Ever since I was a little girl, I knew I wasn't normal like all the other girls, who preferred to play with their Barbies. Instead, I preferred to lock myself up in my room and read as many mystery novels as I could get my hands on. Although the novels I read ranged from Nancy Drew to Mary Higgins Clark, I was fixated with murder mystery novels. Something about them fascinated me. It was just how brilliant they were planned out and the risk that came with them. I suppose part of this fascination came from the crappy childhood I had to endure with my mother. When she wasn't busy beating the crap out of my sisters and me, she was bringing a new guy home every night and when she wasn't doing that, she was stoning herself up. Murder mysteries were my escape method. Every night, I would dream of murdering my mother in the most gruesome manner possible and then running away with Lucy and Lydia to some foreign country (it changed every time; one night it would be Italy, the next it would be Saudia Arabia) where we would change our names, start over, and marry triplets. Of course, this dream never came true. We came to learn how to deal with our problems, grew up, and went on with our lives. The old murder fantasies of my childhood would occasionally come back, but I'd push them out of my head, telling myself that was a long time ago and that murder was wrong.
All that repression came to an end after the supermarket hold-up. That was when my plan slowly began to build up in my head. The plan was to commit not just one murder, but murder on a grand scale! I would gather various friends of mine to the little-known lodge, Eden Lodge, and punish them for their sins in the most grizzly manner. I didn't have the complete plan outlined, of course, because at the time, it was just a little fantasy I had that I would occasionally dream up when I wasn't doing anything else—you know, like the fantasy about having the ultimate car. I knew this fantasy of mine was wrong, and yet it felt so right. The 'wrong' part took control of me, however, and I was able to hold back my urges.
This common sense came to an abrupt end when I found out I had Lymphoma. Even though I ultimately beat it, I was not willing to take a chance. If there is anything I have learned, it is to live every day as if it could be your last in case God decides to cruelly cut your life short. I decided right then and there that I would not die as the mundane patient succumbing to cancer. Instead, I was going to go down with a bang.
One of the things I would need would be an accomplice. I would need someone to unknowingly act as a spy for my fellow victims and then report what they saw or heard back to me under the impression that we were just friendly gossiping. This help came from two resources. First, I used my children as my own little spies. While they were causing mischief around the neighbourhood, they came across information that they felt they had to report back to me. Inside, I was ecstatic, but on the outside, I simply went, "That's nice, dear." They witnessed the birth of Danielle Van de Kamp's son, found Mike Delfino's pills while playing in his truck one day, Kayla was close friends with Sheri who confided in Kayla that she was her new best friend after having lost her other best friend when the two got into an argument that Gabrielle Marquez coaxed her into getting into, and, last but not least, when Dylan baby-sat them one faithful day, they found the late Lillian Simms' confession about how low she and Katherine Mayfair were willing to stoop—all to make sure Dylan never found out her father was a murderer. They never showed the note to Dylan, of course. Instead, they kept it safe with them until I came across it in Parker's jean pocket while doing the laundry.
The second resource was from my own friends, my potential victims. Whenever they'd come crying to me about the bad day they had, they'd unknowingly sign their own death warrants. I had to bite my lip until it bled to keep myself from laughing over the dramatic irony. On the outside, I pretended to be a caring friend, but deep down, I was disgusted with every one of their actions. But I couldn't be more disgusted and infuriated with anyone than Bree Hodge, who defined hypocrisy. At least Gabrielle Marquez and Susan Mayer were openly honest with me about almost everything. Bree, on the other hand, was a filthy little liar. I will not go into details as to how I found out about Bree and George, or about how her wretched son ran over Juanita Solis; all I'll say is that I made my own little investigations that led me to interesting conclusions. So I think I shall reveal exactly how I found out about her most horrific sin of all: One day, Susan came over to comfort me about my cancer. I decided this would be the perfect opportunity to trick her into confessing, so I casually mentioned that no matter how much my children drove me crazy, they were still my children and I would always love them no matter what. Know what her response was?
"There's something disturbing Bree told me a while back that I have to tell you. Remember when Andrew 'ran away'? Well, she told me that Andrew didn't run away at all…she abandoned him. She just left him by the side of the road with some supplies and took off."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Are you sure?" I asked.
"Well, that's what she said to me," said Susan. "It's pretty hard to forget something like that."
This left me stunned. I wouldn't argue with anyone who said that being a homemaker is difficult, nor would I deny that my own boys have made me want to pull my hair out, but abandoning your own child? How anyone can bring themselves to do something so horrible is beyond me.
Once I found out the information I needed to find out, I needed to find someone to help make the arrangements and record those scathing indictments on the CD. This help came in the form of Karen McCluskey. We have not been the best of friends, but she's willing to help me when I need her. On the night before Christmas, I approached her with a plan: She was to drop off the following envelopes to the following addresses (or drop the following letter off to Gabrielle and Carlos in their case) and they would all receive invitations to a get-together a friend of mine was holding, but if anyone talked to her about it, she was to pretend she knew nothing of it. She did a second thing for me, of course, but I'll go into that later.
It was a lot of fun to pretend as though I were a completely clueless invitee and was just as anxious to meet Miss Teri Game as the rest of my neighbours. I have to admit, though, that the trickiest part was thinking up a reason for knowing Miss Game in case anyone I asked. It wasn't until I 'got' my invitation that it came to me: Of course! We must've met in college! After all, I had been rather popular back then and had too many friends to keep track of; perhaps that was how I met Teri! The truth is, I met Teri when I saw Kayla playing one of the Nancy Drew games Tom and I bought for her and the name on a naming card was Miss Teri Game. I caught on to the pun instantly and thought it was a brilliant name to use to suggest an air of mystery to the mysterious host.
Before I go on to mention Kayla's part in this, I should discuss why I decided to kill my victims the way I did: While my plan was still in the early stages of developing, I read book of poems to Penny one night to help her sleep. One of those poems was the rhyme of the Ten Little Indian Boys. Something about the rhyme fascinated me. The dramatic rise and climax, the sense of inevitability…I knew in that moment that this was how I was going to kill my victims. I would gather nine of them, lure them to Eden Lodge, play a CD that first played the nursery rhyme and then the accusations, and then I would kill each and every one of them off one by one in accordance to the Ten Little Indians rhyme to drive them all insane, constantly wondering if they would be the ones to die next in such a horrible fashion. Of course, I wouldn't be stupid enough to stay alive while killing them off; otherwise, they'd eventually use the process of elimination to figure out I had done it. That, however, shall also be mentioned later. Kayla came into this when I gently told her I wanted her to sing the Ten Little Indians nursery rhyme for a little boy in the hospital who needed something to cheer him up. She was confused as to how a rhyme such as this would cheer anyone up until I explained to her that if she made it sound as cheery as possible, the little boy would learn to be happy under even the direst of circumstances. After that, she didn't ask any questions and proceeded with recording the song.
Two days before we were bound to leave, and after making the reservations for Eden Lodge, the first place I stopped by was Susan Mayer and Mike Delfino's house. I took Mike aside and advised him to take his gun with him in case any mountain lions came along and threatened to spoil everyone's good fun, but if anyone asked why he brought the gun, he was never to bring up my name in his explanation. To my delight, he agreed that it was better to be safe than sorry. Ah, if only he knew…
After this, I went to pay Mrs. McCluskey another visit. I told her that I was planning on playing a little joke on everyone during our visit at Eden Lodge. She looked at me a bit strangely when I first told her what I wanted her to do, but I assured her it was just a prank. I had grown close to Mrs. McCluskey by this time, so I felt somewhat guilty lacing her arthritis medicine with rat poison while she was recording the accusations, but I reminded myself that if I allowed her to stay alive, she'd eventually smell a rat and go to the police and they would arrive at Eden Lodge a lot sooner than I planned and everything would go down the tubes.
Fortunately, nothing went wrong during the first few days my plan was launched into action. I took this as a sign and proceeded with it. We all arrived at Eden Lodge via cable car on the last day of 2007. The party included myself. When everyone decided to prepare dinner for themselves, I pretended to go upstairs to my room to change after about ten minutes, but once I was sure no one was watching, I took the axe I had slipped into my suitcase, climbed down the drainpipe out the window, ran up to the cable, and chopped it with all my might until it eventually broke and collapsed. I quickly tossed the axe with it. Then, I snuck back into the house, quietly placed the CD into the hidden CD player in the parlour, hid the remote, and went to my room to change for dinner.
I could barely contain my excitement, but I was able to. I pretended to be every bit as shocked and angry as my victims when the rhyme and the accusations were played. In the chaos arising from the accusations, I slipped some cyanide into Edie Britt's drinking glass. Ah yes, Edie Britt…what is there to say about her, aside from the fact that she's the neighbourhood slut? I've never liked her that much, and the accusation about her faking a suicide was based on my own personal guess (and I knew from the look on her face that she was guilty as sin) but she never did anything personal to me, so she went first. That was the order my victims went, you see—those whose sins were lightest went first, to spare them the mental torture reserved for the more serious sinners. She wasn't the only victim to die by poisoning, however. Another thing I had quickly done before dinner was sneak into the Mayfair's room and lightly lace Adam Mayfair's sleeping pills with chloral hydrate.
While I was still in the process of digging up everyone's dirty little secrets back in Fairview, I had the pleasure of meeting Sylvia Greene. She was absolutely hysterical and went on and on about the love she and Adam Mayfair had, how much she hated his wife, how she had sued for sexual harassment and forced the Mayfair's to move here, how she tracked Adam down, and how if she couldn't live without Adam, she didn't want to live at all. I did not see her again after that, but I've heard rumours that she jumped off a bridge. Then again, I've also heard that she is taking firearm courses to massacre the Mayfair's, so who knows what really became of her. But, of course, I knew from the way she carried on and on that she was telling the truth. Cheaters make me absolutely furious, but what Adam did was nothing compared to the sins committed by his wife, Katherine, whom I shall eventually get to. At least Adam died the most peaceful death out of everyone.
Speaking of night, when everyone was asleep, I quietly snuck into everyone's rooms using the windows and disabled the clocks and turned them all the way back to midnight, to add to the psychological horror they'd all be facing at my hands, to represent that their time was running out.
Getting Gabrielle to help fake my death was all-too easy. Right before we all went to bed the night before, I took Gabrielle off to the side and told her I suspected Edie was murdered and that although I was probably just being paranoid, we should come up with a plan in case the murderer strikes again, and so we did: I'd put on a double-layered bullet-proof vest which I had hid right before dinner in a secret compartment in the basement, shove a rubber knife coated with Vaseline and red cornstarch at the tip to give it a more realistic effect, and have Gabrielle tie me up to the wall and I would pretend to be dead. This would leave the murderer dumbstruck and would allow me to move about the lodge unsuspected so Gabrielle and I could catch the unknown murderer. This was a wise move, now that I look back on it. Pretending to be dead early on helped deflect suspicion off of me. And of course, it's the third rhyme: One said he'd stay there and then there were seven. Hence, I did not really die, I stayed there.
I can still remember it as though it were done only yesterday, not two days ago. After I proposed a search party and Gabrielle suggested everyone look outside once our efforts to find Miss Game inside the lodge proved fruitless, Tom said he was worried about me and wanted to stay behind. I kept assuring him I would be fine, though he was reluctant. Before he left, the last thing he ever said was that he loved me. I couldn't help but tear up at this, knowing this would be the last time I would ever speak to my husband ever again. I was able to wipe away my tears and I calmly pretended to search the basement in case anyone besides Gabrielle came downstairs. During this, I heard someone walk down the stairs. For a minute, I panicked. What if it was someone other than Gabrielle? What if that someone came downstairs right before Gabrielle came running down, ready to go through with the plan? Frightened, I called out, "Who's there?"
To my relief, I heard Gabrielle scoff in an 'isn't-it-obvious' voice, "Don't play games with me, Lynette; you know it's me."
To make sure it really was Gabrielle, I backed up to get a clearer view, accidentally tripping in the process—and there she was, with her 'let's-do-this' look. I pretended to scream, hoping someone would hear and think there was a murder going on—but that person wouldn't be able to interfere because right before coming down, Gabrielle locked the basement door. And so, we went through with out little plan: I had already put the vest on underneath my clothes, so Gabrielle tied me to the wall and put the fake knife right through the exact spot I told her to put it. To add a bit of extra horror to it, I leaned my head to one side and rolled my eyes all the way back. Gabrielle then ran upstairs, unlocked the basement door, opened it, closed it, opened it again, ran downstairs, and let out a scream that nearly deafened me. I've got to hand it to her: If I wasn't the murderer, I would've been convinced something really did happen.
Gabrielle and Tom carried me to Edie's room (the place where the dead bodies were going to be stashed from now on), Gabrielle carefully making sure Tom wasn't carrying me in such a way that he'd get a telltale sign I was still living. Let me tell you something: You have not smelt true unbearable stenches unless you have been in the same room as rotting corpses for four days straight. But it was all worth it to make sure no one ever found out my real plan.
I killed Mike Delfino early next morning. I somehow knew he would be up at this time, so I took a big risk by sneaking out of Edie's room and crouched beneath the stairs, waiting for Mike to come. When he did, I tip-toed in the dark up the stairs behind him. I slowly lifted up the alarm clock in Edie's room I had taken and whacked him over the head with it. Although Mike Delfino was handsome, there was a part of me that hated him for hiding his cruel past from those he loved, so I didn't feel the least bit sorry to tie him, drag him down to the basement, and chop him up with various different knives. Mike had begun to wake up when I first chopped off his fingers, but he was unable to cry out in pain, for I had also gagged him. I didn't stop until I had hacked up as much as the three knives I had were capable of chopping up. I then scooped up the remaining bits of Mike and put them all into the nearby toy chest. I washed my hands, closed the lid of the chest, and taped a little note to it that I had written which read 'Open Me', to add to the creepiness of the situation. I slowly and carefully carried the toy chest upstairs and into the dining room, where I removed another Indian boy—which I had been doing whenever someone died, I must add. As I exited the dining room, I heard footsteps, so I quickly ran back into Edie's room, snuck out the window, went up the drainpipe, and hid the three knives in the rooms of Susan Mayer, Carlos Solis, and Bree Hodge before scooting back to my room and reassuming my position.
And now, it was time for a bumblebee to sting one. Gabrielle Marquez should've known better than to trust me. Obviously, she has never read mystery novels, for the golden rule is to trust no one but yourself. She should've known better than to bring up her allergy to bee stings while attending chemotherapy with me, just like she should've known better than to confide her secrets to me—well, except for the one about her affair with her teenage gardener. Aw hell, I think even the President knows! You see, I chose Gabrielle to be both my accomplice and my fifth victim for three reasons: One, she was allergic to bee stings as I have mentioned so it would better fit the rhyme; two, along with her other dirty deeds, I felt appalled by her affair with John Rowland the most because what if she got bored of her marriage to Victor and eventually moved on to my boys when they hit their teenage years?; and three, she's not the sharpest knife in the drawer (ha, ha) so she wouldn't immeadiatly suspect me. I had told her to keep an eye open for me because I would eventually meet up with her again to share my suspicions on who the murderer was. We met up again outside—but it wasn't to discuss the identity of the murderer, but the identity of the next victim. Gabrielle realized this too late and began to run away from me.
The dumb bitch actually thought I was going to run after her in plain sight where anyone could see me, but she should've known better than to underestimate me. Little did she know that I had calculated her every move beforehand. I knew that the basement was the first place she'd go to since the doors leading down to it were just up ahead of where we were, or that earlier, I'd planted a wasp's nest down there and had disturbed them from their winter slumber so that the first thing that happened as soon as Gabrielle went into the cellar was she'd get stung to death. To make sure no one interrupted any of this, I'd locked the inside door to the basement and unlocked it only after Gabrielle's screams fell silent.
I should mention now that earlier, Tom found Mike's gun on the stairs and placed it in Edie's dresser and that shortly after I unlocked the basement door and went back to Edie's room, I took the gun, once again made the tiring climb up the drainpipe, and hid it behind one of the bear statues on the ledge of the lodge (keep that in mind), careful not to leave any fingerprints on it.
The next one to go was Carlos Solis. I always thought he was an SOB of a husband and that Gabrielle deserved better than him. After all, if it wasn't for him, Gabrielle wouldn't have turned to John. And if it wasn't for him, he and Gabrielle wouldn't be on the run from Victor in the first place, nor would Edie have staged a suicide attempt. This time, the stakes were higher. I snuck down into the basement and 'arranged' for the lights to go out, thanks to some 'handy work' I performed on the generator. Next, I put on a pair of rubber boots and rubber gloves from a nearby storage closet, grabbed a pair of wire cutters from a nearby tool box (the last people at Eden Lodge left a lot of junk behind), and used those wire cutters to cut some nearby wires loose. Then, I turned on a nearby sink and plugged the drain up with, ironically, the same cork to the wine that caused Edie to meet her untimely demise. Finally, I ran upstairs, took off the rubber boots and gloves, tossed the wire cutters onto the floor, ran back into my room, waited about a minute, and then I set the stage: Earlier before, I had hidden a tape recording of me screaming (I had recorded this before arriving at Eden Lodge) along with a microphone to amplify it in the pantry. I used a special remote control to turn on the tape recording—and I once again climbed out the window and up the drain pipe. I grabbed the gun I had earlier hid, snuck into Tom's room, and fired a shot. I took a few steps in the dark, careful not to let anyone see me, and once again took a shot. Knowing I only had seconds before Carlos ran away from where I wanted him to stay, I leaped over the stair banister and pushed Carlos down the basement stairs and straight into the puddle of water. The following action was almost instantaneous: He instantly began jerking around, his body slowly burning up like a badly barbecued piece of meat. The sight of him dancing around like a little marionette made me laugh. I tried to hold it back so no one would hear me, but I couldn't help it. I let out an insane, maniacal laugh. I had only laughed for about ten seconds before I heard someone's footsteps. I quickly ran back into Edie's room and took my usual means of transportation (I think the reader of this has it memorized by now) up to Tom's room and hid the gun in his night stand before returning. After Carlos was placed in Edie's room, I climbed up to Adam and Katherine's room and slipped the last bit of my chloral hydrate into Katherine's tea mix. It was enough to render her unconscious and I returned a short time later to tie her wrists and legs together, duct tape her mouth shut, put her body in the bathtub, and turn the bathtub on—and leave it running. Katherine Mayfair is almost as big a hypocrite as Bree Hodge, if not more so. Of course, she doesn't have nearly as much skeletons as Bree, but has plenty enough to make me just want to sock her. What kind of mother would kill her husband in front of her own child and then attempt to have the child's memory completely erased, even if it meant risking the child's life?
And now came the final act, the act I had been waiting for—three people who were frightened of each other. And one of them found a gun in their own nightstand! I knew that at this point, they'd want to get out of the house as soon as possible, so I once again took my means of transportation and hid right behind one of the bear statues, waiting for them to come outside—and sure enough, they did. Although I did not necessarily hate Susan Mayer, she was incredibly irritating. She had done incredibly childish things to get some petty men to notice her and had burned down Edie's house, how on Earth could she be fit to be a good mother? Harsh as I was to kill a pregnant woman, she had to go, so I played a tape recording I had once again earlier recorded: I imitated Mike's voice and chanted, "Susan," over and over again. Since I knew none of them would have a fit mental condition after all they'd been through, I knew Susan would play into my trap. And sure enough, she did. Almost as soon as she heard the voice, I began pushing the bear statue. Here, I knew I was taking a big risk because if the statue fell off target, I'd be spotted. Luckily, I was right on target. As soon as the statue began to fall, I ran across the ledge, slid behind one of the other statues, and made my way through the window into another person's room (I forget which). I then grabbed a nearby chair (I'll explain in a minute) and quickly ran into Bree's room, where I sat back and watched the fun.
The last to die were Tom and Bree because I could never bring myself to actually kill Tom. I just loved the bastard too much. So I hoped that if he, along with one other person, outlived everyone else the other person would come to the conclusion that Tom was the murderer and kill him not only out of self-defence, but also to avenge the deaths of their friends. However, it could not be another man because otherwise, the two would just get into a stupid fight which would be an insult to my little rhyme. No, it had to be another housewife to kill him because women don't settle conflict the same way men do. Instead, they use strategy and cunning to defeat their enemies. And who would be up for the job better than Bree? I'm fully aware of the things she's done to keep her family name an honourable one. Not only that, but I have a deep-seated hatred for her for what she did to her son, as I have mentioned earlier. Therefore, she fit all the necessary categories to be my final victim. I was rather pleased with how she tricked Tom: She lifted part of the statue off of Susan's body, pretended to faint, and pick-pocketed Tom's gun. When he realized what she had done, he tried to kill her, but alas, it was the female species that won out in the end.
Knowing I had little more than five minutes before Bree came inside, I pulled out a rope I had been keeping in my pocket and made a noose out of it. I set up the chair, stood up on it, and hung the noose onto the black hook. I then snuck downstairs and observed Bree from the parlour as I slowly followed her upstairs. There was a brief instance where she almost caught me, but luckily, I was able to hide myself. Bree made an entertaining psychological experiment. Would the knowledge of the fact that she had failed as a parent, the hypnotic suggestion of her surroundings, and the initial shock and nervous tension of having just killed someone be enough to coerce her into taking her own life? I thought it would, but there was a part of me that was worried it wouldn't work. To my great surprise, it did. Bree Hodge hanged herself before my very eyes as I stood observing her from the slightly open door. Almost immediately after, I moved the chair and propped it up neatly against the wall—and laughed. After all, this is how Bree would've wanted it; she wouldn't like to leave any messy details behind. She would've wanted everything to be neat and tidy. How ironic.
As for now…I must finish this. Why? Yes, why. I suppose there's a vain part of me that wants the world to know just how clever I have been. I crave posthumous recognition for my work. I wish for everyone to question my motives and whether they were right or wrong. The true identity behind pseudonyms must be revealed eventually.
I may be gone by the time this is finished, but I will not be forgotten. My plan will be gossiped about for years, studied in colleges, and who knows—they may even still be studied when my children go to college. My children might be ashamed at first that their mommy was a murderer, but in time they'll come to be proud of where they came from.
However, I do not plan on stabbing myself as my fellow victims have recorded about my death, for there would be a huge poetic injustice in that. I will instead be found in the kitchen with the gun in my hand, after having shot myself in the head, as Mary Alice Young did. Unlike Mary Alice Young, I will tape my confession to the fridge, as a housewife would tape a list of groceries or her children's accomplishments to the fridge. Although it would make the police figure out the solution that much sooner, it would also be poetic justice: Wisteria Lane's first great mystery started with a bang, and so its second great mystery shall end with a bang.
Credit Song: Lies by Evanescence
Quote: Who says that murder's not an art?—Roxie Hart, Roxie from the movie/Broadway hit Chicago
A/N: Wow…I can't believe the story's actually over. I guess that's what I get for updating frequently, lol! To those of you who guessed correctly, congratulations! You get the Agatha Christie Clue Award, for spotting the trickiest of clues! This award enables you free access to my other ATTWN-based stories that are based on the actual novel…which you can access by going to my profile page! Okay, so anyone can see my other ATTWN stories from there, lol, but still, congrats! For those of you who didn't spot the clues pointing to Lynette (and for those who randomly guessed), here they are:
In the beginning, Lynette was thinking of course, she must've met Miss Teri Game in college. She wasn't trying to remember where she met Miss Teri Game; she was trying to think up a good story to give in case anyone asked how she knew Miss Game!
Lynette was the one who suggested that they all go into groups and later on split up and Gabrielle supported her one hundred percent and did not question her.
For Lynette's 'death', I pulled off a similar trick AC used in one of her books (but I'm not revealing which one!): While I had been telling the truth about Lynette's 'death', I simply didn't tell the WHOLE truth. All I said was that Lynette saw a familiar face and screamed, hoping that someone would hear her—but I didn't go into as much detail about her 'death' as I did with the other deaths that took place on-screen.
One of you did follow this clue: Gabrielle isn't very bright, yet she was able to somehow figure everything out before everyone else did.
As Lynette stated in her confession, there was a clue hidden in one of the verses: One said he'd stay there and then there were seven. Hence, Lynette didn't really die, she stayed there.
When the police were talking about the murders, Lynette's death wasn't mentioned; they just said two people were shot. They never said anything about someone being stabbed. Two of you (sudoku and GinaHolden Love) followed this clue.
I hope you all had as much fun reading this story as I had writing it. Although I don't have an all-time favourite, I'd have to say that this fanfic is, to quote Agatha Christie about (ironically enough) And Then There Were None, 'a better piece of craftsmanship than anything I have ever written'.