Why do we love whodunits? by Joan Havelange

 

https://bookswelove.net/havelange-joan/

I recently watched a documentary on Agatha Christie. I’m a big fan of the queen of cozy mysteries/whodunits. (Agatha did not like the term cozy.) She wrote 66 whodunits and 15 short stories. She is acclaimed as the most successful author of all time. And at the time of this documentary. She had sold 2 billion books. So that does tell us something about our love affair with mysteries.

A mystery allows us to enter dangerous situations without real-life risks. And unlike real life, the perpetrator gets his or her just desserts. We like to see if we can see past the red herrings and decipher the clues. And solve the puzzle before the end of the book.

It’s up to the author to build anticipation and excitement. And have us, the reader, care about what happens to the character who only lives on the pages of the mystery.

I write whodunits/cozy mysteries. I like to get my protagonists into dangerous and sometimes humorous predicaments. And then see if I can get them out unscathed.

My first mystery “Wayward Shot’ is set in a small rural town, Glenhaven, Saskatchewan. This cozy mystery features golf (a sport I love and wish I was better at.)

My inspiration for this story came from a golf game. My playing partner’s drive went over a hill. And he said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if we found someone with the words Titleist imprinted on their forehead?” We didn’t, thank goodness. But the idea for my first mystery. A murder on a golf course took place. And I wrote ‘Wayward Shot.’

When Mabel slices her golf ball into the town cemetery. She and her best friend Violet think the worst that could happen would be a lost ball. That is until they discover a dead body, and it isn’t six feet under. Mabel’s golf ball lies in the middle of his forehead. It’s murder.

The ladies take it upon themselves to solve the mystery of the dead body in the graveyard. Using the information gleaned from Coffee Row, a collection of eccentric townspeople. This leads them to investigate golfers and relatives of the deceased. Their investigation frustrates a newly appointed RCMP officer, who does his best to put a stop to their interference.

But nothing stops the intrepid detectives. Not the RCMP, a stampede of cattle, or even shots fired at them in the dark. They have an uncanny ability to find trouble and dead bodies. Almost getting themselves killed before solving the murders.

Excerpt from Wayward Shot

Mabel parked the little white golf cart beside the low stone fence.

Violet donned the golf visor that matched her golf shirt and shorts. She tucked her long red hair neatly into place, climbed over the wall into the cemetery, and searched for Mabel’s lost golf ball.

At barely five feet, Mabel struggled to hitch her well-padded body onto the stone wall. At the top, she paused and looked across to the black, wrought-iron gates covering the roadside entrance. A long grassy lane divided the cemetery. The newer graves were on the left of the lane, with the older moss-covered tombstones on the right. The hot July sun beat down on Mabel’shead, and she pulled her T-shirt from the band of her jean shorts before jumping down into the graveyard.

“Hey, it’s your ball,” Violet called. “Get busy and look. We need to get out of here.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a knot. I am looking, and make sure you watch where you’rewalking.”

“Watch for what?” Violet trotted along a row of gravestones. She disappeared behind a black onyx angel in a prayerful pose.

“Watch for holes, that’s what.” Mabel’s feet crunched the dry grass as she walked toward a grave with a broken headstone.

“There aren’t any open graves,” Violet called back. “I’m pretty sure I would see one if therewas. I’m not likely to fall into a hole.”

“No, but there are lots of gopher holes. Those little beggars are everywhere. If you step in a hole, you could sprain an ankle.” Mabel jumped as a grasshopper flew up into her face. Brushingit away, she continued to scan the dry grass growing alongside the graves.

“I’m careful. I’m not worried about gopher holes, but I sure don’t want to step on anygraves. What are you hitting?” Violet, popping up from behind a black angel, held a golf ball.

“Is that a Spaulding number two?” Mabel asked. “I’m betting there are lots of lost balls inhere. This is a popular spot if you slice your ball off the tee.” She looked across at Violet in timeto see her friend pocketing the found golf ball. Violet disappeared again, this time behind a large white marble tombstone.

“Shank dear, it’s called a shank. I’m sure you hit the ball off the hosel. Or maybe it was a slice? Whatever it was, I know you don’t want to repeat it.”

“Oh my God, I’ve killed him!” Mabel shrieked.

“They’re all dead here, dear. And you’re right. This graveyard is a gold mine. There seem to be lots of lost golf balls. People must be either too squeamish or too superstitious to come into the cemetery to retrieve their lost ball. I’ve already picked up three.”

“No, no, come here,” Mabel yelled. When Violet reached her side, Mabel pointed in horror at a dead man lying spread-eagled between two tombstones. “That’s my golf ball lying between his eyes. Oh, my God, it’s Allen Franklyn, and I’ve killed him!”

“Maybe he’s just knocked out.” Violet dropped another golf ball into her pocket. Both women stared down at the large man who lay lifeless between a row of gravestones. He looked surprised, in an odd sort of way.

“Oh dear,” Mabel’s voice trembled. She tucked her golf glove into her pocket and crouched beside Allen Franklyn’s body, gingerly picking up his wrist, then gently laying his hand back down. “He’s dead.”

“You didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident. Who knew your golf ball would end up here killing Allen?” Violet put her arm around Mabel, patting her shoulder.

“No, no, it wasn’t me.”

“Well, actually it was you. I saw you hit the ball, but don’t worry. I know it was anaccident.” Violet knelt beside the body, took off her golf glove, and prodded the ball stuck in themiddle of the man’s forehead. “Yep, it’s a Spaulding number two.”

“No, I didn’t do it.”

Violet stood, dusting the dirt off her knees. “Mabel. It’s no use fooling yourself, you hit the ball, and there it is, lying between Allen’s eyes.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not my fault.” Mabel folded her arms across her chest and stuck out her chin.

“Seriously, get a grip.” Violet looked at Mabel with concern. “No one will accuse you of murder. I looked. It’s your ball, a Spaulding number two.”

“He’s cold, cold, cold. If my golf ball killed Allen, he would still be warm, but he’s not. He’s cold.” Mabel’s voice rose in frustration.

“Oh, well, that’s lucky, isn’t it? Well, not for Allen, of course, but you’re in the clear. Are you sure he’s cold?”

“Do you want to feel him?”

“No, I believe you.” Violet thoughtfully gazed down at the dead man. “Poor Allen, I wonder what happened to him?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m just glad I’m not the cause of his death.”

“Me too. I guess we should do something.”

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