Critics Corner
Bill Newman
The babysitter arrived late, which meant I would be, too. I set off for the ten-minute walk to the pub,
passing Larry’s car at the end of my street. He always parked there. After seven o’clock the parking
meter spaces were free, but closer to our venue, he’d have to pay for off-street parking.
Located adjacent to the University of Toronto, our regular haunt catered to the student and young
graduate demographic, in that the food was cheap but not laden with trans-fats. With our manuscripts
spread out on the table, we didn’t look out of place, even though we were older than most of the
customers.
I glanced in through the window and spotted my fellow writers; Carol and Larry had arrived ahead of
me, as usual. I never knew what time they got there because I was always late, courtesy of my
babysitter, by now reading a bedtime story to my seven-year-old daughter. Carol and Larry were the
other two members of our critiquing group, all of us members of the Tee-Oh Mystery Writers Club. Larry,
an office manager for the provincial government, was sleeping with Carol, a translator with the Ontario
legislature. Not that it was any of my business, except that Larry’s wife, Michelle, was a longtime friend of
mine.
I completed the unlikely trio. A single mother, I held a position as a technical writer at a
semiconductor company in Mississauga. I knew Larry socially through Michelle, and had introduced him
to the writers’ club. Later, he had persuaded Carol to join. According to Michelle, Larry and Carol had
cooked up this arrangement to give them a plausible excuse to be together outside of work. I knew Larry
welcomed my presence at these meetings, as a chaperone of sorts, because it reinforced the illusion
that his relationship with Carol was strictly platonic.
Larry had self-published a couple of passably readable adventure novels, but aimed to crack the big
time with “a fiendishly clever murder mystery.” Those were his words, the arrogant prick. We’d started
critiquing his masterpiece two meetings ago. In my opinion, his epic would fall well short of winning any
prizes.
In spite of my lack of enthusiasm for his work, Larry valued my criticisms, for he had incorporated a
few of my previous suggestions into his latest revision. And, such is the protocol of critiquing groups,
that he, too, cast a sharp eye over my literary gems, and Carol’s. Excelled at it, even, which was why I
tolerated him.
Carol had the extra-small dress size of a fashion model, and Larry’s attraction to the thirty-year-old
bag of bones was obvious. She possessed natural blonde hair, cute face, and was smart enough to be
able to translate four thousand words a day from English into French, her mother tongue.
“Hi folks,” I said. “Started already?” They were both holding manuscripts, but probably the only plot
they’d been discussing was the alibi he’d need to cover his next assignation with carnal Carol.
“No, just recapping my story so far,” Larry replied. He was quite attractive himself, as long as he kept his
braggadocio under control. I knew he was forty because Michelle had mentioned it, but he showed no
sign of the onset of middle age in the places where men are usually vulnerable: on top and round the
waist.
The waiter came over the moment I sat down. I asked for a double vodka rather than my usual light
beer. On this night, I’d need it.
“I’ve nothing ready for tonight, Julie, so let’s go through yours first,” Carol said.
“And then I want to use the rest of the time to brainstorm my perpetrator’s modus operandi,” Larry
said.
“Okay,” I replied. “You both have my next fifteen pages?”
Carol pulled a copy from her purse; Larry already had it in front of him. “Ladies first,” he said, smiling
at Carol.
She had found numerous grammatical errors in my manuscript and some passages that were just
plain awkward. She’d also spotted a plot flaw where I had the female protagonist entering a bar ahead of
the suspect, whom she was supposedly tailing. It was easy to fix.
Larry’s comments were always at a higher, structural level, no minor typos from him. “The premise
that your protagonist is an amateur sleuth doesn’t work for me.”
“How do you mean?”
“She’s got too much police knowledge. How would she have acquired it?”
I drained the rest of my vodka. “I suppose I could invent a father or a brother who’s feeding her with the
insider stuff.”
“Bit contrived,” Larry said.
I felt like saying: “Okay smart ass, what would you do?” But it would be like admitting that I relied on
him for ideas. Instead, I said, “I’ll give it some thought.” Secretly, I knew he was right.
The waiter appeared and asked if we wanted a refill. We all nodded, but then Carol wanted to know
what desserts they had. He rattled off the choices, and she ordered apple and pecan crumble, with ice
cream. Where did she put it?
“Is it my turn now?” Larry said. Neither Carol nor I responded to the rhetorical question. His novel was
about a man who wanted to rid himself of his rich wife. The couple was childless, and the husband
wanted to start afresh with all of her money and a younger, more fertile woman. The woman just
happened to be blonde, beautiful and skinny. Pretty transparent and close to home, I thought.
“I’m okay with the motive,” he said. “And I can manufacture a suitable opportunity, but I’m having
trouble with the method. The murderer has to be able to get away with it.”
Obviously, otherwise it wouldn’t be the blockbuster Larry was hoping to write. “It helps set the scene if
we know what the motive is,” I said.
“She’s a nag and hopeless in the sack.”
“Too trite,” I said. “You want to think of something more exciting, like: she’s a lesbian and she’s
having an affair with his secretary.”
“I could revisit that. Let’s get back to the method,” he said, as though he’d seen through my attempt
to pry into his fragile relationship with his wife.
“He’d hire a hit-man,” Carol suggested.
Larry beamed at Carol. “Yes, that’ll work.”
“Where’s he going to find one – the yellow pages?” I enjoyed getting back at him for his criticism of
my work. The fictional husband was, of course, a government worker like Larry. The real Larry didn’t
reply, so I continued to twist the knife. “He has no contact with the criminal world.”
“His girlfriend has a brother who’s been in jail,” Carol said.
Have you, Carol? I thought. But then remembered that, unlike Larry, she possessed the ability to
visualize characters and plots beyond her actual experience.
“Good idea,” Larry said, writing it down.
I thought the idea sucked. It was just as contrived as the one in my story Larry had criticized earlier.
“How is the hit-man going to be paid?” I said.
“Huh?”
“Is the husband going to write a cheque, or draw fifteen thousand dollars from his bank account and
pay the man in cash?”
“Is that all it costs?” Carol asked.
“Yes, I believe so,” I said.
“How do you know?”
Larry must have thought I was making it up, so I referred him to a non-fiction book on Ontario’s biker
gangs then continued to hammer the point home. “The victim in your story isn’t armed, nor does she
have any bodyguards. A bullet in the brain would be easy and cheap.”
A woman at the next table must have tuned-in to my last remark. She turned to make eye contact with
me. I smiled at her. She quickly turned back and whispered something to her companion.
Larry didn’t notice her. He had his head down, capturing my observations in his notebook. Very
flattering.
The waiter arrived with the drinks and Carol’s dessert, which she attacked as though she hadn’t
eaten all day. I paused for a moment and downed half of my vodka in one gulp. “Plus,” I said. “A hit-man
is an unreliable conspirator. Say the guy is later caught for some other murder. He might blab to the
police regarding this murder as a way of negotiating a lighter sentence on the other hit.”
“Is that how it works?” Carol said. She sounded incredulous.
“It happens all the time,” I said. I’d gleaned that useful info-bite from the biker book, too, although I’d
embellished it slightly.
“Okay, girls, let’s put aside the idea of a hit-man. What other methods are there?”
“I recently read a story about a woman who murdered her husband by getting him to overdose on a
prescription drug,” I said. “You could concoct a variation on that.”
I couldn’t help but notice that both Carol and Larry simultaneously raised eyebrows. “Go on,” Larry
said.
“Well, the guy had a heart problem and was on blood thinners.”
“Hmm” Carol looked thoughtful. “I see.”
Clever girl, she’d worked it out ahead of Larry. “Clue me in.” He smiled. “No pun intended.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked.
“I meant, how would she get him to take extra pills?”
Carol was still ahead of him. “I believe they’re tasteless.”
“That’s right.”
Carol turned to Larry. “So it’s got to be something your victim is taking anyway and the overdose has
to be explainable. She might get drunk, one evening, and accidentally take too many pills.”
More jotting of notes by Larry. “I’ll go with that.”
“I assume you’ve exhausted the other staple means of killing someone,” I said. “Well, two actually.
Number one: a boating accident at the cottage.” Larry and Michelle owned a cottage on Lake Simcoe. I
knew Michelle was a good swimmer and wondered if Larry’s victim was, too.
“And the other one?” Larry said.
“Number two, she’s driving along a lonely road and her car gets forced into a tree by the husband in
a stolen truck.”
“How would I steal a truck?”
Oops, Freudian slip, Larry? But I didn’t correct him.
Carol rushed to his aid. “You can probably find out on the Internet,” she said. She finished off the
rest of her drink. “I have to go now.”
Carol often made a point of leaving our meetings half an hour early, usually on the pretext of having
to drop in on her widowed mother who lived a couple of blocks away. In my suspicious mind, I assumed it
was a deliberate attempt to throw off any suggestion that she and Larry were going back to her place
after the meeting. I had good reason to think these evil thoughts because, on some occasions, Larry
would follow shortly after her. His favorite excuse was: “I’ve left some unfinished business at work and I
have to pick it up on the way home.” It was plausible, provided he didn’t overuse it.
“See you at work, tomorrow,” Larry said. He made no attempt to get up or kiss her goodbye. Also part
of the charade.
Because he hadn’t followed her this particular evening, I concluded that satisfying each other’s
sexual needs wasn’t on the agenda. We continued for a while, returning to the prescription drugs
scenario.
He showed some interest in most of my suggestions. Was it feigned? I thought my last one was good:
“Look at the side effects on the packet. You may get some ideas there.”
He wrote that down, too.
While he was busily scribbling notes, I made a theatrical gesture of bringing my arm up to consult my
watch. “Oh, is that the time?” I pulled my cell phone from my purse and dialed. It was answered
immediately. “I’m just leaving,” I said.
“Right, I’m ready to go,” the voice at the other end replied.
I hung up. “Babysitter,” I said. “Must go, but if you walk me home, we can finish the conversation on
the way. Where are you parked?” As if I didn’t know.
“On your street.”
We wandered off towards my apartment. “Don’t forget that when the wife is murdered, the police
automatically suspect the husband. You’re going to have to devise a good reason why it can’t be him.”
“I know, but thanks for mentioning it.”
I managed to walk slowly enough to ensure the lights were changing against us just as we reached
the corner of my street. We stopped and waited to cross to the far side.
“Where did I park my car?” Larry said, looking up and down the street, and scratching his head. “I
was sure I left it close to the intersection on the other side of the road.”
“We can cross now,” I whispered. I looked behind me, no one around. I gave him a hard shove in the
back.
* * * *
The police came to my apartment the following morning, Detectives Appleton and Tremblay. I’d
barely had time to get my daughter off to school and phone my boss. “I witnessed a traffic accident last
night,” I told him. “I’ll be late in.”
The two detectives parked themselves on my living room sofa. I sat opposite them on the recliner, but
leant forward to give the impression my attention was focused on them.
Detective Appleton, held a notepad and pen. The other one took the lead in the questioning. “Take
us through the events leading up to the accident,” he said.
“We’d been at the pub for our regular critiquing meeting.”
“What’s that?”
I had given a uniformed constable a statement the previous night. The officer had written it all down
and made me sign it. I assumed these two had read my statement and were checking for consistency. I
repeated my explanation of what a critiquing group did.
“I understand; carry on.”
“So we left the meeting, and Larry was walking me home. Just before we left the pub, he phoned his
wife to come and pick him up.”
“Why didn’t she come to the pub?”
“To save time. I had to leave because I’d promised my babysitter I’d be home by ten. She’s only
fourteen. Larry figured his wife could get there by the time we reached my apartment.”
“How did he get to the pub?”
“His wife dropped him off, I guess.”
“Your friend Carol thought he’d taken his own car.”
“He did sometimes. Perhaps Michelle had a problem with hers. She’d been complaining that it
wouldn't start very easily.”
Detective Appleton wrote this down. I knew they’d be talking to Michelle to corroborate my story.
Maybe they’d seen the grieving widow already. I hoped I’d been suitably vague.
“Didn’t he see her coming?”
“No, and neither did I. We were looking the other way, but then he suddenly crossed the street.”
“After she hit him, what then?”
“He sort of bounced forward and then the car was still moving and it drove over him. I screamed; it
was horrible.” I had avoided saying, “She drove over him.” Neat touch, I thought, and so too, was getting
out of my chair to fetch a box of tissues.
“Wouldn’t she have seen you both?”
I blew hard into the tissue, testing its advertised strength. “We were half hidden behind a hydro pole.
Michelle expected us to be outside my apartment. That’s three hundred metres further up the street.
She may have been looking into the distance for us.” Don’t get carried away, I thought. Let them do the
detective work.
Detective Tremblay grunted. I wondered if he thought the story made sense. “Was there any reason
why his wife would want to kill him?”
So he’s finally got there. Or was he just asking the question to see what my reaction would be? “Not
that I know of. And I’ve been friends with Larry and Michelle quite a long time.”
“What was his relationship with Carol DesJardins?”
“She worked with him and they’re both in the same writers’ club as me.”
“Yes, you mentioned that.”
Michelle had assured me that she’d told no one of her husband’s transgressions. No one but me,
that is. The police would hit a brick wall on that one; we were sure of it.
Detective Tremblay let it go. “Why did Larry use your cell phone to call his wife? He was carrying one
of his own.”
Ah, he’d looked at the phone logs. Did he think I was unprepared for the sneaky question? “Larry
said the battery was dead in his phone.”
Michelle had put a dud one in before Larry had left home. She’d also taken a bus to my place and
used her spare key to depart with Larry’s car. The same car she’d used to kill him.
* * * *
The police must have checked Larry’s cell phone for a dead battery and Michelle’s car for a
malfunction. They grilled her for a couple of hours, but she stuck to the story. After that they didn’t
bother us again. Larry had not seen the oncoming car, the news release said. An unfortunate accident.
And tragic that he’d be killed by his own wife. A reasonable conclusion, I thought.
That pretty well nixed our critiquing group. I wondered if I could use the experience in my novel. No,
not believable, I argued. Nor in good taste, and might cause me to be drummed out of the writers’ club.
At the funeral, a tearful Carol blamed herself. “I shouldn’t have left so early. I could have given you
both a ride back to Larry’s car.”
I didn’t bother to explain to her that the car wasn’t where Larry had left it. That would have given the
game away.
Later, my daughter and I vacated our rented apartment and moved in with Michelle. Larry had died
unaware that his wife also had a lover.