Page 8 by Sahar Eisenstein-Bond

Mariel turned, straightening up, and gave the officers a slightly strained smile. “Hi, Alexis, Charmaine.” She stepped away from the open door to the sugar shack, where she had been inspecting the splotch of mud smeared over the neatly painted surface. “I’m glad you two have arrived.” *How does she even know my first name?* Officer Hall thought. *It’s not like we’ve ever had a long conversation together.* But then, this was Leverett.

“The body’s still in the syrup,” Mariel told them. “We’ve left everything the way I found it.” Officer Hall started, trying to conceal her sudden inner turmoil. She had been sure that this case was just a burglary or maybe arson, some person breaking in to steal a few gallons of sweet syrup. But murder? *The body’s in the syrup?*

Morbidly curious, she made her way over to the boiler. She stared at the teenage boy floating in the maple sap, and looked around at Srey and Mariel. Srey was standing beside her, looking into the vat, but the woman who was there first had turned around again and was looking at something on the wall. *She has a head start on us,* thought Charmaine with some annoyance.

Page 7 by Petriana Monize

The sudden and brief shaking and laboring of her cruiser crossing the train tracks jolted Chief Hall from her sweet thoughts of solving the mystery she was called to. In spite of her mild charm and amusement by the siren and light, she needed to get her head clear before encountering Mariel beside whom she believed herself inadequate. In spite of her training and skills, Chief Hall already had a pronounced ability to weigh equally in solving any crime, what happened to her senses once she was present at the scene. Before she made it to her destination, she knew well that if she had not temporarily assuaged the dissonance in her thinking, she would certainly not be able to make good maple syrup out of the sap she was presently called to.

Once she was near the Shack she saw the lights and patrol car of Officer Srey arriving.
Srey, unlike her, used her lights without the sirens precisely because it was her belief that she ought not disturb the dead nor any delicate situation related to it.

Chief Hall slowed to allow Officer Srey passage and to collect herself before fully arriving. Following Srey, she made her left into the driveway of the Sugar Shack and was presently stunned when she noticed the entire width of Muriel’s backside comfortably bent over something appearing to modestly intrigue her.

“Hell,” she mumbled under her breath. “Who could go past this woman”?

Page 6 by Peter d'Errico

If Chief Hall had any worry, it was because of early warm weather. Spring nights have to freeze and days thaw for sap to flow just right. Her thoughts were cut short by the phone, a call from Route 63 Sugar Shack.

She talked right over the "call is being recorded" message. "What's up, Bob? You boiling? I was just thinking of visiting. Your syrup is sweet enough to die for."

"I would be boiling, Charmaine, but you better get over here quick to see why I'm not." Bob's voice was rushed, between heavy breaths, like he'd been running. "And you may be right about my syrup, but you'll wish you weren't."

"Well, Bob, don't waste your breath; it'll be a mystery until I get there."

"I got to warn you, Charmaine, it's gonna be a mystery after you get here. You better put a call out to Dispatch and have them send a couple people, too. Mariel's already here and she's going to have some figuring-out to do."

The Chief startled at the mention of Mariel, a nice-looking former detective from the Midwest, still new in town, maybe a little too polite, but eager to help when she could. Charmaine guessed Mariel's detective training was more scientific than her own, and was happy the woman wasn't arrogant. "A sugar shack mystery. That'll be a sweet assignment," she thought as she hopped in the cruiser. She radioed Dispatch and, for the fun of it, put on lights and siren.

Page 5 by Peggy Marshall

“Mar, honey do what you do best!”   The firm voice in Mariel’s mind brought her out of  the paralysis that had resulted when she saw the body in the tank.

Her husband’s voice remained in her mind as strong today as it was when he was alive.

Frank had been a Chicago detective, same as she, when he was murdered during an undercover operation gone awry.  Mariel had dearly loved Frank and truly felt that she had lost the anchor in her life once he was gone.  Twenty-five years in the Chicago police department, she was highly decorated and well respected, yet Mariel just could not continue on with the job without Frank.  She took an early retirement and looked for a place that was completely different from Chicago, a place where she could raise Mabel and Mark in a community that cared.  Leverett was the choice she had made, and her choice was good, they had been here five years and she felt part of the community.

Despite the scene before her, Mariel smiled and said aloud “Thanks, Frank I know

I can always count on you “.  While she was not actively working with police she was not far away from the world of crime and justice.  She was now an adjunct professor at the local University and taught criminal justice as well as being an expert witness in various court cases nationwide.

She noted three things about the scene before her, there were three overturned sap buckets lying to the left of the tank, a handprint on the right window above the tank, and a large muddy smudge on the white painted interior of the door, about three feet off the floor. 

She stepped closer to the vat to view the body as she pulled her cell phone out to dial the police.   She leaned over to look into the tank and the phone slipped, she watched it slowly sink down into the bottom. 

Damn, Drat, Darn!   She cursed.  Her mind whirled for the best way to contact the Leverett Police Chief, Charmaine Hall.

Page 4 by Susie Chang

It had been Walter's idea to hang at the sugar shack.   Usually, it was a good choice--quiet, sweet-smelling, not far even if you lived in North Amherst or Sunderland.  The door was always open.  It didn't even have a lock.

Last night, though, someone had secured the door from the inside, apparently with twine.  It was Angela who'd noticed the end hanging loose and suggested Mabel wiggle her Swiss army knife along the door jamb till it severed the twine.

Giggling--had they just done something illegal?-- everybody had piled inside while somebody swatted the air overhead for the bare bulb.  Smash! The bulb shattered, and Mabel had stumbled back against a display table, knocking a decorative maple leaf bottle to the floor.

The mess wasn't too bad, but still, no one wanted to get blamed for it.  They'd done their best to clean up, agreed to keep their mouths shut, and hightailed it.  All except Walter and Mabel.  In the dark, combing the sticky floor for debris, neither had so much as glanced at the boiler in the shadows.

Mabel, the possessor of one Swiss army knife, a handkerchief full of shattered glass and some shreds of twine, did not want to talk to Angela about Walter.  But just at that moment, with an earsplitting peeping, the smoke alarm went off.  Only then did Mabel notice the smoking waffle iron.  She rolled her eyes.  What kind of family has waffles and pancakes for breakfast, anyway?  "Gotta run!"

Page 3 by Rosie McMahan

“Did you hear?” Mabel's friend, Angela asked. Angela never said hello. They didn't need to as Mabel and Angela had known each other since attending pre-school together. But something in the question made Mabel cringe.

“Hear what? What's wrong?”

“Bunch of cop cars up at the shack, lights, sirens…Are you sure you got rid of everything last night?”

“Yea,” Mabel said, rushing to find her jacket, feeling for the inside pouch. Everything was there. “But I wasn't alone.”

“Who else stayed?” Angela murmured.

Should she tell her? Nobody knew, not even Angela. After the gang had taken off, he'd hung back with her, acting like he didn't need to go anywhere, but she knew why he’d lingered. He told her a story as they searched the ground for any overlooked items. His family had tapped the sugar maples around their house when he was a kid, filled buckets, and boiled the sap down till every glass jug was overflowing. Everything was so sticky; they couldn't trust leaving any out. Assembly line style, they lugged in the containers one by one, placing them on the old pine table. In the middle of the night, the crash was so loud, he was sure one of the old ash trees had come through the roof. But it hadn't; the weight of the jars had caused the table to collapse.

She couldn't get over the force of emotion that traveled through her when he'd smiled.   

“Walter,” she halted briefly, “Walter Rogalaski.”

Page 2 by Steven MacLean

Mariel wanted to scream.  She wanted to run, but something was keeping her feet rooted to the ground, her face fixated on the corpse in front of her.  It had nothing to do with her years of detective schooling.  It had nothing to do with her rough upbringing, being raised on the streets of Chicago as a girl.  It had, in fact, to do with her children.  The figure in front of her could have been 18 at best, which would have made him two years older than her eldest daughter.  Immediately, Mariel’s motherly instincts kicked into gear.  She knew she had to do something, but what?

* * *

Mabel Maplethorpe was sitting at home, wondering what was taking her mother so long.  The pancakes were getting cold, and she grumbled at the prospect of waiting another 15 minutes.  She picked up the phone, and dialed her mother’s cell #, but it went straight to voicemail.  Just as she hung up, she got another call.  Thinking it was her mother, she picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

Page 1 by Bruce Watson

Forty gallons of sap for one gallon of syrup. Forty gallons of sap. Forty. . .

As she stepped into the Route 63 Sugar Shack on a brisk March morning, detective Mariel Maplethorpe could not get the number out of her head. She thought of all the gorgeous jars in all the quaint sugar shacks of New England. All those amber jugs, shaped like maple leaves or bears or just jugs, and each represented gallons and gallons of sap coursing through the veins of stately maples this time of year. Gallons and gallons tapped into buckets, then boiled and boiled (and boiled some more) just so the world would not have to suffer pancakes all doughy and bland. Forty gal—

Mariel’s mathematical marveling over maple syrup was stopped in mid-sentence by a sight that brought even a seasoned detective up short. She had come to the sugar shack to buy a gallon of syrup. Leverett being Leverett, i.e., an honorable town where boxes stuffed with dollar bills can sit all day at untended fruit and vegetable stands, the shack was empty. Mariel did not expect to see a soul; in fact she rather hoped she wouldn’t. She was in a hurry to get home with the syrup before her waffle iron warmed. But as she glanced beyond the shelves, piled high with amber jugs, she noticed the boiler in the back room. Forty gallons seemed an incredible amount of sap. But was forty gallons enough to drown the man in the plaid shirt and work pants who floated face down in Grade A Dark Amber syrup?

Welcome

In early March we will post the first page of the mystery, which will be written by the distinguished Leverett author Bruce Watson.

Do you want to contribute to the tale? Contact Linda Wentworth at the library at 413.548.9220 or leverett@cwmars.org.  We will compile a list of writers, and contact you when it is your turn to write your section. You will have 48 hours to write and send us your contribution. We will then add it to the story online, and contact the next writer on our list to add the next section.

Rules for writers:

1. The story is intended to be a “Cozy” murder mystery (google “cozy mystery” for more specifics), and must follow the customs of that genre. That means no sci fi elements (no space aliens), no magical realism, etc.

2.  All violence must occur “off-stage.”  A body will be found, but the murder occurs out of sight.

3.  Keep any love scenes PG rated.

4.  No actual Leverett residents should be in the story. No real names of local people can be used.

5.  The contributions should be no longer than 250 words, and can be as short as 4 words (“It’s you!” she gasped.)