Professor Poison

Chapter 3

Once I had learned of the Mystery Writer details from Ben Sinclair, I planned to attend the class at Rassner. Why not? What exactly did I have to lose? Absolutely nothing. Writing wasn’t my career. Not for an e-magazine. Not for a newspaper. Not for a blog. If one frowned on me for failing E.L. Poison’s class, I wouldn’t mind, able to live with myself. I wouldn’t scowl, end up hating anyone, or feeling self-doubt because of error-driven ways and lack of talent. Truth said, the complete opposite could have occurred, though. I would maybe write a short story after the six weeks under Hatchford Daily’s care, obtain publication, and begin a writing career, concentrating on mainstream mysteries. No matter what happened to me, I would survive. No love would be lost.

According to the Rassner College website, I could pay for the class online, which is exactly what I did. Then I purchased the necessary things for school at the local Staples, acting like a sixteen-year-old again: pencils, pens, and three different notebooks. Plus, I picked up a pair of new readers: 1.25+ magnification, blue-trimmed/tortoise brown frames. The 275-page text titled Building the Mystery by Rudyard Dillan Horshire III was almost forty dollars on sss. Being a Prime member would land it in my hands within two days. I had also purchased a navy blue Columbia Winchuck backpack at the local thrift store, which could hold my fifteen-inch laptop. The best find ever. Lucky me.

I was almost prepared for class: ready, set, go. The last thing I needed to do was tell Ulana Bartley about my sudden return to school. Ulana and I were besties who lived in different cities. She married a bulky, strapping, muscled cowboy and rodeo champion three years before, left me for him, and moved to Stockton County, Oklahoma. I stayed in Templeton and proclaimed, “I’ll come and visit you at least twice a year.”

Not only had I lived up to my end of the bargain, but I also called or texted her almost daily, treating our relationship as if the long-distance bump had never occurred, making both of us feel that she lived down the block opposed to states away, still a friend.

I must say, Ulana was stunned to hear that I was going back to school. “You’re doing what, Niall? Hold on, I need to pour myself a wine. This news is going to take some alcohol. Besides, you know how I love my wine.”

I told my green-eyed and ginger-haired mermaid exactly how my “back to school” situation had come about, leaving no detail spared.

“I shouldn’t be surprised, Niall, but I am. You always did want to write a cozy. Something with cats, a poisoned pot of coffee, and a damsel in distress. If you do end up writing it, I want to be one of your characters. A famous, drunken photographer who has a thing for cowboys. Are you nervous about this new endeavor, dawling?”

“Not really. I mean it can’t be any different than starting a new job, can it?”

She giggled, so Hollywood, uplifting, such an upper-crust, and fanciful. I envisioned her swinging her long, ginger braid over a shoulder with a wisp of her right palm. “Of course, it’s going to be different. You’re going to be in a classroom of people half your age. You’ll be the outcast. Let me remind you that you’re prehistoric. People in their late thirties rarely go back to school. You’re vintage and weathered. Half the students will think you’re the professor.”

“You’re not making this easy for me.”

“You don’t expect me to. What are friends for? Friends like me offer reality checks. This is what I’m doing.” I listened to her take a drink of whatever she was consuming; most likely a light, on-the-sweeter-side white wine. Then she swallowed and added, “I wouldn’t do it if I were you. It’s going to be very uncomfortable and less fulfilling because you’re older now. This is something a person in their late twenties would do, not their thirties. Cut your losses while you can. Don’t go. Those young people are going to eat you up and spit you out.”

Pause. Just for the cause.

Trying to hide the excitement in my voice, I told her, “But E.L. Poison is teaching the class. You know how I love his work. Anyone who knows me can easily consider me his number one fan.”

“How do you know it’s him?”

“Poison’s real name is Hatchford Daily. He’s the professor. You know I’m obsessed with E.L. Poison and have done my homework on him. It’s one in the same man.”

“If you say so. How disappointed are you going to be if it’s Professor Average Joe and not Poison?”

“I’ll suck up the loss, continue with the class, and move forward. I do want to learn to write a cozy.”

“Then it sounds like you’re ready to take this on.”

“Fingers crossed.”