Page 37 of Fish and Chip

Another hand goes skyward. “How do you avoid making the killer too obvious?”

“Red herrings,” Felicity says. “Lots of red herrings. Make sure at least three other characters could plausibly be the murderer. Give them motives, opportunity, suspicious behavior. Then, when you reveal the real killer, make sure the evidence against them is just as strong as the evidence against your red herrings, if not stronger.”

Georgie leans over and whispers, “She’s basically teaching a master class in how to get away with murder.”

“Or how to write about it,” I whisper back.

“The good ones can do both.”

Ree shoots us both a look that says be quiet or I will bury you both. Coming from a woman armed with a ballpoint pen and a lifetime of church-lady patience, that threat carries weight.

Felicity pulls out a small stack of index cards. “I like to use what I call the ‘reverse outline’ method. After I’ve written my first draft, I go back and make an index card for every clue I’ve planted. Then I arrange them chronologically to make sure they’re spaced out properly and that the reader has a fair chance of solving the mystery.”

“That’s brilliant,” Ree breathes. She slides a laminated suspect card into my hand.

“You laminated these?”

“Coffee. Rain. Blood.” She shrugs. “I’ve investigated enough things to know liquids always show up.”

I hand it back very carefully. There’s a follow-up question in there somewhere, and I’m choosing not to ask it.

“Hey! Maybe I should write a cozy mystery?” Ree muses. “I started one years ago and just plum gave up.”

Georgie shakes her head. “I hate to break it to you, Red, but you’re living in one.”

And I hate to admit it, but I think she’s right. Again, thanks to the author for landing the hot detective at my feet. Okay, fine, so the killer brought him to the yard, but still. The sentiment is the same.

“What about false confessions?” someone calls out. “When should you use those?”

“Sparingly,” Felicity says. “A false confession can be powerful, but if you use it too often, readers start to distrust every confession. I try to save them for moments of high emotional stakes. Maybe a character confesses to protect someone they love, or they genuinely believe they’re guilty due to circumstantial evidence.”

Georgie leans in. “I once marched into a police station ready to save the man I loved. Turns out I was accidentally helping the prosecution. He’s serving two life sentences, but he still writes every Tuesday. You can’t win them all.”

There is no version of that story I’m brave enough to ask about.

I file Felicity’s tip away with everything else she’s said today. At this rate, I’m going to need my own index cards to make it to Halloween night. Laminated, apparently.

The workshop continues with Felicity fielding questions about pacing, red herrings, the role of the amateur sleuth versus law enforcement, and whether it’s okay to kill off a recurring character (audience consensus: absolutely not, we will riot). By the look on the tombstone woman’s face, the riot already has a costume department.

Felicity is funny, insightful, and clearly passionate about the craft. She talks about her own writing process, how she outlines in detail before drafting, how she keeps a “murder bible” for each book with timelines and clue placement, how she sometimes writes the final chapter first to make sure she knows exactly where she’s heading.

A murder bible. Timelines. Clue placement. And she knows the ending before anyone else does. I’m sure that’s fine. Also, I think the law refers to this as premeditated.

I sneak a peek at the notebooks flanking me. Ree’s page holds tidy rows of craft tips, complete with a color-coding system and a small heart next to the word foreshadowing. Georgie’s page holds one line, NOT ENOUGH SHIRTLESS ZOMBIE PIRATES, underlined three times. Same workshop. Two very different students.

“The ending should recontextualize everything that came before it,” Felicity says, hitting her stride now. “When readers go back and reread your book, and trust me, cozy mystery readers love to start from the beginning, they should notice all the little hints you planted. The throwaway comment in chapter three that suddenly makes sense. The seemingly innocent action in chapter seven that takes on sinister meaning. That’s what makes a truly satisfying mystery. Take my third book. The killer spent eleven chapters helping the sleuth investigate. Answering questions, pointing at other suspects, being generous with everything except the truth. Nobody ever suspects the person who’s most useful to them. She hid it in plain sight for eleven chapters.”

Georgie nudges me. “Gertie Gloomwood was awfully quick to volunteer for that corporate crime panel. Nothing says useful like a suspect with handouts.”

She has a point. I decide to keep an eye on anyone at this convention who seems a little too eager to help. In my experience, free assistance always arrives with a bill.

A woman in the third row raises her hand. “What’s the biggest mistake you see in amateur mystery writing?”

Felicity doesn’t hesitate. “Making the killer someone the reader has no emotional investment in. Your killer should matter. They should be woven into the fabric of the story from the beginning. If you introduce a brand-new character in the final chapter just to reveal they’re the murderer, your readers will feel cheated.”

“Unless it’s a twin,” someone calls out.

“If you pull the evil twin card, I will personally hunt you down,” Felicity says while wielding a finger at the woman, and the crowd erupts in laughter.