Foggy Mountain Breakdown and Other Stories

by Sharyn McCrumb

  So, tell me something about you, Mr. Vincent. Writers always wonder who we’re talking to when we send a book out into the world. It’s nice to know someone out there is listening.

  With all best wishes,

  Laurie Gunsel

  and

  Cass Cairncross

  367 Calabria Road

  Passaic, New Jersey 07055

  Dear Ms. Gunsel:

  What a great letter! Thank you so much for taking the time to answer my foolish questions. I was absolutely delighted with your explanations about the characters and the Martha’s Vineyard setting. Knowing little facts like that adds a whole new dimension to the book when you learn the background. I reread both books, and enjoyed them all over again. Paperback, of course. My first editions are in plastic covers, stored safely away like the treasures they are.

  So Enzio and the Preppy are based on a real guy. This explains what a ring of truth there is in your characterization. But how sad that such a gracious and talented lady like yourself should have to put up with a jerk like that. But you show admirable spunk in getting the rage out of your system, instead of weeping quietly into a lace hankie about how wronged you were. Cass must get her style from you.

  Great line about Martha’s Vineyard! I’m not surprised you didn’t see any “Vinnies” in white ties. Those are strictly the legmen in the operation, and I think Martha’s Vineyard is a little beyond them in taste, if not in price. They’d be happier in Atlantic City, I think. But your big shots in the Armani suits and the Italian silk ties-them you would find on Martha’s Vineyard, but you’d never notice them, because they have money and they know how to fit in with the society types. When you have to hobnob with senators and company presidents, it doesn’t pay to look like a cheap hood. Of course, in fiction we have to be able to spot the bad guys, so you very rightly gave your readers the gangsters they expected. What a storyteller!

  I was also impressed with your knowledge of medical matters in The Gang’s All Here. The scene of poor Enzio in the lobster trap still makes me shudder. One thing you might look into, though, is the bit about the Kevlar body armor. Remember when Cass gets shot in the back, and it doesn’t even slow her down because she’s wearing the Kevlar vest? Actually, she’d feel a little more discomfort than that. Depending on the distance and the caliber of the weapon, the impact would probably knock her down, and she’d have anything from a bad bruise to a cracked rib to show for the experience. Check with some of your Atlanta policemen on this. I’m sure they’d be honored to help you with your literary research.

  You asked me to tell you a little about myself. There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid. I’m a grandfather-got two beautiful little grandkids living in Rockaway, but, alas, I don’t get to see them very often. I’m retired now, and maybe I miss the old business a little bit, but I have my garden to tend to, and my collection of books. It’s terrific to finally have time to read anything I want, and not have to cram in a chapter here and there on a plane or waiting around for my next appointment. My copy of Freelance Murder just arrived in the mail from Murder By the Book, and that will be my evening’s entertainment. So, Ms. Gunsel, I want to thank you for being the highlight of my “golden years.” I’m enjoying my armchair adventures with the intrepid Cass Cairncross. Keep ’em coming!

  Sincerely yours,

  Monty Vincent

  Laurie Gunsel

  Mr. Monty Vincent

  367 Calabria Road

  Passaic, New Jersey 07055

  Dear Mr. Vincent:

  You’ve already got Freelance Murder? They haven’t even sent me my author’s copies yet! That was quick work on your part. At least I know it’s out in stores now. Can the autographings be far behind? Which reminds me: since you’re spending your hard-earned pension buying my books and keeping Diesel in catfood with my royalties, wouldn’t you like to have your copies signed? I wouldn’t mind at all, really. All you do is put the books in a mailer, and enclose another stamped mailer in with them, and I’ll sign the books and ship them right back to you. Book collectors tell me they’re more valuable if I just sign and date them, but if you want them personalized to you (or the grandchildren?), I’d be happy to.

  Thanks for pointing out my mistake with the Kevlar vest. I guess I took the term bulletproof a little too literally. Actually, I’m kind of shy about asking the local police to proof my work, because the ones I know were his buddies. You know how cops and lawyers stick together. (I hope I didn’t just offend you. You sound knowledgeable enough to be a retired policeman. Just put me down as a victim of a legal shark attack.) I suppose I ought to find a new source somewhere like downtown Atlanta, especially since I need some technical advice for the new plot. I need to know how my professional hit man can smuggle his.44 Magnum onto an airplane. I would call the airport and ask, but it would probably make them nervous.

  Since you’re one of Cass’s most faithful friends, I thought I’d let you know that she appears in a short story in this month’s issue of Criminal Minds, which should be on newsstands about now. It’s called “Better Never.”

  Thanks again for your encouragement!

  Sincerely,

  Laurie Gunsel

  P.O. Box 97184

  Peachtree City, GA 30269

  367 Calabria Road

  Passaic, New Jersey 07055

  Dear Ms. Gunsel:

  Thank you for your kind offer to sign my collection of eight Cass Cairncross first editions. I am speechless with joy. Also, I am shamelessly taking you up on it. A package of books should arrive shortly, along with return postage and a self-addressed sticker for you to put on the box and mail back. Please inscribe them to Monty. In case you are busy with your latest masterpiece, I want you to know that there is no hurry in doing me this favor. I know the books are safe with you. I’ve already read them, so don’t waste a minute of your writing time on this chore.

  Thanks for the tip about the new Cass story in Criminal Minds. Most enjoyable. Such description! When Cass Cairncross breaks into Hepler’s room to search for the documents, and finds that he has been shot in the head while sleeping, I was afraid that the shooter would come tippytoeing out of the bathroom and get her next. This can happen. But then I tell myself: Laurie Gunsel is in charge here, and she is not going to shoot the hand that feeds her, and, sure enough, all is well. Interesting that you said Hepler’s cheek felt like warm leather to Cass’s touch, when she checked to see if he was really dead. I’ve always thought that deceased personages felt like a package of plastic-wrapped meat like you get at the deli. But your description is more elegant. I suppose Cass was too delicate to mention the smell. She couldn’t miss it. And I was a little surprised to hear that there was a spatter pattern of blood on the wall by the bed. Surely if the individual is lying down, you would put the barrel just above his ear and aim downward. Shooting your mark in the temple is messy, no question about that, but people have been known to recover. You want to take out as much of the braincase as possible with one slug so as to guarantee a clean kill. Of course, as I recall, the murderer was the blackmailed Unitarian minister, so maybe he didn’t know from forensic medicine. He probably wouldn’t know all that technical stuff. Anyway, it was a great yarn, and you fooled me completely. I especially liked the neat touch of the shooter’s having put a roll of toilet paper under Hepler’s chin and unrolling it to make a necktie-to show his opinion of the deceased. A nice bit of symbolism, which was not lost on yours truly.

  Speaking of technical difficulties, your letter mentioned that you had a dilemma in your current project.-What’s this one called? I’ll put my name on the waiting list at the bookstore.-Can I be so bold as to make a suggestion about this gun and airplane problem? (I don’t want your next book delayed because the FAA has you locked away as a suspected terrorist.) You did say that the individual in question was a pro this time, I believe. (I’ll try to forget these details when I purchase the book. I want to figure it out fair and square with no advance warnings.) Probably the g
uy would pack his weapon in his checked luggage, dismantled and-it goes without saying-unloaded. This is a legal and therefore hassle-free mode of transport, but perhaps that lacks the necessary drama for the plot. Or maybe the guy doesn’t trust the airline to get his bags and him to the same destination-a very wise concern in my experience. So he has to have the thing in carry-on or concealed about his person.

  Let me recommend that you not make the weapon a 44 Magnum, since, with all due respect to the brilliant Mr. Eastwood, this is not what a gentleman in the sanction business would use professionally. There are some very nice firearms out now that are made of space-age polymers-the 9mm. Glock is very good-that can perform adequately in the field and still not be unduly ostentatious. This piece, dismantled in carry-on baggage, should make it through airport security, as the polymer parts of the pistol will not register on the metal detector, and the metal parts can be concealed in, say, a false-bottomed can of shaving cream. Not that I am trying to write your book. I’m happy to be just reading them. (Dare I hope that this mythical hit man will be dispatched to off a “pretentious dresser with prominent ears,” who is maybe also a lawyer?)

  Of course, by the time you receive this you will probably have figured out your own brilliant solution to the airport problem. I have great faith in your inventive abilities. Just don’t try sneaking a rod on your next flight for research. They have no sense of humor, these bureaucrats.

  I hope all is well with you in sunny Georgia. My garden is doing well despite the dry spell, as my water bill will no doubt show at the end of the month. I’m putting in chrysanthemums to try to keep summer around for a few more weeks. And if you should find yourself in need of zucchini, seek no further. I am begging people to take it.

  Again, my deepest thanks for your generosity in autographing my favorite works of literature. It was a gracious gesture. I owe you one, Ms. Gunsel.

  With gratitude and best wishes,

  Monty

  Laurie Gunsel

  Mr. Monty Vincent

  367 Calabria Road

  Passaic, New Jersey 07055

  Dear Monty,

  Signing your books was no trouble at all. Really. I still get a kick out of seeing my name on the title page. Anyhow, they’re all inscribed To Monty, as you requested, and they’re on their way back to you in New Jersey. Incidentally, I insured the package for you. My treat. Actually, I didn’t want to worry about the whereabouts of those books, considering their cumulative value. I trust the post office like you trust the airlines! I don’t mean to brag, but just for your information as an investor, that first Cass Cairncross book, Dead in the Water, is worth (they tell me) seven hundred and fifty dollars. Maybe more if it’s autographed. I don’t keep track of such things, but I thought you might like to know. In case the grandkids ever want a pony.

  Thanks for your advice about the gun-and-airport caper. I can tell you’ve read a lot of crime fiction. You’re well-versed in the literary gambits! Do I detect an Ed McBain fan, or maybe John D. MacDonald?

  Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of trying to smuggle a gun onto an airplane for research. I know how grim airport officials are about weapons jokes. There’s a crime writer of my acquaintance with a bizarre sense of humor, who always travels with a laptop computer, and when he went through airport security, they always make him turn on the machine to prove that it really is a working computer. So one day before he left the hotel-I’m not sure this fellow was entirely sober at the time-he programmed the computer with an automatic boot, which means that when you switch on the computer, a message automatically appears on the screen. At the airport screening gate, they made him turn on the computer as usual, and a sign on the screen said: READY… ARMING… NINETY SECONDS TO DETONATION. Needless to say he missed his flight, and if he wasn’t so rich and famous, he’d probably be playing racquetball at a celebrity prison these days, but apparently he managed to talk his way out of trouble, because he’s still turning up at conventions. (I wish I’d known how to do one of those autoboots. My ex-the-attorney used to travel with a laptop, and I’d have enjoyed getting him sent to prison. I don’t suppose I can use that computer story in a book, though, because my friend the prankster would probably see it and complain.)

  I had thought of killing him again in this new book. (The Ex, I mean, not the Prankster.) This book is called Buck in the Snow (thank you for asking!), and the title comes from a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, a favorite poet of mine from my shady past as an English major, before I turned to crime. Buck is going to be the hit man. (I thought Vito might be too obvious. No white ties this time, either.) Or maybe I’ll make Buck a serial killer. Serial killers are very popular with readers these days.

  As you may have guessed, I’m still fine-tuning the plot. Actually, I’m finding it a little difficult to concentrate on a new book just now, because I have another court date coming up with the monster ex-husband. (Tennis courts, racquetball courts, magistrate’s courts-it’s all recreation to them.) He’ll have fun, play golf while he’s back in Georgia, and visit all his old buddies. I’m losing sleep, and getting no writing done, worrying about the whole thing. Why did I ever let him talk me into a mutual-incompatibility no-fault divorce? I should have hired a private detective and got the evidence on him and the law firm bimbo. (Except I wasn’t all that solvent back then. My first couple of books went for peanuts. Anyhow, Malcolm convinced me that my pride wouldn’t let me stand up in court and admit what a patsy I’d been. He’s a great convincer, thanks to me. I put him through law school! The student loans were in both our names, and he insisted that I pay half-even after the divorce!) And you wonder why I’ve been knocking him off from book to book. At first it was cheaper than a therapist. Now I can’t afford to get well.

  How embarrassing. This is what I get for using a typewriter. If I were on the word processor, I’d have deleted that last paragraph. Sorry to be such a bore, Monty. I’m depending on the kindness of strangers, as a better writer once said. Unfortunately, there’s a thunderstorm here in Peachtree, and I’m afraid that if I use the computer, lightning could zap my hard drive and take out what little I’ve got on this damned new book. And I don’t have time to rewrite the letter, so I’m afraid you’ll have to pardon my pathetic ramblings. Maybe you can write out rage, but it must take more words than I’ve already used.

  I hope I didn’t let too much daylight in on the magic for you, Monty. Thanks for listening.

  Your friend,

  Laurie

  P.S. You really have a lot of technical know-how, Monty. I hope you’re a retired cop, because if you’re Elmore Leonard or Donald Westlake writing me prank fan letters, I’ll just fall apart. Are you going to be at the Charlotte, North Carolina, mystery convention Labor Day weekend? If so, introduce yourself. I’m on a panel, and I’m giving a talk on characterization. L.G.

  367 Calabria Road

  Passaic, New Jersey 07055

  Dear Ms. Gunsel:

  The package of signed books arrived with impressive alacrity, and I thank you again for being so kind as to inscribe them. Also thank you for your thoughtfulness in warning me about the value of my investment, but, believe you me, I wouldn’t take a million dollars for any of the Cass Cairncross novels, so the book dealers’ valuations are not a major concern, except maybe that I will brag once in a while to my poker buddies about what good taste in books I have. They may have to become a codicil in my will.

  Also, you needn’t worry about your last letter “letting daylight in on the magic,” as you so eloquently put it. And though I’m overwhelmed with the honor of being suspected of being Mr. Leonard or Mr. Westlake-would that I could write one sentence like either of them!-no, I’m an honest-to-God fan, Ms. Gunsel. While I am also not Father Andrew Greeley, let me add that, like him, keeping secrets was part of my business, and you may rest assured that not a word of your most sincere and anguished missive will I divulge to anyone, ever. You may trust my discretion absolutely. Allow me to state how very sorry I am for the
emotional distress this bum, your former spouse, is causing you. I do not approve of attorneys who use their skills for sport and personal vendettas, just as I do not care for the so-called serial killers who impose their sickness on others at random. Indeed, one of my favorite things about the Cass Cairncross novels was the fact that good and evil are not watered down with all this psychological mumbo jumbo we get in those devil-made-me-do-it books. The world would be a better place without those sleazy types.

  For my own selfish reasons as a reader, I hope that you can put all this domestic turmoil behind you and get back to your true mission in life: writing the adventures of Cass Cairncross. It grieves me to think of you, sleepless and upset, persecuted by this gorilla in a three-piece suit. So I would advise you to remain calm, as your heroine Cass always does, because anger only gets you in more trouble. And remember how many friends and faithful readers you have out here wishing you well-and hoping for the next installment!

  Sincerely your friend,

  Monty

  P.S. I don’t attend mystery conventions. I’m strictly a reader. But I know you’ll do a great job on your talk. Knock ’em dead.

  Laurie Gunsel

  Mr. Monty Vincent

  367 Calabria Road

  Passaic, New Jersey 07055

  Dear Monty,

  Thank you for your concern in my personal disasters. It did cheer me up to know that, in addition to the other bounties she’s given me, Cass Cairncross has made me some thoughtful and caring friends. I haven’t made very many friends for her in return, have I? Her boyfriends keep turning out to be crooked, and her friends get murdered. Maybe this reflects my own jaundiced view of the world. I don’t know. My outlook isn’t any rosier at the moment.

  The piranha-at-law must have been staying up nights thinking up new ways to torment me, and he has hit upon a dandy. Why didn’t I see this coming when we were in college together? He seemed like such a nice fellow back then. I was a dewy English major who had dated one engineer too many, and I suppose I lost my head when I found myself dating someone who didn’t think Hawthorne was a point guard for the Knicks. (Who even knew that the word Knicks should conjure up visions of Washington Irving!) We went to Ingmar Bergman movies together, and listened to Kris Kristofferson-enchanted by the idea that a Rhodes scholar could be a country singer. (So we were already prepared for the Clinton era.) Then we got married and I put Malcolm through law school, teaching high school English five periods a day for what felt like forty-seven years. People ask me how I can think up such convincing bad guys. Ha! They should teach for a year.