Prompt #1: Novel Character Comes to Life--And May Murder Someone

On Labor Day, as I put the finishing touches on my latest novel and sent it off to my editor Jillian in New York City, I thought I was done.  I assumed I had put my colorful, unique characters to bed, that I was finally due for a long hot soak in the tub and maybe even a weekend trip to Sedona for some serious R&R with my best friend Ruthie.  I had no idea how utterly wrong I was.  

 Tuesday morning I slept in late to celebrate and then woke at ten-thirty to the unearthly howling of my cat, Snickers.  Tearing myself from the comfy warmth of my bed, I stumbled into the laundry room and dumped a cup of Meow Mix into her bowl.  Then, on second thought, I added some extra.  I was in a generous mood, despite the unwanted wake-up call.  And why shouldn't I be?  I had just completed the fourth mystery thriller in my series, Maple Street Murders, and my next royalty check from book number three would be arriving in my mailbox any day now.  Life was good.  Very good.  

Okay, so I still needed a man, but that's another story entirely.  

Out on my back patio I was enjoying the morning paper and a cup of mint hot cocoa with a banana-nut muffin when I heard voices coming from over the wall next door.  Considering the house had been vacant for almost a year, I was understandably curious.  

I should have minded my own business.  I realize that now.  But the writer in me wouldn't leave well enough alone.  I am nosy by nature, and I can hardly apologize for that.  It's how I earn a living!  Anyway, that's when the trouble started.

Peering over the wall, I got the shock of my life.  There was Francie, in the flesh!  

Okay, let me back up a bit.  You haven't read Maple Street Murders number four, because it hasn't yet gone to print, but Francie is the darling of the book, at least until she commits murder on page one hundred and sixty-two.  Francie the neighborhood pest, food-blogger and recipe swiper extraordinaire.  Larger than life, Francie looks like a cross between Sofia Vergara and Paula Deen.  Just to be clear, Sofia's face but Paula's body.  I had just spent the last year of my life honing and shaping Francie until she was so real to me I sometimes caught myself trying to look her up on Facebook.  

I knew Francie as well as I knew the pesky mole under my left armpit.  And the woman standing in the backyard next door was her, no doubt about it.  

For a moment I stood there on my tiptoes, watching her talk to one of the hired U-Haul guys, pondering this jaw-dropping resemblance.  She was dressed in a tangerine polka-dotted getup, something Francie would have thoroughly embraced.  She even wore the same fuschia-colored scarf around her hair that Francie wore when she had her open house in Chapter Two and invited the neighborhood gals over for chicken salad sandwiches and her 'famous' lemon bars.  The resemblance was uncanny.  Even her red stiletto pointy-toed heels were Francie-esque.  

Like I said, I should have left it right there.  She wasn't any of my business, and if she was about to become my new next-door neighbor, the last thing I wanted to do was get chummy with her.  But as the day wore on and I heard her shrilly Southern voice directing the moving guys where to place her furniture and boxes, I found myself peering over the adjoining wall again and again.  

At four o'clock I was busily engaged in the arduous task of cleaning my six-foot fish aquarium, trying desperately to mind my own business, when I heard the doorbell ring.  It was my new next-door neighbor.  She stood there in a frilly pink apron, her voluptuous lipsticked mouth smiling innocently at me.  I wasn't surprised to see a plate of brownies in her hands, another food item that my Francie was famous for.  

"Umm, hi," I stammered.

"Hello!  I'm your new next-door neighbor," she trilled.  "Just wanted to come by and introduce myself.  And I brought you some of my signature pecan delight brownies.  Hope you aren't allergic to nuts?"

"No..."

"Oh, good!"  She was almost ecstatic.  "I do hope we can be friends!"

Friends?  I didn't have any friends.  "I'm Cynthia," I offered reluctantly, reaching out to take the plate.  

"So pleased to meet you!  I'm Francis, by the way."  

What were the odds?  All I could do was smile and stare.

*****

Things got weirder over the next few days and weeks.  Just like my fictional Francie, Francis made the rounds all over the neighborhood, sharing her baked goodies and trading recipes with all the stay-at-home moms and sweet grandma types.  Everyone loved her.  And how could you not?  After all, who doesn't love a fresh caramel apple pie after a long hard day of chasing kids?  And the dads couldn't keep their eyes off her.  Okay, so she was a little bit fleshy, but still.  This woman was a dream.  

Then came the notorious feud with Gracie Smith three houses down.  During one of Francis's get-to-know-you brunches, Gracie accused her of stealing her highly guarded spinach-and-feta quiche recipe.  The next thing everyone knew, Gracie had shoved the quiche into Francis's face and stormed out.  We all just stood there gawking at our hostess, egg on her face and her usually perky expression growing darker by the second.  

In that moment I think we all knew the game had changed.  

After that I started noticing more uncanny parallels between my Francie and our new neighbor.  Francis started calling the HOA to report Gracie's minor trash violations and illegal overnight parking.  Gracie's brand new Mercedes got seriously egged, and there was no question as to the perpetrator.  Someone mysteriously left what looked like a homeless person's trashy-looking shopping cart in front of Gracie's house.  She had to call one of those 1-800-JUNK trucks to come and take it away.  

Sometimes I could hear Francis and Gracie arguing over the wall, their voices raised.  During those moments I kept my cell phone close by, ready to dial 911 if the noise reached Death-Con levels.  

In Maple Street Murders #4, Francie keeps her neighborhood HOA busy investigating her arch-nemesis's infractions.  Like weeds in the front yard and a basketball hoop set up in the driveway.  But then things progress to the point that the nemesis's cat is poisoned and eventually the nemesis turns up dead with a steak knife stuck in her chest, the stolen recipe card pinned beneath it.

Things were not looking good for our real-life neighborhood food diva.  All indications were that she was about to commit first-degree murder.  

On Halloween eve, I noticed the UPS truck delivering a package next door.  Not good.  (This was how Francie the food blogger acquired her murder weapon in Maple Street Murders #4.  She didn't want to sully one of her expensive Cutco knifes with all the blood, so she ordered a cheap set online.)  There was no way I could let this crime occur.  When my book came out as scheduled in two months, I would be likely be called in for questioning.  

Francis was out doing her weekly marathon shopping trip at Costco.  The only reason I knew this was because that morning she had invited me to come along.  I declined, since I had serious plans to clean out my rabbit cage.  Anyway, with Francis safely out of the way, the logical thing to do was to get rid of the box before she got home.  

Donning my sunglasses and a big floppy hat I found buried in the closet, I slunk next door for a closer look.  The box sat innocently by Francis's front door, just the right size for a set of steak knives.  I couldn't believe how Twilight Zone this felt.  

I peered around to make sure no neighbors were lurking about, then ripped off the tape and dived into the popcorn packing.  This was one murder plot that was about to be iced.  

Just then I heard the clicking of heels on the sidewalk behind me.  "Cyndi?  Is that you?  What on earth are you doing?"

Slowly I raised my head, and there stood Francis, loaded down with strawberries.  True to form, she was even dressed like a strawberry.  I couldn't believe how benign she looked, considering the premeditation involved in all of this.  

"Cyndi?  Why are you opening my package?"

I knew this looked bad, but I wasn't going to stop now.  I thought of Gracie and how her life was in my hands.  I would never be able to forgive myself if I walked away now.  Reaching into the box, I pulled out the murder weapon, holding it high to confront Francis.  

"Yes!  It finally came!" Francis said.

Doing a double take, I realized my error.  I was holding a KitchenAid 9-Speed Digital Display Hand Mixer in candy apple red. 

"Oh goodie!  Now I can try out that new divinity recipe!"

Divinity?  Suddenly I felt like a fool.  

"So, are you here to help?"  She grinned at me. "You can measure the ingredients and I'll unpack this bad boy."  Really, who gets that excited over a hand mixer?

"Uh, sure."  It looked like Francis and I were destined to become friends after all.  

But as I followed her into the kitchen, I couldn't help wondering... what kind of torturous mayhem could be committed with a hand mixer?...