eyes even when it didn’t want to. A perfunctory smile. Would you like something to drink? I have coffee, sodas, iced tea, water….

Not right now, he said. But I’ll have a cola later, when we get started.

She nodded, You do drink a lot when you read your stories, she said. At first, I thought it was because you were nervous or pausing for effect, but it isn’t, is it?

He shook his head. No, he said. Reading dries my mouth out. Prying? Inquisitive? Interested? He turned his attention to the flower arrangement to change the subject. I’m surprised you have fresh flowers at this time of year.

I’m— The doorbell rang, and Ingrid turned to answer it. I’m in a flower arranging class, she called over her shoulder. She hurried to the door and opened it. Jenny! Craig!

Have you lost weight? Harry thought. It was an old, private joke that he had never had the nerve to say aloud—or to write into a story. He only half-listened to Ingrid’s directions while he waited for them to join him.

Hey Harry, Craig said a half minute later. He was a big man—six foot, two-twenty, crew cut, svelte and toned muscles, not an ounce of fat on him.

Hey Craig, Harry mimicked. Congratulations on that sale. Harry moved his legs to give him room to pass, but Craig just stepped over them.

Thank you, Harry, he said when he was seated. I owe it to you, you know. That twist ending you suggested made it a much better story. I never even thought about having the sister be the murderer.

You’re welcome, Harry said. It was a good story before the change. Besides, I just made a simple suggestion; you had to make it work. It was an obvious improvement.

Don’t be modest, Harry, Craig said, reaching out to slap his thigh. Alpha male. Bully-type. Boisterous. Shallow. Hack writer. I don’t have the devious little mind that you do. I’m much too blunt in my thinking when it comes to mysteries.

Then why write them? Harry wondered. Now who’s being modest? he replied. I know you are better at romance stories, but don’t undercut your mystery writing. Sure, your plots are a little simplistic, but the descriptions and character interactions are much more refined. Too bad the plot is what matters most in mysteries. The descriptions are just window dressing and red herrings.

Hey now, Jenny said, playfully slapping Harry’s shoulder. You know you’re not supposed to talk about the stories before everyone is ready.

Hi Jenny, Harry said, smiling up at her. We weren’t talking about our stories for tonight; we were having a general conversation about his writing. A bland, repetitive conversation at that!

Yeah, sis, Craig said. He’s not trashing my story yet. He chuckled as she moved to the other end of the couch and sat down. Then he turned back to Harry. I’ll get the rules of the genre figured out eventually. After all, I only started writing mysteries a few months ago, and this group has really helped me understand how different mystery and romance stories are. Mystery plots are like a chess game: convoluted, confusing, with lots of potential end games. Romance plots are pretty straightforward: Boy meets girl, boy woos girl, girl caves in, they have sex—and sometimes they get married.

What? Ingrid said, laughing. "That’s not a very nice way to put it. Romances have lots of plot twists in them."

Not really, Craig said. They’re all variations on a theme. Take away all the smarmy language, and what’s left? He shook his head. No, romances aren’t about the plot; they are about the wooing process, the psychology of the characters, and the sex scenes. The sex scenes are fun to write, he added, smirking and winking. I always test them out to make sure they work. You’d be amazed by how many ways two people can have sex, and three—

Okay, okay, Ingrid interrupted with a chuckle. You’re the romance writer, so I won’t quibble. She looked at her watch and frowned. Jasper ought to be here. I hope he didn’t have trouble with the roads.

They’re fine, Craig said. The refreeze hasn’t hit yet. It will probably be pretty slick later, about the time we’ll be finishing up.

Still, she said, glancing at the door.

Don’t worry, Harry said. He’s probably stopping off to buy some chips and dip. It’s his turn, you know.

Speaking of which, Ingrid said, Harry brought cookies.

Ooh, Jenny said, smiling, her black hair glistening in the light. What kind did you bake this week?

Chocolate chip, he replied. My mother’s recipe.

Mmmm, Jenny said. You make the best cookies.

Wait a minute, Craig said. Didn’t she poison your father with those?

Harry rolled his eyes as the others laughed.

Just kidding, Craig said, slapping his thigh again. Covert homosexuality? Compensating for it by bragging? Beefing up? Being macho? Writing romances?

I know, Harry said. It was my uncle. They laughed again, and he looked over at Jenny as she tittered gleefully. She was young—much too young for him—and petite to the point of being just shy of emaciated.

Ahah! Ingrid said as headlights lit up the picture window as a car turned onto her street. That should be Jasper. She set the cookies on the table before going to get a mug of coffee and a bottle of water. By the time she had distributed them, the doorbell had rung.

Jenny reached out for a cookie, took a nibble, went, Mmmm, and shivered. "These are good," she said, nibbling some more. Pretty little blackbird…. "You’re going to have to give me the recipe."

When did you start baking, Sis? Craig asked. When Jenny glared at him, he added, What? I’ve been to your apartment, remember? All those pizza boxes and Chinese take-out cartons.

"Sometimes, she protested, I bake."

Oh, really? Craig demanded. When was the last time you baked cookies?

Jenny frowned, glared, and didn’t answer.

Exactly, he said, winking at Harry.

And you write romance stories, Jenny muttered under her breath before turning her attention back to the cookie.

Pardon? Jasper said as Jenny picked up her coffee cup and slid down the couch two places. Jasper eased in beside her to take the second setting from the end, leaving the end one for their host. He was an older man in his mid-fifties, gray-haired, distinguished, and wore thin-rimmed bifocals that gave him an air of erudition. Professorial.

Never mind, Jenny said. We were talking about my brother’s romance novels. He’s finally admitted they’re simplistic enough that a moron could write them.

I didn’t say that—

Jasper shook his head. I shouldn’t have asked, he said. You two are squabbling again, aren’t you?

You haven’t answered my question yet, Craig demanded. When was the last time you baked cookies?

You baked cookies? Jasper asked, reaching for one of the chocolate chip cookies and taking a bite. "They’re delicious!" he said, getting one of the small plates and putting a few of them on it.

Harry made them, Ingrid corrected. They are delicious, aren’t they? I still can’t place what the crunchy bits are. They’re familiar, though.

They’re not nuts, Jasper said, taking another bite and working over it with his tongue.

You haven’t answered my question either, Harry, Jenny said. Can I have the recipe?

Harry frowned. I’ll have to ask my mother. She’s particular about who she gives it to, and I promised I wouldn’t spread it around without her permission.

Does that mean you aren’t going to tell us what the crunchy bits are?

Harry smiled and said nothing.

When did you bake—

Shut up Craig, Jenny hissed, glaring at him.

All right, all right, he said, holding up his hands in submission.

Congratulations on that story sale, Jasper said.

Thank you, Craig said.

What about the rest of you? Jasper asked. Any other news?

I’ve started a novel, Harry said. At least, I think it will be a novel. I only have the first chapter, but the character really resonates with me.

What’s it about?

Harry frowned. I don’t know yet, he said. It’s strange. Normally, I start with a well-developed plot and then create the characters around it. This time, it was just the character and a scene that I couldn’t get out of my head. I have no idea what the plot will be yet, and that perturbs me. I like knowing where a story is going; it makes it much easier for me to let the characters take me there.

Tell us about it, Jenny said.

Better yet, Ingrid said. Why don’t you bring it to the next meeting?

Why wait? Jenny suggested. You can read it to us tonight.

Harry frowned. The rules—

Screw the rules, Craig said, waving his hand dismissively. Then, after a short pause, he tilted his head and added, I can think of several variations on how to do it, too!

Craig laughed at his own joke.

Harry rolled his eyes.

Jenny glared.

Jasper looked a bit confused.

Ingrid stifled a chuckle behind the hand holding a half-eaten cookie.

I think, Jasper slowly said, we should wait until he’s ready to share it.

Well, Harry hedged, I have it on my laptop, but it’s a little long. Maybe after we have finished—

Let’s hear it now, Jenny said. It will be a good way to start our meeting. We already know what’s in the other stories, and it should freshen things up a bit.

A dangerous precedent, Jasper said. We might all start bringing things to read beforehand and never get to talk about the stories we’ve critiqued.

Would that be so bad? Jenny asked. I mean, we already have written comments for the ones we’re going to talk about, and all we really do is read them aloud and repeat those comments. Maybe we should try something different.

But, Ingrid said. How can we give him a good critique if we don’t have the time to read it, reread it, and think about it?

This is different, Jenny declared. He isn’t looking for a critique. He’s having trouble finding a plot. She looked at all of them as she emphasized, "Harry is having trouble finding a plot. How many times has he helped us with our plots? Maybe we can help him with his."

I wouldn’t have made my sale without his input, Craig mused.

Well, Ingrid’s lips pressed together. If we aren’t going to make a habit of it….

We won’t, Jenny said, nodding energetically. Will we, Harry?

Before he could answer, Jasper said, "All right. This time."

Harry reluctantly reached out to open his laptop. As he did so, Ingrid stood up and said, I’ll get you that cola.

By the time she set the glass down on the coaster, his laptop was powered up and he had the file open. His took a sip of cola and then leaned back with his laptop on his knees. He looked at the others, and Jenny smiled at him. She had her notebook out and a pen at the ready.

Well, he said, remember, it’s an early draft. The working title is ‘Starks Has a Problem.’

Starks Has a Problem

Detective Jonathan Starks sat down at his desk and picked up his pen. It had been a long fortnight, he wrote, but a successful one. It began when we discovered the body of Seymour Wyles, retired dentist, and culminated with the confession of Graham Wyles, his son. Between these two events–

No, Starks thought, that was no way to express what he had gone through. That was no way to reach