Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? Death on Lake Michigan. My original title was Death on the Water, but I found that a number of other books already have that name. In the end, I liked my final title a lot better!
What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I didn’t make note of precisely when I started writing Death on Lake Michigan, but I published it in 2015, so I probably started it sometime in 2013.
Right: Steven Arnett with wife and daughter in 2015
Both Copyright by Steven Arnett
What were your writing habits while writing this work–did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I prefer complete silence when I write and normally write directly onto a laptop. The only thing I drink when I write is water.
Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference. This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. It starts on page 24 of the print version of Death on Lake Michigan and ends on page 33.
If you ever saw Gull Haven, you wouldn’t have a hard time understanding why I wanted to live there. It’s about as pretty a little town as you’d ever want to see. It’s on a harbor in Lake Michigan in sand dune country, and hardly a day goes by when there isn’t a killer sunset over the water. The streets are lined with trees, and a lot of the buildings are as charming as if they’d been made out of frosting and cake: Like the old Pinewood Inn with its pink canopy out front and pink shutters, the village hall with its little clock tower, and Brown’s Hardware Store, which looks like something out of Norman Rockwell. The town is small and quaint, yet it’s no hick town. Many of the rich and famous from Chicago spend their summers there, and the town has an arty side. There are a couple of art schools, and half the stores in town are art galleries. It’s hard to believe a gingerbread town like this could have been started by whiskey drinking lumberjacks, but it was.
By morning, fortunately, I’d stopped feeling sorry for myself and mooning over Ann. Instead I laughed at myself, saying I belonged in a Donnie Osmond song about puppy love, and I had enough to do so that I mostly kept my mind off her. The paper hit the newsstands about eleven or so, and from then on it seemed like every few minutes someone called the paper with a tip or a theory about who killed Rich. Most of which were worthless, but they sure kept me busy. If people couldn’t catch me at work, they called me at home.
For a few days it seemed like the murder was all anyone who lived in Gull Haven talked about. You couldn’t walk into a coffee shop or a bar or along the marina or the beach without hearing about what happened and hearing people theorize about it, with a lot of talk about Rich’s drug connections and a lot of people saying they bet—though certainly not to his face—that Grant Fields was really behind it. The story was as hot as the weather on those endless, hot summer days that seemed like they’d never end sometimes, but when they were over seemed like they’d gone by in a flash.
Unfortunately, like Buck Matthews had said, the people who didn’t know anything wanted to talk and talk about the murder, while the people I suspected really knew something wouldn’t say a thing. Still, by the end of the day that the paper came out I had a lot better picture of how Rich had spent that Saturday night when, in lieu of the medical examiner’s report, everyone was assuming he was murdered, and I had a few names of people who’d seen and talked to him that night who I could interview. Even if Rich Mallon hadn’t been murdered, the partying that had gone on that night would have been remembered for a long time. As I said, it was the last night of the Harbor Festival in Gull Haven, and it didn’t seem like anyone held back a thing. It had seemed like every boat in every marina had had a party going on on it, with a steadily changing cast of characters on each one, as all the regulars went from boat to boat trying to find the perfect party or perfect partner, or, if that wasn’t obtainable, at least make sure they didn’t miss out on anything. The streets of the town, too, had been filled with people partying, and laughter and jokes and stories could be heard all down Bronson Street and coming out of the open windows of the Tack Room Restaurant and the Embassy.
Most of the people with money and the locals partied along the waterfront around the harbor, while a couple miles away motorcycle gangs—the bane of the Gull Haven Chamber of Commerce and the respectable citizens of the town—partied out at Ashley beach. About the most promising lead that had come in was the story going around town that Rich and Grant Fields had had a big argument on Grant’s yacht that night. Most of the many versions of the story going around had in common that Rich and Grant had had a falling out some time ago and that Rich, drunk and belligerent as hell, had crashed Grant’s party and egged him into an argument. Beyond that no one seemed too sure what had happened, and people seemed content to fill in the rest of the story with wild and improbable lies.
Of the people I knew who were at Grant’s party when the fight occurred, I decided the person most likely to give me an unvarnished version of the truth was Paige Morton—she had a frank way of speaking and I thought was unlikely to want to protect or be intimidated by Grant. Besides, she was a big part of the local party scene and might be able to give me more leads. The man himself was out of town at the moment and not available for interviews. He was gone a lot, though, so that in itself wasn’t anything to be suspicious about. So at four in the afternoon the day the paper came out I was at Paige’s apartment, sitting across from her on her burnt orange leather sofa. We drank coffee and she smoked languidly.
“Do you know what time it was when Rich came on board?” I said.
“Oh, hell, the last thing I was doing at that point was checking my watch,” she said, laughing. “I was about as out of it as everybody else by then. All I know is it was late.”
She had her legs crossed and was wearing shorts and a sheer, loose apricot top that was more alluring than a skin tight outfit would have been—so it wasn’t the easiest thing in the world for me to concentrate on the subject at hand. She had big, dreamy brown eyes and seemed nervous when she picked up her coffee cup, like she was nursing a pretty tough hangover.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you just tell me the whole story as you saw it from the time you were first aware that Rich was on the boat until he left?”
“Sure. I was down in the salon sitting on a sofa talking to Mike Abdenour when Rich came in. I suppose I was working on about my 10th tequila sunrise or so,” smiling. “Grant was sitting on the sofa facing the door, and Jenny Rangely was hanging all over him. I mean, it was sickening, like she was some junior high school kid or something, and he didn’t act like he gave a damn about her—but he wasn’t pushing her away, either. The room was pretty jammed with people. I remember hearing commotion out on the deck. It was hard to tell what it was at first, what with all the people in the room and a Led Zeppelin tape playing on the stereo, but I remember hearing Rich’s voice, and then there he was at the door, with that hair that was so golden you could see it a mile away. He stared right at Grant, and all the talking and laughing just stopped dead. It was amazing, like one of those commercials where they freeze the action.
“And Rich said, ‘Well, the captain of the ship, just as I would have expected to find him,’ with a real sneer on his face. I mean, he was so drunk or down on ludes it looked like he could barely stand up. ‘Surrounded by beautiful women, I see,’ he said. Being the smart ass that I am, I said, ‘Flattery may get you somewhere,’ and I laughed, and everybody except Grant stared at me like they were pissed off, like that was the most uncool thing I could have done. I mean, it was hilarious. But Grant never took his eyes off Rich. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said. When he’s mad he has a way of talking that, without really raising his voice much, can just make your blood run cold. It’s the scariest voice I’ve ever heard. That’s the way he said it. It didn’t seem to bother Rich a bit, though. ‘I was just out catching a little air, if you don’t mind,’ he said, slurring the words in imitation of Rich, ‘when somebody said this is where I should go if I wanted to find a really cool party, where it’s all happening.’ He said it just as sarcastic as could be. ‘If you were smart you’d get off this boat right now,’ Grant said. ‘Bad things happen to little boys who go where their momma tells them not to,’ and he smiled.”
She was acting out all the parts in this little drama, instead of just telling what everybody said, and doing a very good job of it.
“Apparently it was some kind of inside joke that only those two really understood, and I was trying to figure out what woman he was referring to. But whatever it was, it really pissed Rich off.
“‘You son of a bitch,’ he said, and he just shouted it. ‘You goddamn mother fucker. You owe me a lot of bread, man, and I’m not gonna let it slide. Understand?’ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Grant said. ‘I don’t owe you dime.’ ‘We’ll see about that,’ Rich said, then he smiled real weirdly and poured the beer he had in his hand out on Grant’s nice white carpet and went up the stairs to the deck. Grant started to get up to go after him, but he stopped himself and Jenny held onto him and rubbed her boobs into him, as if that would stop him if he was really pissed off and decided to go after Rich!” shaking her head.
“‘Forget it, honey,’ she said, in her really prissy voice. ‘He’s a jerk, too drunk to know what the fuck he’s doing.’ Meanwhile, one of those creepy crewmen he’s got that never talk was already on the floor wiping up the spill. ‘He’s pushed me about one time too many,’ Grant said. ‘Let’s just have a good time,’ Jenny said. ‘That asshole’s gone.’ And then she gives him the boob treatment again. I mean, I think that’s where that girl’s brains are. I could tell that Grant wasn’t going to go after Rich. He knows there’re much better ways of getting even with somebody than getting into a street fight with them. Or maybe I should say a yacht fight,” laughing.
“You could just see everybody start to relax, and Dan Streeter tried to get everything rolling again by telling a story about Old Man Harrigan, because he knows Grant likes them. ‘You know Old Man Harrigan?’ he said. ‘He was down by the marina today when Jeff Shadler came in with a sturgeon. He told Old Man Harrigan it was a perch and he kind of believed him. It was hilarious. And you know how Old Man Harrigan is, he stares at him for a while and screws up his mouth and goes, ‘Boy, that must be some kind of record,’ imitating Old Man Harrigan’s voice, and everybody just cracked up.”
She crushed out the cigarette she’d been smoking, took a hit of coffee, and took another cigarette out of the pack and lit it.
“You mentioned that Grant has other ways of getting even with someone than getting into a street fight with them,” I said. “Does that include murder?”
“Not if you’re going to be putting all this in the paper it doesn’t,” laughing. “Grant might decide I’m not all that indispensable either.”
“I’d never put anything like that in the paper. I’m just trying to get some background right now anyway, trying to find out who Rich Mallon really was and what he did the last few days of his life. I’m trying not to jump to conclusions like everybody else seems to be,” smiling slowly.
“Good luck. A lot of people seem to think Grant’s behind it, even though he obviously didn’t do the dirty work himself, since about a million people or so saw him partying all night Saturday night. He probably had one of his damn crewmen do it. Have fun trying to interview them.”
“How well did you know Rich?”
“You don’t think I did it, do you?”
“No,” laughing, and she laughed, too. “The reason I ask is I thought you might have some idea who’d hate him enough to kill him, if Grant didn’t kill him.”
“Rich had a lot of enemies, but I don’t think any of them besides Grant would have the balls to kill him. He rubbed some people the wrong way. And anyone who’s in the line of work he was in ends up making some enemies.”
“The cops got tips from a couple of people who said they heard Jack Engler say he was going to kill Rich, and they’re treating the tips seriously.”
“Jack Engler?” scoffing. “He’s too much of a wimp. He’s way too respectable.”
“Apparently Rich peeled one of his girlfriends away from him.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll say he did. Jan Carlson. Jack likes to play the role of the carefree bachelor, but he was really stuck on her, even if he’d never admit it. A few months ago she ran off with Rich, and then he dropped her like a rock about two weeks later, but it was too late for her to get back with Jack. He was really bitter about it. I’m sure to him it must’ve looked like Rich did the whole thing just to taunt him.”
“Yet you’re that sure that he wouldn’t have murdered Rich?” She thought about that for a moment as she took a slow drag from her latest cigarette. “The funny thing about love is that when it goes sour, it can drive people to murder who no one could imagine committing murder for any other reason.”
“It’s not that I don’t think he’d want to murder Rich. I just don’t think he’d have the guts. And he’s way too rational. But I’ll bet he’s sweating bricks right now wondering if the cops won’t think he did it. It would be just like Grant to kill Rich when he knew someone else had been going around saying they’d like to kill him. His timing’s always perfect.”
“What time did you leave Grant’s party?”
“Oh, hell, I don’t know. The sun was starting to come up if that gives you any idea.”
“Any other thoughts about who might have killed Rich?”
“No,” stretching the word out, looking thoughtful. “But if you leave me your number I’ll call you if I remember anything later or hear anything.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“I might even call you if I don’t,” with a smile that I enjoyed trying to figure out exactly what it meant. I wrote my name and home and work phone numbers on the corner of the sheet of paper I was taking notes on and tore it off and handed it to her. I’d asked her everything I could think of that was relevant to the investigation of Rich’s murder, and I should have just left. I had a hell of a lot of work to do. But she was really sexy and I was having a hard time tearing myself away. By sticking around, though, I found out something that turned out to be useful.
“Do you think one of the motorcycle guys might have done it?” I said. “I mean, Rich could have screwed one of them on a drug deal or something.”
“I doubt it. They wouldn’t have been that subtle. They would have done something like slit his throat and left him to bleed to death in a field or by the side of a road somewhere. Whoever killed Rich had access to a boat, and I doubt if most of those guys can even swim.”
“Although I’m sure they could have got hold of a boat if they wanted to kill Rich in a way that would make everyone think someone else did it.”
“I suppose. But you’ll be making a mistake if you give those guys too much credit in the brains department.”
“Maybe.”
She smiled and looked into my eyes and a nice warm feeling went through me. I was strongly tempted to ask her out even though we were about as different in personality as we could be—she was way too much of a party girl for me. But I held back. I set the idea aside for future consideration.
“Well, I’d better hit the road,” I said, getting up. “I’ve got a lot of people to talk to.”
She got up, too, and we stood by the door.
“I was just thinking,” she said. “If you want to find out more about the Jack Engler angle, you might want to talk to Jim DuCharme. I heard him say he was at Jack’s party Saturday night.”
“I’ll definitely check with him.”
“Talk to Jim. Tell him I sent you and he won’t BS you. He and Jack really aren’t that big of buddies.”
“I will. Thanks a million for the help.”
Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write? And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? The emotions I felt when I was writing this section of Death on Lake Michigan were varied: In the first part of it, I had a mellow and pleasant feeling as I conjured up in my head being in the town of Gull Haven, an artistic place located on Lake Michigan, on a nice summer day. Further on I felt the heartache of love lost as the main character, Mike O’Brien, recalls Ann, the woman he loved and lost. Mostly, though, I just had a feeling of concentration as I tried to craft the story and the characters as skillfully as possible. Toward the end of the excerpt where Mike is interviewing Paige Morton, I felt the same kind of intrigue and attraction as I would have felt if I were talking to a sexy and interesting woman who is very good at story telling.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt. Unfortunately, I cannot provide any deletions from the draft. When I delete part of a book I am writing, I normally delete it for good because I do it on a word processing document. Thus, unlike with a hand written draft, I don’t leave any record of deletions.
Steven Arnett was born in Detroit, Michigan, in 1951 and enjoys writing fiction and poetry. He attended Michigan State University and the University of Maine. He currently lives in Johns Creek, Georgia, with his wife, Delphine, and daughter, Vivienne.
https://stevenarnett.wixsite.com/stevenarnett
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