A Murder Among Friends
A Murder Among Friends
Ramona Richards
The death of bestselling author Aaron Jackson turned Maggie Weston's world inside out. The manager of Jackson's Writers Retreat, Maggie knew a murderer hid among her colleagues and friends. Was it actress Lily Dunne, target of a stalker's obsession? Lily's writer husband, struggling to make a name for himself? Money-loving Korie, Aaron's wife? Or someone else?Maggie herself stood to inherit from Aaron's estate. As former New York City cop Fletcher MacAllister piled up evidence against Maggie, only faith kept her strong. And Fletcher needed to rekindle his own faith in time to prevent the killer from claiming another victim.
“Please,” Maggie whispered. “I didn’t kill him.”
Reaching up, Fletcher let one finger stroke gently under the two stitches near her left eye. “The M.E. has released the body. There’s this memorial service planned. Do you want to go?”
Maggie pressed his hand against her cheek. Fletcher’s gut tightened as she held it there briefly, then let go. “No. Not yet. I need to stay here.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and Fletcher wanted to say something, anything to explain how he felt. And what he couldn’t let himself feel. Not until he cleared Maggie as a suspect.
“Ramona Richards has ingeniously woven together two stories and given it to her readers as fiction inside fiction. A Murder Among Friends is filled with human emotion and woven with faith’s struggles. From the first chapter till the last, you won’t stop wondering and you won’t want to stop reading, even if you put the book down long enough to grab a fresh cup of coffee.”
–Eva Marie Everson, CBA bestselling author
of The Potluck Club series
RAMONA RICHARDS
A writer and editor since 1975, Ramona Richards has worked on staff with a number of publishers. Ramona has also freelanced with more than twenty magazine and book publishers and has won awards for both her fiction and nonfiction. She’s written everything from sales training video scripts to book reviews, and her latest articles have appeared in Today’s Christian Woman, College Bound, and Special Ed Today. She sold a story about her daughter to Chicken Soup for the Caregiver’s Soul, and Secrets of Confidence, a book of devotionals, is available from Barbour Publishing.
In 2004 the God Allows U-Turns Foundation, in conjunction with the Advanced Writers and Speakers Association (AWSA), chose Ramona for their Strength of Choice award, and in 2003 AWSA nominated Ramona for Best Fiction Editor of the Year. The Evangelical Press Association presented her with an award for reporting in 2003, and in 1989 she won the Bronze Award for Best Original Dramatic Screenplay at the Houston International Film Festival. A member of the American Christian Fiction Writers and the Romance Writers of America, she has five other novels complete or in development.
Ramona and her daughter live in a suburb of Nashville, Tennessee. She can be reached through her Web site at www.ramonarichards.com.
A Murder Among Friends
Ramona Richards
I’ve told you these things for a purpose: that my joy might be your joy, and your joy wholly mature. This is my command: Love one another the way I loved you. This is the very best way to love. Put your life on the line for your friends.
—John 15: 11–14
Special thanks:
To Nancy Zottos, who opened up New Hampshire to me.
To all my friends who made it possible for me to go out on my own, especially Sunny, Phyllis, Jeff, Marcheta, Jamie, Teri, Marilee—and Pat, who introduced me to the real Ciotka Cookie.
To Carol Lynn Stewart, Corbette Doyle and Terra Manasco, my fellow struggling writers and critique partners. Thanks for pushing me ever harder.
To K, the one who—from the first “A” to the latest “Z”—has offered me the most hope-filled inspiration and encouragement.
Finally, to my mom, Jimmie Lou Pope, who has read every word, amazed, thrilled and sometimes puzzled that her daughter could write like that.
Special praise:
To God and His astonishingly glorious Son. I took it to heart when someone once told me, “Your talent is your gift from God. What you do with it is your gift to Him.”
I couldn’t do it without You.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE MAN WHO COUNTS
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
Autumn looks like death, sometimes, with the bloodred leaves fading to burgundy and finally to rust and brown. Maggie Weston thought about such death as she stared steadfastly out the window at the swirl of leaves, despite the rumble of a male voice that sounded behind her.
“Maggie.”
Go away. Maggie crossed her arms tightly as she continued to focus on the bright colors of the New Hampshire fall landscape. The back wall of the A-frame lodge house was almost entirely glass, spreading the scene before her in a cheery panorama. The trees were brilliantly dappled in the rich sunlight, but all Maggie could see was death. Death in the trees. In her heart. On her back steps. Help us, Lord, she prayed silently. Help me.
“Maggie.” The voice tugged at her.
It’s over and done with, she thought, anger and grief curling into a tight knot in her stomach. Just go away and leave us alone.
The staccato clicks of feminine heels tapped into the room. “I’m very grateful you’ve decided to stay, Fletcher,” said a quivering voice. Without turning, Maggie knew that newly widowed Korie Taylor Jackson would be touching the tall man’s arm, stroking it and preening in a slight flirt, as if she couldn’t stop herself.
Yeah, right. Maggie’s thoughts were cold. Just wait until he starts asking you questions.
“Thank you, Korie.” The man’s voice was deep and as mellow as the darkest mahogany, and Maggie’s throat tightened as he spoke. “But I really don’t think I should be doing this—”
“Nonsense!” Korie interrupted him. “You were Aaron’s friend. What better way to start your new business than with solving Aaron Jackson’s—” She stopped and cleared her throat. Maggie heard the tears being forced back into Korie’s voice as it dropped to a whisper. “Solving your best friend’s murder. Everyone in the world knows what a good detective you are.”
Maggie couldn’t quite believe Korie saw her husband’s death as a marketing opportunity. An involuntary growl escaped her throat.
Korie snapped. “Maggie! If you have something to add, just say it!”
Maggie turned and looked slowly over the couple before her. Even in her widowhood of one day, Korie couldn’t resist the affectations of her flowing, oversize skirts and bohemian blouses, which swooped as her slender arms darted through a conversation, making her look like a colorful, earth-bound parrot. Korie had probably been born an incorrigible coquette. At twenty-four, Korie had had two successful shows of her art in New York City and had snagged Aaron Jackson, reveling in his popularity as a bestselling novelist.
Part of the reason for Aaron’s success stood next to Korie. Fletcher MacAllister, who until two months ago had been a detective with New York’s finest, was the model for Aaron’s series hero, Judson MacLean. The charming and meticulous Judson, who had carried his author to the top of the New York Times fiction list on a regular basis, had paid for most of Aaron’s worst habits, including his booze, his cigars and his wife of three years. Of course, the books had also paid for all of them to be here, in this writers’ colony that Aaron had so modestly called Jackson’s Retreat. His dream. His life.
His death.
Maggie took a deep breath to steady her voice. Aaron’s character, Judson, with his Nordic looks and his tastes for lovely women, fine cooking and expensive suits, looked nothing like the man in front of her. Fletcher’s features and dark hair reflected more of his Thai mother than his Scottish father, and he had obviously slept in his suit, probably more than once. His eyes, a rich brown instead of Judson’s piercing blue, were almond shaped and questioning, waiting for her to respond. She took a deep breath and ran her hands through her tangled curls, all too aware that her fingers were trembling.
“He’s right, Korie. Don’t you think New Hampshire is more than a bit out of his territory, even if he has started his own business? He doesn’t know this place, doesn’t know us, and the fact that he was staying with you and Aaron doesn’t make him any more capable than Tyler and his folks. They may be a small-town department, but they’re not idiots.”
Trying to appear calm, Maggie walked to the counter separating the main room from the kitchen and reached for one of the cups she had stacked next to the coffeemaker. “And I don’t think you’ll win any points with Mr. MacAllister by lying. Aaron’s books aren’t yet translated into—” Maggie paused, waving her hand as she searched for the most obscure language she could think of “—Burmese. I’m sure there are some people in the world who would not feel the need to swoon in the presence of the ‘real life’ Judson MacLean.”
“I’m not Judson.” Simple, straightforward and delivered with finality before Korie could fly into a protest. Just as Maggie remembered from her first meeting with Fletcher five years ago. That one hadn’t gone very well, either.
Maggie slapped the cup down. “And I’m not going to stand around while Korie tries to convince you that Aaron’s death was anything more than an accident. It can’t be—” Maggie’s voice cracked. Blinking hard, she turned and strode out, leaving the community room of the large lodge behind her and stepping out onto the back deck. She paused, shivering slightly in the cool fall air. She rubbed her arms, feeling the chill through her light sweater. She should have stopped for a jacket, but right now she didn’t care if she froze half to death. She brushed away a single tear, then took another deep breath. God, please help me, she prayed again, this time fighting back the wave of grief that threatened to swamp her the way it had last night. Help me handle this. Maggie started down the steps, then hesitated. The deep color on the bottom step reminded her of what she had found just after midnight. Her own insistent words echoed in her mind, almost as if she were trying to convince herself of something she didn’t quite believe. It had to be an accident! She bit her lip and stepped over the stain.
The mat of leaves crunched and mushed under her feet as she walked out through the woods. The newly fallen leaves on top were dry, while the layers underneath were damp from the frosts they had already seen. The ground beneath all the layers was uneven and a challenge for walking. Maggie loved the effort it took to hike the land, and she almost always wore a stylish but practical pair of boots in case she got the urge to get out of the house. This was her refuge, ever since she’d arrived here at Jackson’s Retreat. Her eyes stung as she remembered her first day here, but she kept walking as briars and low plants tugged at her long woolen skirt.
Jackson’s Retreat. It had been Aaron’s dream to build this colony of cabins scattered across ten acres of his New Hampshire home. The A-frame lodge, with its high glass wall at the back, basement game room and large living area, formed the center of the small community. Aaron had set up an escrow account substantial enough that the interest funded the usual operating expenses, so that the writers who were accepted here could live rent-free in small one-room cabins. Where they lived, that is, as long as they met Aaron’s stringent requirements of production. Their only out-of-pocket expenses were for personal items and food.
When Aaron had called Maggie four years ago and asked her to run the retreat, she had been doubtful at first. Although she and Aaron had been friends for years, since Maggie was in college, she had not seen him in almost a year. They had met at the bookstore where she worked as an assistant manager, and their friendship had later deepened into a turbulent—and brief—romance. After their relationship fell apart, they promised to remain friends, but Maggie had intentionally stayed away from him, unable to forget the intense feelings he had stirred in her heart. These emotions were still raw when he asked her to run the retreat, even though she knew he was dating Korie at the time. After much prayer, Maggie had accepted the job, and Aaron married Korie shortly thereafter.
Aaron. Maggie tripped over a root and stopped, realizing that her vision was beginning to blur with tears. She wiped them away, then pressed her lips to stop their quivering. Thoughts of Aaron flooded her mind. His unbridled laughter, the bigger-than-life way he’d enter a room and take over the conversation. The tenderness with which he had once held her.
The insistence with which he refused to take no for an answer. Maggie had turned down the job at first. Firmly. Surely, he should get someone else to run the retreat. Maggie suggested several other people to him, but he persisted. It was Maggie, with her finely honed management skills and understanding of the writer’s soul, that he wanted in charge of his dream. Finally, she had relented.
Maggie walked on, relishing the feel of the spongy ground under her boots. How she adored this land! Leaving her job in New York, she’d moved here and fallen in love with the land and the dream. Now she lived full-time in the lodge house, overseeing the care of the cabins and their temperamental inhabitants.
Maggie looked up through the dancing leaves as the sun played in patterns on the ground and her face. She sighed, feeling some of the tension ease away. It had been this way almost from the beginning. The comfort she had felt when praying about the job had opened the door; the peacefulness of the location and the constant demands of her job were a great combination. She felt at home and content, and the proximity to Aaron had allowed her finally to put her feelings for him in perspective.
Aaron, who lived with Korie in an old Victorian down the road from the lodge house, stopped in twice a day to check on things. He liked being involved with his dream and his writers. His writers.
She frowned as she pushed aside an overgrown bush next to her favorite trail through the woods, a few of the dried branches breaking as the bush snapped back into place. Aaron’s arrogance hadn’t always sat well with “his” writers, but they couldn’t argue with the success that came from being here. All of the residents—past and present—had achieved far more success financially and artistically than they had before their time at the retreat. They may have battled Aaron, but his edge became their driving force. So why would anyone want to kill him? Why did she—Maggie shook her head, unwilling to acknowledge the thought that hung at the back of her mind. Instead, she went over the events of last night’s dinner, trying to pull anything forward that might answer her questions.
Was he leaving—or coming back—when he died? It had not been a pleasant night. Aaron had been angry. In fact, he had been angry a lot lately—at her, at his wife, at—
No, she told herself again. Maggie knew what she had done was wrong, but it was for the right reasons. I know what they would think. Besides, what’s done is done. Still, her conscience nagged at her. Tell him. Maggie took a ragged breath. Her mother used to say that your conscience was God’s finger on your back, poking you in the right direction. And God never gets tired.
Her mother. Aaron. Lil—Tears clouded her eyes again, the grief unstoppable this time.
Maggie had found Aaron when she had taken out the trash for the night. Why didn’t I hear anything? I must have been in the kitchen cleaning up. Maggie stopped, unable to see for the tears, unable to walk from the weakness in her legs. All that blood! She sank down next to a tree and drew her knees tight against her chest, then leaned her head on them and sobbed. The grief she had been trying to restrain for the past twenty-four hours poured out of her in lung-wrenching gulps that seemed endless. Oh, dear God, help me! The sobs ceased only when her nose became so clogged that she started to choke and cough. She grabbed the bottom of her skirt and started to wipe her face with it.
“Here, use this.”
Maggie gasped and snapped backward, hitting her head against the tree. Her screech echoed through the woods as she jerked and stared up through tears at Fletcher, who was calmly holding out a handkerchief to her. He tipped his head sideways in apology. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Maggie stared at him, still shaky, and rubbed the back of her head. “How did you find me?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
He waved absently behind him. “I’ve known moose who left less evidence of their passage.” He shook the handkerchief at her again. “Go ahead. It’s old, but it’s clean,” he said.
She hesitated a moment, then snagged the soft worn cloth, wiped her face and eyes and blew her nose. She peered briefly at the smears of makeup on it. “Great. Now I looked like a sleep-deprived raccoon.” She crushed it into a ball, then peered back up at the man she’d only known as a New York City cop. “What do you know about moose? You’re a city boy,” she said.
He nodded. “For fifteen years. But I grew up in Verm—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“Read the police report. I told them all I know.”
He sat down in the leaves next to her and she frowned, scooting away. “I did,” he replied.
Maggie twisted the handkerchief viciously. “I really don’t want to go over this again, okay?” Her voice was harsher than she intended, but she didn’t apologize.
Fletcher was silent. His eyes seemed focused on something in the distance. After a few moments, he said softly, “He was my friend, too.”
Over her head, Maggie could hear a squirrel chewing on a nut. A breeze brushed the branches around them lightly, and the remaining leaves whispered to her. Maggie turned her head slightly to look at Fletcher. He seemed totally comfortable sitting here next to a tree, even in his business suit. He sat with his long legs crossed, guaranteeing the most stains per square inch on his pants, but he didn’t seem to care. Maggie suddenly remembered a description that Aaron had written about Judson MacLean.
Judson was a man who always surprised people. He caught them off guard. With his size, with his intelligence, with his wit. And with his ability to ferret out information from the least likely of suspects.
Aaron had been right about that part. Fletcher was a large man, tall with a lean figure that belied a personal strength. Sitting here, even without speaking, Fletcher had taken charge of the scene. And what surprised Maggie was both the ease with which he did that as he sat with a woman who was virtually a stranger—and the odd twinge that ran deep in her gut. Don’t start liking him, girlfriend, she cautioned herself. He’s not here because he wants your company.
“Is that why you’re doing this?” she asked. “Because he was your friend?”
Fletcher looked directly at her, locking her in his gaze. “Partially. Are you grieving only because he was your friend?”
Maggie’s eyes widened, and she felt her anger building again. “Am I a suspect?”
“So you don’t really think it was an accident.”
Anger flashed through her, a raw combination of grief and the denial she so desperately wanted to hang on to. She stood up, tossing the handkerchief into the woods. “Aaron fell! And you will not try and convict me in my own home!” Turning on her heels, she started back toward the lodge.
He called lightly after her. “Yes, Maggie, I will.” She stopped but did not turn. “If you’re guilty.”
Fletcher watched her stomp away, unaffected by her anger. She was fighting against the truth too hard, as if she knew someone had killed Aaron, yet she didn’t want to believe it. He released a deep breath. It wasn’t an uncommon reaction to the murder of someone you love, but there were more facts that bothered him than just her behavior. According to the police report, she’d found Aaron, but she had not called the police. The groundskeeper, Tim, had called them after he’d found Maggie next to the body. Fletcher wanted to know why Tyler Madison, the local police chief, had blithely overlooked that. The amount of blood indicated Aaron had died on the steps, but the body had been moved, rearranged to make it look like a fall. Taking a deep breath, he stood up and pulled a small brown paper bag from his coat pocket. He stepped over a few broken branches and lifted his handkerchief by one corner, bagging it carefully. DNA, he thought casually, can be handy to have around.
As he turned to go back to the lodge, he could still hear Maggie crashing in the leaves. “Maggie Weston, you are most definitely a suspect,” he muttered, as he followed her wide swath through the trees. “Right now, everyone who was here last night is.”
Maggie slammed into her office at the south end of the lodge. She paced, her anger seething but with no outlet. How dare he! How dare he accuse me of killing Aaron? He has no right here! None! Tyler has ruled it an accident, and Aaron is gone. Why couldn’t Korie just have accepted that? She didn’t love him—Maggie stopped abruptly, her mind caught on a thought.
Love.
When she’d first met Fletcher five years ago, she and Aaron had been in the blush of love. They hadn’t seen each other since. Does Fletcher think I killed Aaron because he didn’t love me anymore? Maggie sank down in her office chair, her manager’s brain kicking into gear. It was a motive. And not a bad one. And it might keep Fletcher off guard long enough—
That’s illegal, girlfriend. It’s called obstruction of justice. And immoral. And against your beliefs. Maggie sighed at the nagging inner voice. God’s finger. But it’s not evidence, she insisted to herself. Not really. “And aren’t some risks worth it?” she asked aloud.
A knock on her door brought her attention back around, and she called out for her visitor to enter. Fletcher opened the door and was followed into the office by Korie. They sat in the chairs on the front side of the desk.
“I want Fletcher to stay here, in one of the cabins,” Korie announced, expertly swinging her blond hair back over her shoulder. “Surely you have one that’s empty. It doesn’t look right for him to keep staying with me, and I want him to get to the bottom of this. And I want you to call Chief Madison and tell him you’re behind it as well. He cooperated with Fletcher about the reports, but he’s acting like you’re queen of the estate and he’s deferring to you.”
Silence.
Maggie looked from one to the other, and she knew they were waiting for her to protest. After a moment, she opened her center desk drawer and pulled out a key with a numbered key chain on it. She tossed it lightly at Fletcher, who caught it with no effort. “Number four,” she said, handing him a map and a brochure. “You might have to clean it. The previous occupant left this weekend after a fight with Aaron, and I haven’t had a chance to get the cleaning service down there yet. The map will help you get around the estate, and the brochure will familiarize you with our routine.”
She paused and looked at Korie. “I’ll call Tyler as soon as you two are out of the office. I’m sure he’ll be more deferential to you, Korie, when he realizes how much you’ll inherit.”
Korie froze and Fletcher’s eyebrows arched. Maggie started her mental list. A mad writer who left in a huff and a wife who will inherit. No lies, but a bit of mud on the picture. Maggie felt a tightening in her gut, and she glanced briefly at the Bible on the corner of her desk. It’s worth it, she thought insistently, her faith at war with her loyalty.
Korie stood, muttering under her breath, and turned to leave. “Come on, Fletcher, I’ll help you get settled.”
Fletcher got to his feet, watching Maggie. He said quietly, “You go ahead, Korie. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Korie slammed the door behind her, but neither of them jumped. Fletcher turned and went to the window near her desk, staring out. Maggie turned in her chair to watch him. There was mud on his pants that he had not bothered to brush off and a leaf stuck to the back of his coat. But there was nothing sloppy about his movements or his intentions.
Maggie blinked first. “What do you want?”
“What risk is worth it?”
Maggie stood and went to his side. “Is eavesdropping part of your job?”
He was still looking out the window. “When necessary.”
“So do you just expect me to blithely confess that I know something about Aaron’s accident that I’m not telling you?”
Fletcher turned to face her, and Maggie was surprised by the intensity in his eyes. He stepped closer, and Maggie wanted to look away but didn’t dare. He loomed over her, his height and closeness overwhelming her. She took a deep breath in an effort to remain calm and only succeeded in inhaling a scent that was purely masculine, acrid and intense, like freshly tanned leather. She trembled as he leaned forward and whispered at the side of her face.
“Don’t do this, Maggie. We both know he was killed. We both know that someone moved his body so it would look like an accident. And I promise you I will find out who and why. Whatever—or whoever—you’re hiding is not worth it. Understand?”
Maggie let out her breath, her voice shaking. “Perfectly,” she whispered back.
He stepped back and smiled. “Fine,” he said, his voice light. “Then we’ll get along famously.” He turned and went to the door.
“Dinner’s at six,” Maggie said firmly. He stopped and looked at her, puzzled. She tilted her head back, regaining as much pride as she could. “Since you’ve been staying with Korie, I thought you might not know. Everyone at the retreat eats dinner in the lodge. Every night. It’s required. One of Aaron’s little dictates. Everyone who’s on the property, no matter who, eats at the lodge at six. He thought it reflected small-town life. You can meet everyone then. But I hope you’ll be gracious enough to talk to them about Aaron in private.”
He looked her over, nodding in agreement. “I will,” he said, and he shut the door behind him.
Maggie let all the air out of her lungs and sat back down in her chair, her legs unable to hold her any longer. She reached out and stroked the edge of her Bible. Is deception always wrong? Isn’t it allowed, she thought, to protect your own family? She wanted to believe she was right, but every fiber of her body seemed to twitch. Leaning her head on her desk, she let the tears flow one more time.
Fletcher ignored Korie’s protests and went out the back door to stand on the deck. He needed to be alone and he needed fresh air. He inhaled deeply, relishing the late-afternoon chill that stung his nostrils.
She had smelled like sandalwood, all spicy and sweet. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the way her auburn hair had clung in small curls to her shoulders and the gentle curve of her neck. He was also struck by her almost unnoticeable glances at the Bible on her desk. Clearly, her morals, her faith, were playing hard on her heart, which tugged at something deep in the back of Fletcher’s mind, a sensation he had ignored for a very long time.
Fletcher opened his eyes and leaned heavily against the deck rail, gazing out over the November landscape, wondering if he should bow out now. His gut still ached from knowing his best friend lay on a morgue slab, and he had never expected the impact Maggie’s emotion would have on him. Her strength, her grief, drew his attention right away, and now he fought the idea that she was involved in Aaron’s murder. But her anger hid something that ran deep, and all of his experience, all of his instincts, told him that she knew who the murderer was. Or she thought she did. Fletcher knew he had to get his own grief back under control if he was going to find any answers at all.
Because Maggie Weston was grieving not just for Aaron but for the person who had killed him. Fletcher just hoped that it wasn’t her.
TWO
Judson was meticulous, insisting especially on a spotless kitchen in which to cook the gourmet meals he cherished. Three maids in the last year had quit, unable to live up to his requirements.
Fletcher dumped the clothes out of his hastily packed bag onto the rumpled bed and sorted them into piles of clean, dirty and suits. He hung the suits in the tiny cabin closet, then dumped the clean pile into one drawer of the dresser, the dirty into another. He sat on the squeaky bed, trying to ignore the smell of sour food and stale sweat in the cabin, and pulled a small notebook and a pen out of his jacket to look over the notes he’d taken so far. As he went through the list, his left heel bounced nervously against the floor, and the pen clicked as his thumb snapped up and down on its release.
Aaron Jackson’s body showed that he had apparently died from a severe blow to the right side of his head, crushing his temple. He had been discovered by the estate manager, Maggie Weston, around midnight Monday, lying facedown on the back steps of the lodge house deck. His head was on the last step, his feet near the top. She was found about half an hour later by the groundskeeper, Tim Miller, sitting on the steps beside the body in total shock. He and another resident, Scott Jonas, had to carry her inside.
The pen clicks picked up speed as he went down the list, and he paused, taking a deep breath, looking at his left hand. This is harder than I thought it would be. Even the pen brought back sharp memories that threatened to break through Fletcher’s tightly restrained emotions. Aaron had hated the clicking pen, recognizing it as one of Fletcher’s control mechanisms. The older man’s voice echoed in his head.
“Why don’t you go ahead and just lose that Scottish temper, me boyo? Emotions are good! They make life more intriguing.”
“I’m a cop. I can’t get emotionally involved with my cases.”
Aaron clucked his tongue. “So you’re made of steel, are you?”
Hardly, Fletcher thought, forcing his heel to stay flat on the floor and his feelings for Aaron to the far reaches of his mind. He took a deep breath. “Focus,” he murmured, looking down at the notebook again.
Fletcher’s brief examination of the body at the coroner’s showed that the wound to Aaron’s head was rounded—not flat or sharp—which was the impression a step, or the edge of a step, would have left. His body position was also odd and not that of a man who had fallen down steps. Bits of blood had been found approximately six feet out from the deck, with a few smears between that had been hastily covered. The wound was dotted with tiny bits of some material the ME couldn’t identify and contained almost no sign of wooden slivers. The coroner’s preliminary findings had confirmed this. They were still waiting on a final report.
Fletcher underlined his next note. So he was murdered and the body moved. No accident. Now, why would anyone want him dead? Fletcher took a deep breath and stood up, stretching, an odd weariness in his bones. He hadn’t slept well while he was at Korie and Aaron’s. Aaron was a midnight prowler, and Korie never seemed to shut up. No wonder Aaron spent dinnertime at the retreat with his writers and Maggie.
He frowned. Korie and Maggie. Both had been involved with Aaron, and the contrast between the two women was so stark that it was ludicrous. Korie, the flamboyant flirt, was the wild party child in New York and a restless, wandering artist here in New Hampshire. Maggie was stronger, more reserved. He remembered meeting her five years ago, when she and Aaron had been lovers….
Fletcher stood very still, a memory reaching through. An argument. Maggie and Aaron. About their relationship. Well, what else do couples fight about? But this had been different. How? Had Maggie still loved him? Was she jealous of Korie? Maybe. But Fletcher couldn’t remember anything else, and he shook his head to clear it.
He sat back down, turned the page in his notebook, clicked the pen twice and started another list. “Who would hate him enough to kill him?” he asked aloud.
“The list is endless,” Maggie said from the doorway.
Fletcher stood, his eyebrows raised. “Is eavesdropping part of your job?” he asked.
She smiled wryly. “When necessary.” She carried a large paper sack. “I brought you some things I thought you might need, since you aren’t one of our regular guests. They usually come prepared.” She set the bag on the desk and looked around at the small room, which had a tiny kitchenette in one end. The furnishings were simple: a desk with phone and computer ports, two comfy, overstuffed chairs, a bed, a dresser, a small eating table with two chairs. Maggie frowned at the bed.
“I brought clean sheets, for starters.” She began emptying the bag. “Jamie left in something of a hurry, and he was notorious for being a slob. I found an extra phone in one of our guest rooms, so you won’t always have to use your cell. Some of them won’t pick up a signal here, anyway. And I’ve got towels and soap.”
Fletcher stood back as she started stripping the sheets, wrinkling her nose. “Jamie was also notorious with the local girls. I just hope I don’t find one tied up in the bathroom.”
“No, it’s clean,” Fletcher replied. She paused and looked up at him, doubtful. He shrugged. “Well, not clean exactly.”
She laughed and tossed the dirty sheets into a pile. “I called the cleaning service and they should be here this afternoon. I’m sure Korie made promises to help, but she wouldn’t know which end of a broom to hold.” She grabbed the clean sheets and shook them out. Fletcher tucked his notebook back in his coat and reached to help her. “Thanks,” she said. “There’s a washer and dryer at the lodge if you need it. Have you looked over the brochure?”
Fletcher shook his head, watching Maggie peripherally as he shoved the corners of the sheets under the mattress. Pleasant, but too efficient. Too cooperative. What are you up to, Maggie?
“There aren’t a lot of rules around here,” she said, her voice taking on a routine note. He could tell she’d given this speech before. “But the ones we do have are enforced without fail.” She tucked a pillow under her chin and slid on a case. “One, everyone eats dinner in the lodge. Nights out have to be prearranged. You are on your own for breakfast and lunch. There are several restaurants in town, or you can keep groceries here, as long as you keep the place clean. No personal visitors except at the lodge, and no overnight guests who are not spouses. Aaron’s library, as well as the local public library, is available for research, and we ask that you make any long-distance calls from the lodge. There’s also an Internet connection, if your service doesn’t have a local number. There’s no long-distance service available in the cabins. We also keep up with the ones that are business and the ones that are personal. You won’t be charged for business calls. Cell phones, of course, are permitted, but they are not allowed at the dinner table.” The pillow landed on the bed with a fluff of scented air, and she went to the closet for blankets, her voice maintaining its monotone. “Please keep the thermostat at seventy-two degrees. You can come and go as you please, as long as you maintain the required production quota for the week. Aaron reviews everything on Saturday, so make sure you—”
Maggie froze and her eyelids fluttered. “You’re not a writer. Sorry.” Fletcher watched as she blinked away the glassiness from her eyes and took a deep breath. She crossed her arms over her stomach and bit her lower lip. Fletcher thought again about the two women who had loved Aaron Jackson so passionately. Korie, told of Aaron’s death, had wailed and flailed for an hour or so, with nothing but polite tears since. Maggie’s grief ran deeper, more consuming, and it looked as if it was going to last for a long time.
He gave her a moment, then spoke softly. “Tell me about the production requirements. Were they harsh?”
Maggie took a deep breath and seemed grateful. She nodded, sniffed and spoke evenly. “Yes. The application to get in here discourages most writers from even trying. They must have at least one mainstream novel published, with more than five thousand copies sold, with good reviews. They have to produce at least two short stories or a hundred pages of a novel a week, with a rough draft of a book, play or script per quarter. Flighty temperaments—and that covers a lot of writers—aren’t allowed. Aaron’s philosophy was that you were here to work, not be trendy. He also encouraged them to form critique groups, which meet in the lodge. He didn’t expect everything produced to be perfect—or even good—but you had to show you were serious about the work.”
“How long did most people stay?”
Maggie laughed. “Most leave within a couple of weeks. Aaron could be nasty about it. Aaron the Arrogant. That’s what a lot of them call him. And worse.”
“And the ones who stay?”
Maggie sat down on the bed. “They do some amazing work in the long run,” she said quietly. “It may look casual around here, but this isn’t a weekend conference of workshops. The cabins are only allotted out in three-month increments. They remain empty if someone leaves early. I’ve helped a lot of these folks write grants so they can stay here and still pay their mortgages, feed the kids. It’s hard work, very solitary and driving, and one reason Aaron requires everyone eat together is to force some type of community on them, so they won’t hole up in their cabins. It pays off. We’ve already produced two Pulitzer nominees, three Edgar winners, and two National Book Awards nominations. Aaron really is tough on them, but the ones who stay respond to his…” Her voice trailed off again, and she cleared her throat. “I guess I’m not used to the past tense yet.”
“Why did Jamie leave?”
Maggie sat up straighter. “Aaron. Jamie kept going out at night, bringing home the girls. Not allowed.” She smiled. “James Henry. Young and talented, but too immature. As arrogant as Aaron. Thought he was Henry James and that it would be easy. He chafed under Aaron’s rules. Told him to stay out of his personal life. They had a fight over the weekend, and Aaron tossed him out on his gifted behind.”
“This is not in the police report. Did you see the fight?”
Maggie shook her head. “All I told them was what I knew about Monday night. It was an accident, remember? As to the fight, I was at church with a couple of the others.” Fletcher raised an eyebrow, and Maggie scowled at him. “Don’t look so surprised, Fletcher. Not everyone who comes out of New York is decadent.”
Fletcher wiped his mouth, her words triggering a memory of a morose Aaron after his breakup with Maggie.
“She even got me going to church again.”
“What? And the roof stayed up? No lightning strikes?”
“Humph.” Aaron shook a smoldering cigar at Fletcher, scattering a few ashes. “You’re not the decadent you’d like people to think. It wouldn’t hurt you to darken the door of a church again.”
Fletcher brushed the ashes off the table to the floor. “What makes you think I don’t go?”
Aaron smirked. “’Cause I know you, and I know why you don’t go. And that hasn’t changed.”
Fletcher looked away. He didn’t want to talk about it.
Or think about it now. He cleared his throat. “Did anyone see the fight?”
“I doubt it, unless Tim overheard something. You could ask him. There are times I think he overhears everything. The fight did happen up at the lodge. Jamie, as you can see, left in a bit of a hurry. You’ll probably find leftover pizza in the fridge.”
Fletcher frowned. This was too easy; she was leading him somewhere, and it wasn’t where he wanted to go. “Who’s been here the longest?”
Maggie got up and peered into the bathroom, then winced. “I’ll see if the cleaning folks can’t get here sooner. And the microwave will probably be safer than the stove. We didn’t expect to move anyone in here for a week or two.”
“Maggie…” Fletcher nudged.
“Scott and Lily,” she said.
“A couple?”
Maggie nodded. “Scott Jonas is the writer. He’s been here several years now, almost from the beginning. Lily came and went for a while, then started staying here steadily about six months ago. Scott and Aaron fought a lot, but they seemed to understand each other.”
Fletcher stood a bit straighter. “Lily Dunne?”
Maggie stared at him. “Please don’t tell me you’re a fan.”
He shook his head. “No. I know Scott’s novels. Aaron had me read them. His bio said he was married to Lily Dunne. I know who she is, of course.”
Maggie nodded, chewing a bit on her lower lip. “Lily stays here, too. It’s a bit unusual, but Scott’s almost a permanent resident. They have the largest cabin, which is closest to the lodge.”
“Must be quiet here for her, after the lights of Broadway and L.A.”
Maggie responded by gathering up the dirty sheets and dumping them into a bag. “You’ll get to meet them tonight. Don’t forget—dinner’s at six.”
“Anyone else here who isn’t a writer?”
Maggie paused. “Me. And Tim, of course.”
Fletcher paused. Tim Miller was the retreat’s groundskeeper and the one who had found Maggie on the steps. Tyler had mentioned to him that Aaron had confidence in Tim, even though a background check had turned up a misdemeanor trespassing charge in Tennessee. Tim had said it was a political protest, something about taxes. The charge had been dismissed, and Aaron had never reported any problems. “He must help you a lot.”
Maggie’s eyes glistened with tears. “Yes.”
“Who else would hate Aaron?”
Maggie looked at him. “He’s alienated dozens of writers who thought this was paradise on earth. Aaron has—had—a temper that could shatter steel, but you know that, Fletcher. You knew him. You were one of his best friends. Who do you think would kill him?”
Fletcher looked her up and down, taking in every inch of her anger. His voice was quiet. “Anyone who despised or feared him.”
Maggie looked disgusted. “You have a gift for the obvious.” She stuffed the bag under her arm and started out the door.
“Or loved him,” Fletcher finished.
Maggie paused, then looked over her shoulder. “Do you always have to have the last word?” She repositioned the bag and tramped out, letting the door slam behind her.
Fletcher grinned. “Always.” He walked to the screen door of the cabin and watched her slender figure disappearing through the trees, wondering how much of her grief was real and how much was a calculated act. He knew she had intentionally handed him three major suspects on a silver platter, all without lying or stretching the truth, and he was aware that whomever she was protecting had probably been carefully excluded from the conversation. He sat down on his now-clean bed and took the notebook out, adding a few sharp scribbles to it, pausing only to click the pen twice. You’re playing a dangerous game, Maggie, he thought. And you’re not as good at it as you think you are.
Aaron flopped down on Fletcher’s ancient sofa, the bottle of Green Label Jack Daniel’s held loosely in his hand. “Men should stick together, me boyo,” he said, exaggerating the fake Irish brogue he always adopted when intoxicated, or when he wanted to appear intoxicated.
Fletcher noticed that the bottle was open but still full, and he wondered if it was the first bottle…or the second. He went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee anyway, hoping to distract his friend from the whiskey. “You aren’t going to try to convince me you have women problems, are you?”
Aaron wagged his finger in the air, at no one in particular.“I am not as much the ladies’ man as my publicist would have the world believe, dear Fletcher. It is far more hype than history.”
Fletcher returned to the dimly lit living room and sat opposite Aaron in the sagging leather recliner he refused to get rid of. “So those thousands of women you’ve dated…”
Aaron shook his head. “Less than a hundred, I promise.”
Fletcher laughed. “More than most men can claim. Or would want to.”
Aaron sat up and peered at the bottle, clearly wanting to take a swig. “Well, most men could claim a bit of love along the way.”
Fletcher leaned back in his recliner. “If you’re expecting sympathy from me, you’re going about it in the wrong way.”
Aaron shook his head. “Nope. No sympathy. Just want to crash on your couch tonight. Don’t feel like driving back up to the retreat.”
Fletcher frowned. “What about the apartment? Korie—”
Aaron laughed abruptly. “Korie?” He paused and finally drank from the bottle, but the swallowing seemed painful and he grimaced. “Korie is…Korie is ‘en salon’ tonight. She couldn’t care less.”
“‘En salon’?”
Aaron put the bottle on the floor, lay down on the couch and propped his feet up on one arm. “Holding court with all her ‘artistes.’ She has illusions she’s the reincarnation of Mabel Dodge. Has dreams of re-creating a salon society and influencing the art world the way Dodge did a hundred years ago. They are all over the apartment. She won’t miss me until it’s time to order something, pay for something or tip someone for carrying something she’s bought.”
Fletcher was silent. After a moment, Aaron sat up. “I’m going to be sick now. Can I still stay?”
“As long as you want.”
Aaron laughed again as he headed for the bathroom. “Judson, my dear fellow, you may regret that offer.”
Fletcher grimaced as the door shut. Judson, the one name he hated hearing, the one name Aaron teased him with the most. It was going to be a long night.
The night turned into a week, and Korie had never once called or checked up on Aaron once during those seven days. Aaron’s anger and disgust at his wife dulled to a quiet cynicism, and at the end of the week, they had returned in separate cars to New Hampshire. Now she stood to inherit everything. If—and it was a big if—Maggie was right.
Fletcher threw his notebook on the bed and opened the door. Gazing up toward the lodge, he could see Maggie on the deck, looking in his direction. After a moment, she walked down the steps and disappeared along one of the trails. But if Korie were the killer, why would Maggie protect her? They hate each other. Fletcher smiled wryly. Perhaps, Maggie, me dear, you’ve muddied the water more than you realize.
Her feet cold and her mind numb, Maggie tramped through the woods behind the lodge again. She’d tried to do her job, had called the restaurant about tonight’s dinner and the cleaning service for Fletcher’s cabin, but nothing else. Her anger and grief of the morning seemed to have faded away, but it left nothing behind except a nagging twinge of guilt. Work should be her therapy, but she felt frozen, and everything in her office reminded her of Aaron. Thinking some cool air might help, she had gone out on the deck, then realized she just wanted to walk. She’d started down one of the trails, then left it, wandering aimlessly at first over the soft ground, relishing the last of the tiny white and purple wildflowers that dotted the ground in between spots of bright orange fungus on the tree roots. This land had been farm country until about seventy-five years ago, so the trees were relatively young and sparse, allowing for a lot of undergrowth. Maggie liked spotting new plants and trying to identify them, making almost every trip a bit of an adventure. She stopped, pulling a slice of bark off a birch tree. Breaking it into tiny bits as she looked around to get her bearings, she realized she was gradually heading west toward the edge of the property and an old logging road that only had one destination: Cookie’s.
Cordelia Holokaj, but all her nieces and nephews called her Ciotka Cookie. Maggie had found the Hansel-and-Gretel cottage on one of her first escapes into the woods to get away from the flaring temperaments of the retreat’s writers. Cookie had taken her in, served her hot chocolate and fresh gingersnaps, and told her stories from the world wars that made the retreat’s resident writers sound like poor amateurs. Cookie’s had been her retreat ever since.
The cottage always smelled like wood smoke, ginger, fresh bread and cabbage, and today was no different. Maggie stepped across the threshold and inhaled, much of her tension flooding away. “It’s so good to be here,” she murmured as Cookie gave her a hug. She bent down and scratched Cookie’s ancient mutt, Pepper, behind the ears. The overweight dachshund/sheltie mix grunted her contentment with the gesture.
“I was wondering when I’d see you,” Cookie said, her voice like gravel in a blender from her almost eighty years of cigarettes and New England winters. She motioned for Maggie to sit in one of the doily-covered horsehair chairs that crowded a tiny living room clustered with pictures, icons and books. A rickety upright piano sat against one wall, its stool covered with a well-worn blanket and its ivory keys yellow from years of enthusiastic fingers.
Maggie sat, curling her long legs beneath her, in one of the chairs next to the fireplace. Pepper waddled over to a spot between the chair and the fire, turned around once, then sank to the floor with a satisfied sigh. Pepper’s low, broad body was a perfect match to Cookie’s comfortable and huggable size.
Maggie took the offered cup of chamomile tea and found herself staring blankly into the gentle blazes of Cookie’s low fire. Cookie waited, stirring her tea and munching on a gingersnap.
“I didn’t realize how much it would hurt now that he’s gone,” Maggie said, finally. Cookie merely nodded and handed the younger woman a cookie. Maggie held it, then laid it on the arm of the chair. “I mean, I hadn’t loved him—I mean, been in love with him—for a long time. But, I mean, to have Korie acting like…and Fletcher MacAllister running around as if…” Maggie’s voice trailed off. Her numbness was giving way to confusion. What had happened to the resolve she’d felt earlier, to keep Fletcher at bay?
“What are you afraid of?”
Maggie was silent, uncertain if she should even tell Cookie.
The old woman cleared her throat. “This is a small town, Maggie. Never forget that. Never. Jackson’s Retreat does not exist in a vacuum. Word gets around. We mostly know who’s sleeping with whom, married or not. Or married to someone else. We also tend to know who’s trying to make a move, and whether the proposition’s been accepted.”
Maggie stared at her. “What are you saying?”
Cookie’s gaze was steady. “I’m saying most everyone around knows who Korie was sleeping with, and I don’t mean Aaron. How long are you going to keep quiet about it?”
“As long as I have to. Enough people have already been hurt.”
Cookie nodded. “One of them even killed.”
The tears slid from Maggie’s eyes and she set her cup aside. She got up, then knelt in front of Cookie, burying her face against the old woman’s knees. “Cookie, I was so angry! But now it just hurts. And I’m so scared.”
Cordelia Holokaj’s Polish parents had been killed in the concentration camps of World War II, and her only son had disappeared into the jungles of Laos, never to return. She knew grief, and fear, like few other people. She stroked Maggie Weston’s auburn curls. “You’ve gotta keep your head clear, baby. Don’t let what you felt for Aaron get in the way here. Don’t be lying to Fletcher MacAllister. Not only is it wrong, but it’ll come back to haunt you quicker than anything else you can do.”
Maggie raised her head, her eyes pleading. “But he could destroy everything I love.”
Cookie shook her head. “Not him. What’s done is done. He’s gonna shine some light on it, but his being around doesn’t make it more or less true.” She wiped Maggie’s face with her apron, and pushed her shoulders back. “You’re stronger than this. Be who you are. And stop lying to the man.”
Maggie got up and sat back in her chair. “I haven’t lied to him.”
Cookie raised both eyebrows. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
Maggie chewed her lower lip.
Cookie nodded. “Small town. Very small town.”
Maggie picked up her cup and stared into the tea.
Cookie watched her for a few moments. “What else, baby? This isn’t just about Aaron.”
Maggie sat up a bit straighter. “Not sure. Maybe Fletcher. I tried to lie to him, but I couldn’t—”
“Good thing. You’re a lousy liar. God’s too close to your heart.”
“Mama said it was ‘God’s finger’ poking at you.”
“Good mama. She knew you. When you believe as strongly as you do, it’s hard to turn your back on what you know is right, what you know God wants you to do.”
Maggie’s mouth twisted. “Yet I can’t let him know about—” She stopped and sipped her tea, her eyes starting to water. “He confuses me. He’s different than I remembered.”
“What’s different?”
Maggie shrugged. “I’m not sure. I saw him in his cabin this morning, and he was so calm, almost as if he were determined to make me talk.” She smiled. “And talk I did.”
Cookie snorted. “And you didn’t lie to him.”
Maggie shook her head.
“Just threw a little dirt around?”
Maggie stared at Cookie, a bit of her humor finally breaking through. “Now why in the world would I want to do that?
The old woman wagged her finger. “Now don’t think you can start trying to fool me either, baby. I know you too well.” She then stood up, motioning for Maggie to follow. “Come on. I have some dough rising on the stove. Let’s go whack some bread around.”
Maggie smiled finally and followed the old woman into the kitchen.
A local restaurant catered the retreat’s evening meals. Every day Maggie would help them set the trays of food on the counter separating the kitchen from the open and airy main room of the lodge, and the writers would go down the buffet line. Today was no different. As the restaurant workers left, Maggie started the coffeemaker, set out plates, napkins and glasses, then pulled assorted soft drinks, carafes of tea and Scott’s requested spring water out of the refrigerator.
She looked over the spread once more, then frowned. Three of the coffee cups were missing. She found one in the dishwasher, and she washed it and put it on the counter. She crossed the lodge to Tim’s room, knocking softly. He occasionally took coffee to his room after breakfast.
There was no answer, and she pushed the door open slowly. She hated invading his privacy; this was his home, too. Tim had only been here a few months, but he was as much a part of Aaron’s “extended family” as she was. She, for one, was grateful for Tim’s patience. They’d lost two groundskeepers before due to Aaron’s temper.
Tim’s room smelled faintly of machine oil and freshly mowed grass, but it was relatively neat. A computer that she had given him took up most of his desk, surrounded by printouts from landscaping sites and veterans groups. I didn’t know he was a veteran, Maggie thought. She tried not to look at the other papers, already feeling like a spy.
The two missing cups were on the nightstand, and Maggie grabbed them quickly and hurried back to the main room. She washed them, put them on the counter then checked over the table one more time. Sighing, she poured herself a cup of coffee and plopped down on an overstuffed couch in front of the fire, grateful for a few minutes of peace.
She looked around the room, feeling a melancholy sense of pride in what she saw. The A-frame lodge had been Aaron’s idea, as had many of the rules for the retreat. But the rest had been hers. She’d moved into the house when it was newly finished, still smelling of fresh wood and paint. She’d decorated it, shipping in some items from New York. Others were from local artisans. In addition to the main room, there were five bedrooms and a game room with a big-screen television in the basement. An extensive library and computer had been set up in the main room’s loft. A laundry and kitchen, which were open for anyone’s use, were at the beginning of the north wing, with her office on the other side of the main room from the kitchen at the end of the south hallway. One of the bedrooms was for visitors, with one each reserved for her, Tim and Aaron. The fifth one was reserved for one of the writers, and was a perk that was assigned on a first-come, first-deserved (in Aaron’s opinion, of course) basis. Currently, Tonya Marino, who had been at the retreat for almost two years, lived there, but she was so quiet and reserved, Maggie often forgot the young writer was even in the house.
Maggie had done it all, but the main room was her true source of pride. The room was perfectly square, with floor-to-ceiling panes of glass on the front and back walls and heavy oak paneling on the others. A fireplace interrupted the glass on the back wall, as did a door that led out onto the wooden deck. The sitting area Maggie had arranged in front of the fireplace was cozy and filled with fat pillows and thick throws to hold off the chill of the New Hampshire winters. The dining table, which could seat fifteen, was near the front, where the sloping front lawn could be seen during meals. That wall also let in the best sun of the day and gave the residents a view of gorgeous sunsets in good weather.
The colors throughout the house were rich and dark, more masculine than feminine, and the art of both sculptors and painters from the nearby town of Mercer dotted the walls, adding a dramatic brightness to the atmosphere. This was Maggie’s home as well as her workplace, and she cherished each piece. And she was terrified she was about to lose it all.
When Korie inherits…The thought was a weight in her head that both hurt and angered her as well as adding to her confusion. What would I do? New York was no longer home. She loved this place more than she’d believed she could. She loved Mercer, with its conservative yet artsy ways. The reserved but loving people there. And Cookie. She’d made a lot of friends here, far more than Aaron, who had stayed to himself, and Korie, who was seldom around except on the occasional weekends. Maggie swirled the coffee around in her cup, watching the brown liquid lap up the sides. A few drops spilled over. She watched them hit the hardwood floor, but she didn’t care. Why should I care about anything?
“Should I get you a mop?”
Maggie leaped to her feet, sloshing the coffee down the front of her skirt. “Fletcher MacAllister! Don’t you ever knock?”
His left eyebrow cocked. “I didn’t realize we had to.”
Maggie’s fist clutched the soaked fabric. “No, no. You don’t have to. But could you at least have the courtesy to make a little noise so you don’t scare a person half to death?”
He scuffed his feet.
Maggie glared at him, fighting a smile. He stared back, amusement lighting in his eyes.
“I’m starved! Let’s get this show on the road!” Scott Jonas’s voice rang out from the back door, and Maggie blinked first, turning to look at him. Lily, his wife, followed, tripping a bit as she stepped through the door. She grabbed the door frame with her right hand, since her right tightly gripped an open bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. Maggie winced, and glanced at Fletcher, whose eyes narrowed as he looked over Scott and Lily, head to toe. His focus lingered on the bottle, and Maggie felt a chill move through her. She started forward, forgetting about the wet spot on her skirt.
“Here, Scott, help me take the foil off the trays. Everything just got here, so it’s still hot.” Maggie opened up one tray after another, putting tongs or large spoons into each of the dishes.
“I’m not really all that hungry,” Lily announced. “I just came because we have to.” She plucked a glass off the bar and poured the last drops of champagne into it, frowning. Then she smiled sweetly at Maggie. “Sorry, hon, looks like I’ll have to go get another one.”
Maggie’s stomach cramped. She went to Lily and took the shorter, darker woman by the arm, speaking softly. “Don’t you think you should wait?”
Lily flipped her long hair over her shoulder. “No,” she said, in a loud stage whisper. “Why should I?”
Maggie closed her eyes. “Out of respect. And we have company,” she said, nodding at Fletcher.
Lily glared at her. “Respect? Give me one good—”
Maggie grabbed Lily’s wrists suddenly, locking eyes with her and startling the young actress. “Just because,” Maggie said firmly.
Lily froze, then slowly relaxed under Maggie’s gaze. Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Mitten. I know he was special to you.”
Maggie let go of her and pulled the empty bottle away. “Thank you. Please promise me that you’ll eat.” Lily nodded, looking suddenly very small and young as she sank down into a chair at the table.
Maggie went into the kitchen and paused, staring at the bottle in her hand. Most people would look at the expensive drink with affection. It was a symbol of so many celebrations. But Maggie despised it, despised what it had done to one of the most talented actresses she’d ever seen perform. And when Maggie refused to stock it for her, Lily had it shipped in, two cases a month, storing it in the cabin. It was an image that everyone at the retreat knew well: Lily and her bottle, wandering through the morning mist, like Catherine searching for Heathcliff on the moor.
Lily had promised she would try to cut down, but Maggie knew, all too well, that Lily used it to cope with her marriage recently—as well as other things. Maggie also knew that Lily sometimes appeared drunk when she wasn’t, just to keep Scott at bay. He hated it when she drank, and these days, Lily preferred him to be angry instead of affectionate.
Scowling, Maggie flung the bottle into the trash, where it landed with a leaden thud. She grimaced at the sound, and she felt flushed, as if her blood were racing. Please let her be acting. She promised to lay off it tonight.
Maggie returned to the great room, then realized that the room was much noisier. The rest of the residents had arrived and were gossiping and filling their plates. Maggie stopped, looking around.
They sat and started eating, talking about the day’s work. No one seemed to notice Aaron’s absence. Only a day had passed, and it was as if nothing had changed, and that any minute, the tall blond man who had so captivated her a few years ago would open the door and stroll into the room with that casual lanky way he had about him.
Maggie felt like screaming. How can you all be so callous? She stared out over the room, feeling numb again. Lily came to her, distracting her. The younger woman leaned close, whispering, “You didn’t tell me he was a cop.”
“He’s not anymore.”
Lily’s lips pursed. “Very funny, Mitten. Why is he here?”
“Korie wants him to be.”
“Korie!” Lily’s suddenly loud voice echoed, and several people stopped talking. Over her shoulder, Maggie could see Fletcher watching them.
Maggie nodded. “Yes—Korie,” she said, in her normal voice. Stepping away, she announced generally, “Korie won’t be here tonight. She called this afternoon, and she’s going to a show opening in Boston. She’ll be back tomorrow night, and will stay until—”
“Yeah, right.” Scott’s cynicism was undisguised. “I doubt we’ll see much of her ever again. She’s finally free.”
Fletcher had finished filling his plate and sat down on the opposite side of the table from Scott. “Why do you say that?”
“Who are you?” Scott asked, as he broke open the cap on a bottle of spring water.
“Fletcher MacAllister. I’m—”
“Judson MacLean,” Scott finished.
Fletcher reached for the salt. “Not exactly.”
“Fletcher is going to be our guest for a while,” Maggie said, setting a plate of food on the table and slipping into her chair. She glanced around, wondering who looked the most guilty. “Fletcher, meet our current retreat residents. To my left are Lily Dunne and Scott Jonas. Next is Patrick Stanfield, cabin three. Dan Jameson, cabin—” She stopped and smiled weakly. “I’ll give you those later. Carter Everson, Tonya Marino, Frank Petersen, Laura Baker and Mick Lovett. And down at the end there is Tim Miller.” Maggie went through the names of the nine residents and the groundskeeper slowly, noticing that Fletcher made distinct eye contact with each of them. “Fletcher is here, at the request of Korie, to look into Aaron’s death.” The table fell silent as they all stared at Fletcher.
“I thought it was an accident,” said Patrick, a writer who’d been at the retreat almost as long as Scott and Lily.
Fletcher opened his mouth to speak, but Maggie beat him to it. “It was, Patrick. But you know Korie and her drama-queen ways. We just want to make sure there are no loose ends. Don’t be surprised if Fletcher asks you about Monday night, just to see what you remember.”
“But I don’t remember anything,” Lily said.
“You never do,” responded Scott.
Dual pink flushes colored Lily’s cheeks, and there was a brightness to her eyes that everyone tried to ignore. She picked up her fork in her left hand and tried to eat, but mostly moved food from one side of the plate to the other. Maggie knew from long experience that she would probably be silent the rest of the night.
At the far end of the table, Tim Miller stood up suddenly, taking his plate back to the bar. Second helpings hit his plate with mushy slaps, as Fletcher said evenly, “I won’t bother anyone unnecessarily. Tyler has completed his report. This is just for Korie’s peace of mind.”
“In other words,” Scott said hoarsely, “she thinks one of us killed him.”
Maggie bristled. “Scott, I don’t think—”
“Oh, Maggie, just shut up,” Scott said. “Stop protecting her. You know what she’s like. She wants us out of here. What better way than to stir up the idea that we’re all killers?”
Maggie flared. “No, Scott, I will not shut up. You’re being obnoxious. Again. No one knows what’s going to happen to the retreat, but Korie has said nothing at all about closing it.”
“What about that offer?” Scott demanded.
“What offer?” asked Dan.
“Yeah, Maggie,” Scott continued. “Why don’t you tell us all about the offer? Especially Korie’s point man here.”
Maggie took a deep, calming breath. She looked at Fletcher, but he showed no emotion in response to Scott’s gibe. He merely looked at her, waiting.
“A few weeks ago, Aaron and Korie received an offer from a developer who wants this property. It was a fairly good one, but Aaron turned it down flat. He doesn’t—didn’t—need the money, and he wanted to keep the retreat up and going.”
“But Korie didn’t agree.”
Maggie looked at Scott patiently. “Korie knows what this place means—meant—to him, Scott. Even more, Korie is all about image, and the awards associated with this place mean image to her. She may change it, but I can’t see her closing it.”
“She’s also about money,” Scott answered.
“She will have plenty of money,” Maggie answered. “Aaron was heavily insured.”
“Enough to run this place?” asked Dan.
“Probably not,” Scott snapped, “but enough for Korie to want him dead.”
Maggie took a deep breath but ignored Scott. This is getting out of hand. “The retreat is self-supporting. Aaron set up an escrow account large enough that the operating expenses are covered by the interest earned every year. He once told me that he was having that handled separately in his will, but I don’t know for sure what that meant.”
“Maybe he meant he’d leave it to you. He does seem to take care of all his toys.”
Maggie slammed her hand down on the table. “Scott!”
“So who else do you think would profit from his death?” Fletcher asked quietly.
Scott slid down in his chair and took a swig of water. “Certainly none of the ones he’s tortured over the years.” He paused, then looked at Maggie. “Who’ll be the judge of the requirements now?” he asked. “Surely not you or Korie. Neither one of you knows diddly about literature. Or did you plan to claim that part of his fame, too?”
Lily looked up sharply, first at her husband, then at Maggie, who sat without answering. Fletcher cleared his throat and addressed Maggie. “I thought you had worked in the publishing industry.”
Scott made a gargling sound. “Yeah, in retail. She managed a bookstore. That’s like asking a fast-food manager to judge the food at a gourmet four-star restaurant.”
Lily slapped her napkin into her plate, then stood, picked up the plate and her glass, and went to the kitchen. Silence ruled as she left, then Dan chuckled. “Got a couch for tonight, Scott?”
Scott pushed away from the table. “I don’t need her. And I don’t need this.” He stood up and pointed at Fletcher. “Whoever did it should get a reward. Aaron got what he deserved.” He strode across the room and left, slamming the door behind him. Tim got up and went to the window, watching Scott disappear through the trees. Then he turned and watched Lily as she started cleaning up in the kitchen.
Dan lifted his glass and toasted Maggie. “Now I see why you spend so much time at Cookie’s, Maggie. We are a temperamental lot.”
Maggie frowned, then forced herself to smile. She really hadn’t wanted Fletcher to know about Cookie. “Dessert, Dan? They sent Boston cream pie and strawberry sorbet.”
Dan laughed. “Are you suggesting I eat and not talk?”
Maggie looked innocent. “Moi?” she asked, pointing at her chest. “Why, Dan, I never get tired of all my lovely writers. They keep things so lively around here.”
Fletcher stood up. “I think I’d like some of that sorbet.”
Everyone else wandered away from the table. Some to get dessert, some to get coffee and stand by the fire. A few went downstairs to the game room. Frank and Laura left, holding hands, and Tonya returned to her room. As Maggie started to the kitchen, Tim caught her by the arm. “Is she going to be all right?” he asked, nodding toward Lily.
Maggie touched his cheek. “They’ll work it through.”
“He shouldn’t hurt her like that.”
Maggie shook her head. “No, but she’ll be fine.” Maggie glanced at Lily, then back at her groundskeeper. “She always is.”
Tim nodded, then retreated to the fire, where he poked at the flames, keeping constant watch on Lily. Maggie paused, then said softly, “I had to get two of the cups out of your room tonight.”
He looked surprised, then shrugged and looked back at the fire. “That’s okay, Miss Maggie. It’s your house.”
Maggie shifted her shoulders, feeling weary. Tim sounded unusually Southern tonight. Must be her imagination. “Still, I promised I wouldn’t go into your room without telling you.”
He shrugged again, poking harder at the logs. Sighing, Maggie went into the kitchen, took a dishrag out of Lily’s hands and clutched her fingers in her own, shaking them gently. Lily’s green eyes met her blue, and Maggie wished she could pass some of her own stubbornness and strength through their mere touch. The pain and anger in those green eyes seared her heart.
“Did he hit you today?” she whispered.
Lily shook her head. “Still just that one time…” Her eyes glistened.
Maggie frowned. “No tears, not tonight. Okay?”
Lily bit her lip and nodded.
“Good girl.” Maggie took a deep breath and Lily followed her example. An old routine that gave them new resolve. “Go bring some of the dishes off the table. We’ll put them in the dishwasher, and I’ll run it in the morning. I’m going to see if the guys downstairs need coffee.”
Air hockey occupied the two men downstairs, however, and Maggie returned as Lily was loading the last of the dishes. She looked around the room, making one more check. The room was almost clean, and Dan and Patrick were finishing their coffee near the fire. Tim must have gone out for his nightly walk around the grounds. But there was still one other body missing.
Maggie frowned. “Where’s Fletcher? Did he go back to his cabin?”
Dan shook his head. “Nope. He helped Lily for a bit, then took out the trash.”
Maggie froze, a slice of fear in her stomach. “He did what?”
Dan didn’t even look up. “Garbage. He’ll be back in a few.”
Maggie turned toward the kitchen to find Lily staring at her, puzzled. Maggie just mouthed, Oh, no, when the door opened and Fletcher walked in, his face a dark mask and one gloved hand holding an empty Dom Perignon bottle. He stopped, then looked from Maggie to Lily, and back. “Call Tyler, Maggie. Tell him I’ve found the murder weapon.”
From the kitchen came a small gasp as Lily sank to the floor.
THREE
Judson was insistent that the crime scene be secured, since it was far too easy for forensic evidence to be contaminated. He’d seen too many cases lost simply because the investigators had been careless. Catching a criminal was hard enough without sloppy procedure.
“It was in the trash can,” Fletcher said.
Maggie sat on the deck steps, huddled in an oversize coat, as Fletcher explained to police chief Tyler Madison how he’d found the bottle. Inside, Lily was stretched out on a couch with an ice pack on her head, but the other residents had returned to their cabins, puzzled and annoyed.
Fletcher frenetically demonstrated his actions as he talked. Tyler’s eyes tried to follow him, but Maggie just stared, amazed at the sudden burst of energy in the detective. She now realized his calm demeanor, his control, was a part of his work. Underneath was a strong passion, just waiting to break through. No wonder he and Aaron had been so close, she thought. They’d both shared the same love of life, of their work.
The lights from the house cast long golden pools across the deck and down through the yard, with the rails and slats of the deck creating lines of darkness on the ground. Fletcher walked in and out of the shadows with his pacing, like a large dog behind a fence. “I went to put the bag of garbage in the can,” Fletcher said, “and I noticed the neck sticking up. I thought it might poke a hole in the bag, so I went to move it and saw the blood, then the fact that the label was damaged. That’s when I realized the flakes found in Aaron’s wound might be from the label.”
Tyler nodded, his hat a little unstable on his head. “We’ll have to send them off for analysis. We’re not set up for anything like this here.”
“The blood, too.”
“Of course.” Tyler crossed his arms, and Maggie looked from him to Fletcher, as if they were tennis players. The younger man had gotten his job six months ago when the previous chief had died, since he was the senior member of the five-officer police force. Yet he was still not quite thirty, and his inexperience seemed to shine.
Fletcher paced back and forth a few minutes, then stopped in front of Maggie. “Maggie, why?”
Tyler stepped in. “Now, wait a minute, MacAllister—”
Fletcher exploded. “Can’t you see? She was alone with him for over half an hour. She threw the bottle away. She moved the body. I want to know why.”
Maggie finally exploded in the face of his building temper, his relentless accusations. “I did not move his body! He was like that when I found him. He was dead! I couldn’t even bring myself to touch him. I barely remember what happened! How could I move him?” She stood up. “Don’t you dare blame me just because you’re hurting, too!”
Fletcher stopped, clenching his fists as he stared at her. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, obviously trying to regain control. “Then why hide the bottle?”
Maggie threw up her hands. “Why do you even ask? You know why!”
Fletcher’s words were crisp. “So why are you protecting Lily?”
Maggie froze. “Because she didn’t kill him!”
“Didn’t she? Don’t you think so?” Fletcher bent over her, his questions flying fast, directly at her face.
“No! She couldn’t!”
“Why not? Aaron was hit on the right side of the head. That means it was most likely a left-handed assailant. Lily’s the only one here who’s left-handed.”
Maggie shook her head furiously. “No! You don’t understand. There’s no way!”
“Then why did you toss out the bottle?”
Tears filled Maggie’s eyes. “Because I knew how it looked. The blood—but the blood was already on the bottle we’d had earlier. I knew everyone would think like you do—”
“How long has she called you Mitten?”
“Since we were kids—” Maggie stepped back, eyes wide, her hand over her mouth.
Fletcher backed off, staring at her. She watched as he blinked rapidly, studying her, and saw the understanding come over his face. “You’re sisters.”
“Say what?” Tyler demanded.
“Is that why you’re protecting her, Maggie?”
Maggie shook her head, an overwhelming weakness settling over her. She sank down on the steps. “Yes. No. No! You don’t understand. It’s the other way around. And it’s not.”
Fletcher sat down next to her. “Explain it to me.”
Maggie took a deep breath, resolved for it to come out. “I went to college. Lily went to Broadway. Bit parts, a few films, a show here and there, not a lot of money but enough, for about five years. We didn’t see each other much, even though we were in the same city. And there was no press. No one cared. Then she made Ramsey Place, then Blue Ribbon Winner, then—” Maggie stopped and wiped her face with her hands. “Her career went up and her personal life went down the drain. She was followed everywhere she went. She was stalked. People broke into her home to steal her clothes!” Maggie sat up straighter and motioned around her. “By the time things really got hot, I was already here. This place has no security, but it’s remote and hard to find. She had lied and said she had no family. My dad died before I was born and my mom married Bobby Dunne when I was only one, but they never changed my name—” She stopped, her hand waving away the past. “It’s a long story, but it worked. The press left me alone. But we traded off. Sometimes I would hide her here for weeks. That’s how she met Scott. She’s still being stalked, in fact, which is why she’s staying here with him. It’s one reason she started drinking. She can’t handle the fame, much less the fear.”
“What about her career?”
Maggie shrugged. “Right now it’s in the drunk tank. Her agent stays in touch, sends her scripts, begs her to go to rehab before it’s too late. I hoped being here would help. She’s got to stop drinking.”
“Who knows you’re her sister?”
Maggie buried her face in her hands. “No one. Not even Scott.”
Tyler crossed his arms. “But you look so different.”
Fletcher waved away the objection. “Just the hair and eyes.” He made a circular motion around his face. “Here is the same.”
Maggie sighed. “My dad had red hair—I got the auburn from him. Lily has her hair straightened.”
Fletcher stared out into the woods. “How long has she been drinking?”
Maggie shrugged. “I’m not sure. Not long, I know. We didn’t drink when we were younger. That wasn’t how we were raised, and I know she didn’t drink until she left the church. Even then it was nothing like this. Sometimes she goes through a bottle a day.”
Tyler stared at her. “A bottle a day!”
Maggie looked up at him. “You think we do that much celebrating that we need two cases of champagne a month?”
“How would I know—”
Maggie looked skeptical as she quoted her best friend. “It’s a very small town, Tyler. She orders it, it’s stored in her cabin, but it’s still delivered here. So give me a break, okay?”
Fletcher smiled quickly, but wiped it away with his hand. “But sometimes she doesn’t really drink. Like tonight. She wasn’t really drunk.”
Maggie watched him closely. “How did you know?”
“Because it’s my job, Maggie. She has the act down, but not the other signs, the stuff a cop would notice. Why does she pretend?” Shifting uncomfortably on the step, Maggie looked out, her eyes unfocused. When she didn’t answer, Fletcher prompted quietly, “Scott?”
Reluctantly, Maggie nodded. “He hates it, so he stays away from her when he thinks she’s…which is what she wants…” Her voice trailed off. This wasn’t anyone’s business.
Fletcher took a deep breath. “Tell me about their fight, Maggie. Tell me about finding Aaron. And this time don’t leave anything out.”
Maggie hugged her knees to her chest and closed her eyes, remembering and saying a quick prayer for guidance. She really didn’t want to relive that moment.
“Lily and I had been cleaning the kitchen. We do that almost every night, just to have some time together. Aaron had been at dinner, his usual arrogant, jerky self. He’d been drinking.”
“Green Label Jack Daniel’s.”
Maggie looked at him then nodded. “It hurt. He told me he’d been trying to stop lately. I thought he was serious about quitting. I hadn’t seen him drink for a long time, and he acted…weird, even for Aaron. He’d berated Scott and Patrick for slacking off. I didn’t get it. They are two of his favorites. Then he started in on Lily.” She shifted, the memory still burning, a vision of a red-faced Aaron shoving Lily backward, snatching the champagne bottle out of her hand.
“This trash will kill you, girl!” Aaron’s open hand aimed for the side of her head, but Lily turned into it and his palm landed on her cheek and lips, drawing blood.
Lily fell to her knees with a short screech, but she scrambled up, diving for Aaron. “Like you’d know, old man!” she bit back, grabbing for the bottle with her right hand as her left raked its nails over his neck, drawing blood.
His hand closed on the young actress’s blouse, and he pulled her face up close to his, raising her up on her toes, his voice low and hoarse. “You cat! You have no idea. I’m the one person who does know.”
“Stop it!” Maggie yelled, shoving her way between them as Aaron pressed his palm to the scratches Lily had left. “Look what this is doing to you! You’re acting like children, the both of you. Stop drinking!” She faced her boss, who literally towered over her. “Go home, Aaron. Sleep this one off.”
Aaron’s glare shook her all the way to her toes, but she tilted her chin up as he raised his hand again, her eyes narrowing to thin slits. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered sharply. “Don’t you even think about it.”
Maggie paused and took a deep breath, forcing her eyes to meet Fletcher’s. “Anyway, no one stayed around after dinner, not like tonight. At first he acted like he was in pain, but then he just got belligerent. No one wanted to be around him. Then he started in on Lily and me, and I called his bluff and told him to go home and sleep it off. He acted as if he was going to hit me, and I stood him down. He laughed, making a comment that I would never take it from a man like Lily did—”
“Scott hits her?” Tyler demanded.
Fletcher looked up at him. “Pay attention, Tyler. Or does your mother not go to the local beauty shop to keep up with what’s happening around town?”
Maggie almost laughed, and she looked at Fletcher, grateful. He smiled briefly and nodded his encouragement. She continued with a sigh. “Scott only hit her one time, but it’s left her skittish. It’s made things very tough for them, for us. So when Aaron hit her, I can understand why she went after him.” She looked up at Fletcher, her eyes pleading. “I thought the blood was from the fight, but I knew how it would look!”
Fletcher was back under control and merely nodded at her. “Keep talking.”
She shrugged. “Lily left, and Tim went to bed. I was going to take out the garbage and go to my office to work for a bit. That’s when I found him. He was just…there. Lying on the steps with that look. No life in his eyes.” Maggie stopped, staring up at the bright stars, which were blurry through her tears. Are You listening, God? Are You watching? Am I doing the right thing? The relief she felt from the release of the information was tempered by doubts about Lily, about Fletcher. About herself.
Fletcher took her hand, folding it in the warmth of his. “Go on.”
Maggie sniffed back the tears, relishing the comfort of his grasp. “Tim got up to go to the bathroom and realized all the lights were still on. That’s when he found me.” She paused. “Us.”
Fletcher squeezed her hand. “No, Maggie. Before that. What did you do?”
Maggie looked at him, puzzled.
“How did you react?”
She lowered her eyes and tried to call back the memory. “I…I…dropped the trash bag. I remember it spilling all down the steps as I went to him.”
“Who cleaned it up?”
Maggie suddenly felt confused. She didn’t remember. She looked up at Tyler, who shook his head. “There was no trash when we got here.”
“Then Tim must have picked it up before you got here. Or Scott.” Maggie racked her brain. “I don’t remember anyone else being around.” Why can’t I remember?
Fletcher tugged on her hand. “When did you find the bottle?”
Maggie stared at him. “This morning, just before you and Korie got here. I didn’t know how it got there, and I realized how it looked…Lily’s bottle close to where he’d died. The blood. Everyone was already saying it wasn’t an accident, that the body had been moved.”
“So how do you know it had not been in the trash after all?”
“I guess I don’t.” Maggie studied Fletcher’s face. His gaze was distant; she could almost see him processing what he’d been told. You don’t believe me, do you?
Tyler shook his head. “No. MacAllister, I know we’re just a small-town department, but we would have noticed a bloody bottle at the crime scene. There was no trash at all when we got here.”
Fletcher nodded. “No doubt. So it had to have been placed afterward. Either to look as if it had been an overlooked piece of your trash…”
“Or to implicate Lily,” Tyler finished. “I still don’t understand why the bottle didn’t break from such a blow.”
Fletcher spun on his toe and headed back to the trash can.
“Other brands might have,” Maggie said, “but the Dom’s bottle is pretty…” Her voice trailed off as Fletcher started digging through the trash, coming up with the bottle she had tossed earlier that evening. “What are you doing?”
Fletcher paused, looked from her to Tyler, then with a sudden jerk, he slammed the end of the bottle down on the ground, the thick glass burying itself several inches into the dirt.
Maggie gasped, then closed her eyes, burning tears leaking through the slits.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Tyler said softly.
Fletcher crossed to Maggie and leaned over her. “He didn’t deserve this,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Help me. Don’t hinder me.”
Maggie opened her eyes. “Please stop. I can’t do this.”
Fletcher looked into her eyes a moment, then nodded, emotion giving way to business. “We’ll finish tomorrow. Nothing is going to get solved tonight. I’ll talk to the other residents in the morning. Tyler will get the analysis done. There’s a good chance our killer left more than fingerprints on that bottle. We can get elimination prints from everyone here, if they’ll cooperate—”
“My fingerprints will be on that bottle.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“I didn’t kill him. Neither did Lily.”
Silently, he stood up, pulling her up with him, then he put his hand on her elbow as she climbed the stairs. They were almost at the door when a memory sparked in her brain—just a flash, but it might be important. Maggie turned abruptly at the door, to speak to Tyler.
The pain slapped into her face almost at the same time she recognized the sound of the gunshot in the distance. There was a moment when she wondered where the pain was coming from, almost as if it were not a part of her. Then everything shifted into a slow blur. She felt remote, pulled out of her body, and she heard herself screaming. She was falling, then not, then there was the solid wood of the deck beneath her. At once, the pain hit in full force, a thousand shards of glass against her skin. Then Maggie’s vision faded, and with the darkness, relief. She closed her eyes, embracing it.
FOUR
Work was his passion, and Judson pursued it with a relentless sense of perfection. His personal standards were tougher than the department’s, and he went through a number of partners before finding one suitable. “My partners,” he once told his captain, “keep forgetting that it is the work that you are involved with, not the crime victims.”
He watched her breathe, his eyes tracing over every contour of muscle and bone, every bit of pale flesh. Every bruise. Every bandaged wound.
It was his mistake, and she had almost paid the price for it. If she had not turned so abruptly—
The bullet had grazed her scalp and blown apart the wooden door frame, embedding a half-dozen shards of wood in the side of her face, near her hairline. Sometimes Fletcher thought he could still hear her screams. Maggie had fallen against him, then to the deck, as Tyler had bounded into the woods after the shooter. The screams had brought out Lily, who surprised Fletcher by taking charge of her sister and yelling at him to go, go!
But he and Tyler had not found so much as a shell casing in the dark, and Fletcher had returned to the lodge, his anger barely under control, to find that Lily had called 911, pulled the first-aid kit out of the kitchen and removed most of the wooden slivers. She had stopped the bleeding with pressure bandages, directed the arriving officers into the woods and helped the ambulance attendants load Maggie. Maggie had only remained unconscious a few moments, and it had been Lily who had calmed her, trying to ease the panic with a soothing voice. As they had watched the ambulance leave, Lily had spoken evenly. “Who’s going to take me to the hospital?”
Fletcher never took his eyes off the flashing lights. “You’re not drunk at all, are you?”
“I am…” Lily had said, with an exaggerated pause for effect “an actress.”
Fletcher had nodded. “One of the officers will take you. I have to stay here.”
“She’ll be disappointed.”
Fletcher had looked down at her, frowning. “What?”
She had smiled. “Never mind. I’ll snag an officer. You’d better stick to Tyler. He looks a little out of his element.”
Fletcher had watched as Lily sauntered off. A smile, a flirt and a coy squeeze on the arm later, and she and an officer were headed for the hospital in Portsmouth. Maggie had been treated and kept overnight for observation. She was released this morning, sent home doped up on the appropriate painkillers.
Now, he watched her breathe.
“Not my usual type, is she?” Aaron asked him, as Maggie had headed for the ladies’ room.
Fletcher had noticed. He was so used to seeing far too many perfect, rich, trophy-wife candidates on Aaron’s arm that Maggie’s difference shone—her soft but out-of-control curls, her light use of make-up. He tilted his head as he watched her walk away. There was a slight awkwardness to her gait, a faint limp that Aaron had explained was left over from a childhood accident, but the sway of her hips still made men turn and look. Nice legs.
He looked back at Aaron. “She’s not your typical airheaded beauty queen, no.”
“But she’s smart. And sasses me back like no one ever has. She’s got spunk.”
Fletcher took a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Aaron laughed, his voice muffled by his raised glass. “I like it when you two fight. I like the way she tries to defend me.”
“You would. Don’t you ever fight with her?”
“Only about one thing, my dear Fletcher, and eventually, I promise you, I will win.”
Fletcher looked at Maggie, who had taken a quick sidestep to avoid a waiter loaded down with dishes. She had to be the most determined women he’d ever met. “You may have met your match this time.”
“Never, me boyo. No woman bests Aaron Jackson.”
“You know, Aaron, your humility is one of the things I like best about you.”
Aaron had scowled. “Humility is a much overrated virtue, usually touted by those who have nothing to be humble about.”
Fletcher studied his friend’s face. “Why are you so intent on this?”
Aaron was quiet for a few moments, then said evenly, “Because if I lose this one, I lose the girl.”
And he had. Aaron and Maggie had called it quits a few months later, and Aaron had gone on to a series of lovelies, all of whom bored him within a few weeks. Korie had latched on, and Aaron had married her quickly, as he had told Fletcher shortly after the wedding, “out of attrition.” Were you still in love with him, Maggie?
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Ramona Richards
The death of bestselling author Aaron Jackson turned Maggie Weston's world inside out. The manager of Jackson's Writers Retreat, Maggie knew a murderer hid among her colleagues and friends. Was it actress Lily Dunne, target of a stalker's obsession? Lily's writer husband, struggling to make a name for himself? Money-loving Korie, Aaron's wife? Or someone else?Maggie herself stood to inherit from Aaron's estate. As former New York City cop Fletcher MacAllister piled up evidence against Maggie, only faith kept her strong. And Fletcher needed to rekindle his own faith in time to prevent the killer from claiming another victim.
“Please,” Maggie whispered. “I didn’t kill him.”
Reaching up, Fletcher let one finger stroke gently under the two stitches near her left eye. “The M.E. has released the body. There’s this memorial service planned. Do you want to go?”
Maggie pressed his hand against her cheek. Fletcher’s gut tightened as she held it there briefly, then let go. “No. Not yet. I need to stay here.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and Fletcher wanted to say something, anything to explain how he felt. And what he couldn’t let himself feel. Not until he cleared Maggie as a suspect.
“Ramona Richards has ingeniously woven together two stories and given it to her readers as fiction inside fiction. A Murder Among Friends is filled with human emotion and woven with faith’s struggles. From the first chapter till the last, you won’t stop wondering and you won’t want to stop reading, even if you put the book down long enough to grab a fresh cup of coffee.”
–Eva Marie Everson, CBA bestselling author
of The Potluck Club series
RAMONA RICHARDS
A writer and editor since 1975, Ramona Richards has worked on staff with a number of publishers. Ramona has also freelanced with more than twenty magazine and book publishers and has won awards for both her fiction and nonfiction. She’s written everything from sales training video scripts to book reviews, and her latest articles have appeared in Today’s Christian Woman, College Bound, and Special Ed Today. She sold a story about her daughter to Chicken Soup for the Caregiver’s Soul, and Secrets of Confidence, a book of devotionals, is available from Barbour Publishing.
In 2004 the God Allows U-Turns Foundation, in conjunction with the Advanced Writers and Speakers Association (AWSA), chose Ramona for their Strength of Choice award, and in 2003 AWSA nominated Ramona for Best Fiction Editor of the Year. The Evangelical Press Association presented her with an award for reporting in 2003, and in 1989 she won the Bronze Award for Best Original Dramatic Screenplay at the Houston International Film Festival. A member of the American Christian Fiction Writers and the Romance Writers of America, she has five other novels complete or in development.
Ramona and her daughter live in a suburb of Nashville, Tennessee. She can be reached through her Web site at www.ramonarichards.com.
A Murder Among Friends
Ramona Richards
I’ve told you these things for a purpose: that my joy might be your joy, and your joy wholly mature. This is my command: Love one another the way I loved you. This is the very best way to love. Put your life on the line for your friends.
—John 15: 11–14
Special thanks:
To Nancy Zottos, who opened up New Hampshire to me.
To all my friends who made it possible for me to go out on my own, especially Sunny, Phyllis, Jeff, Marcheta, Jamie, Teri, Marilee—and Pat, who introduced me to the real Ciotka Cookie.
To Carol Lynn Stewart, Corbette Doyle and Terra Manasco, my fellow struggling writers and critique partners. Thanks for pushing me ever harder.
To K, the one who—from the first “A” to the latest “Z”—has offered me the most hope-filled inspiration and encouragement.
Finally, to my mom, Jimmie Lou Pope, who has read every word, amazed, thrilled and sometimes puzzled that her daughter could write like that.
Special praise:
To God and His astonishingly glorious Son. I took it to heart when someone once told me, “Your talent is your gift from God. What you do with it is your gift to Him.”
I couldn’t do it without You.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE MAN WHO COUNTS
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
Autumn looks like death, sometimes, with the bloodred leaves fading to burgundy and finally to rust and brown. Maggie Weston thought about such death as she stared steadfastly out the window at the swirl of leaves, despite the rumble of a male voice that sounded behind her.
“Maggie.”
Go away. Maggie crossed her arms tightly as she continued to focus on the bright colors of the New Hampshire fall landscape. The back wall of the A-frame lodge house was almost entirely glass, spreading the scene before her in a cheery panorama. The trees were brilliantly dappled in the rich sunlight, but all Maggie could see was death. Death in the trees. In her heart. On her back steps. Help us, Lord, she prayed silently. Help me.
“Maggie.” The voice tugged at her.
It’s over and done with, she thought, anger and grief curling into a tight knot in her stomach. Just go away and leave us alone.
The staccato clicks of feminine heels tapped into the room. “I’m very grateful you’ve decided to stay, Fletcher,” said a quivering voice. Without turning, Maggie knew that newly widowed Korie Taylor Jackson would be touching the tall man’s arm, stroking it and preening in a slight flirt, as if she couldn’t stop herself.
Yeah, right. Maggie’s thoughts were cold. Just wait until he starts asking you questions.
“Thank you, Korie.” The man’s voice was deep and as mellow as the darkest mahogany, and Maggie’s throat tightened as he spoke. “But I really don’t think I should be doing this—”
“Nonsense!” Korie interrupted him. “You were Aaron’s friend. What better way to start your new business than with solving Aaron Jackson’s—” She stopped and cleared her throat. Maggie heard the tears being forced back into Korie’s voice as it dropped to a whisper. “Solving your best friend’s murder. Everyone in the world knows what a good detective you are.”
Maggie couldn’t quite believe Korie saw her husband’s death as a marketing opportunity. An involuntary growl escaped her throat.
Korie snapped. “Maggie! If you have something to add, just say it!”
Maggie turned and looked slowly over the couple before her. Even in her widowhood of one day, Korie couldn’t resist the affectations of her flowing, oversize skirts and bohemian blouses, which swooped as her slender arms darted through a conversation, making her look like a colorful, earth-bound parrot. Korie had probably been born an incorrigible coquette. At twenty-four, Korie had had two successful shows of her art in New York City and had snagged Aaron Jackson, reveling in his popularity as a bestselling novelist.
Part of the reason for Aaron’s success stood next to Korie. Fletcher MacAllister, who until two months ago had been a detective with New York’s finest, was the model for Aaron’s series hero, Judson MacLean. The charming and meticulous Judson, who had carried his author to the top of the New York Times fiction list on a regular basis, had paid for most of Aaron’s worst habits, including his booze, his cigars and his wife of three years. Of course, the books had also paid for all of them to be here, in this writers’ colony that Aaron had so modestly called Jackson’s Retreat. His dream. His life.
His death.
Maggie took a deep breath to steady her voice. Aaron’s character, Judson, with his Nordic looks and his tastes for lovely women, fine cooking and expensive suits, looked nothing like the man in front of her. Fletcher’s features and dark hair reflected more of his Thai mother than his Scottish father, and he had obviously slept in his suit, probably more than once. His eyes, a rich brown instead of Judson’s piercing blue, were almond shaped and questioning, waiting for her to respond. She took a deep breath and ran her hands through her tangled curls, all too aware that her fingers were trembling.
“He’s right, Korie. Don’t you think New Hampshire is more than a bit out of his territory, even if he has started his own business? He doesn’t know this place, doesn’t know us, and the fact that he was staying with you and Aaron doesn’t make him any more capable than Tyler and his folks. They may be a small-town department, but they’re not idiots.”
Trying to appear calm, Maggie walked to the counter separating the main room from the kitchen and reached for one of the cups she had stacked next to the coffeemaker. “And I don’t think you’ll win any points with Mr. MacAllister by lying. Aaron’s books aren’t yet translated into—” Maggie paused, waving her hand as she searched for the most obscure language she could think of “—Burmese. I’m sure there are some people in the world who would not feel the need to swoon in the presence of the ‘real life’ Judson MacLean.”
“I’m not Judson.” Simple, straightforward and delivered with finality before Korie could fly into a protest. Just as Maggie remembered from her first meeting with Fletcher five years ago. That one hadn’t gone very well, either.
Maggie slapped the cup down. “And I’m not going to stand around while Korie tries to convince you that Aaron’s death was anything more than an accident. It can’t be—” Maggie’s voice cracked. Blinking hard, she turned and strode out, leaving the community room of the large lodge behind her and stepping out onto the back deck. She paused, shivering slightly in the cool fall air. She rubbed her arms, feeling the chill through her light sweater. She should have stopped for a jacket, but right now she didn’t care if she froze half to death. She brushed away a single tear, then took another deep breath. God, please help me, she prayed again, this time fighting back the wave of grief that threatened to swamp her the way it had last night. Help me handle this. Maggie started down the steps, then hesitated. The deep color on the bottom step reminded her of what she had found just after midnight. Her own insistent words echoed in her mind, almost as if she were trying to convince herself of something she didn’t quite believe. It had to be an accident! She bit her lip and stepped over the stain.
The mat of leaves crunched and mushed under her feet as she walked out through the woods. The newly fallen leaves on top were dry, while the layers underneath were damp from the frosts they had already seen. The ground beneath all the layers was uneven and a challenge for walking. Maggie loved the effort it took to hike the land, and she almost always wore a stylish but practical pair of boots in case she got the urge to get out of the house. This was her refuge, ever since she’d arrived here at Jackson’s Retreat. Her eyes stung as she remembered her first day here, but she kept walking as briars and low plants tugged at her long woolen skirt.
Jackson’s Retreat. It had been Aaron’s dream to build this colony of cabins scattered across ten acres of his New Hampshire home. The A-frame lodge, with its high glass wall at the back, basement game room and large living area, formed the center of the small community. Aaron had set up an escrow account substantial enough that the interest funded the usual operating expenses, so that the writers who were accepted here could live rent-free in small one-room cabins. Where they lived, that is, as long as they met Aaron’s stringent requirements of production. Their only out-of-pocket expenses were for personal items and food.
When Aaron had called Maggie four years ago and asked her to run the retreat, she had been doubtful at first. Although she and Aaron had been friends for years, since Maggie was in college, she had not seen him in almost a year. They had met at the bookstore where she worked as an assistant manager, and their friendship had later deepened into a turbulent—and brief—romance. After their relationship fell apart, they promised to remain friends, but Maggie had intentionally stayed away from him, unable to forget the intense feelings he had stirred in her heart. These emotions were still raw when he asked her to run the retreat, even though she knew he was dating Korie at the time. After much prayer, Maggie had accepted the job, and Aaron married Korie shortly thereafter.
Aaron. Maggie tripped over a root and stopped, realizing that her vision was beginning to blur with tears. She wiped them away, then pressed her lips to stop their quivering. Thoughts of Aaron flooded her mind. His unbridled laughter, the bigger-than-life way he’d enter a room and take over the conversation. The tenderness with which he had once held her.
The insistence with which he refused to take no for an answer. Maggie had turned down the job at first. Firmly. Surely, he should get someone else to run the retreat. Maggie suggested several other people to him, but he persisted. It was Maggie, with her finely honed management skills and understanding of the writer’s soul, that he wanted in charge of his dream. Finally, she had relented.
Maggie walked on, relishing the feel of the spongy ground under her boots. How she adored this land! Leaving her job in New York, she’d moved here and fallen in love with the land and the dream. Now she lived full-time in the lodge house, overseeing the care of the cabins and their temperamental inhabitants.
Maggie looked up through the dancing leaves as the sun played in patterns on the ground and her face. She sighed, feeling some of the tension ease away. It had been this way almost from the beginning. The comfort she had felt when praying about the job had opened the door; the peacefulness of the location and the constant demands of her job were a great combination. She felt at home and content, and the proximity to Aaron had allowed her finally to put her feelings for him in perspective.
Aaron, who lived with Korie in an old Victorian down the road from the lodge house, stopped in twice a day to check on things. He liked being involved with his dream and his writers. His writers.
She frowned as she pushed aside an overgrown bush next to her favorite trail through the woods, a few of the dried branches breaking as the bush snapped back into place. Aaron’s arrogance hadn’t always sat well with “his” writers, but they couldn’t argue with the success that came from being here. All of the residents—past and present—had achieved far more success financially and artistically than they had before their time at the retreat. They may have battled Aaron, but his edge became their driving force. So why would anyone want to kill him? Why did she—Maggie shook her head, unwilling to acknowledge the thought that hung at the back of her mind. Instead, she went over the events of last night’s dinner, trying to pull anything forward that might answer her questions.
Was he leaving—or coming back—when he died? It had not been a pleasant night. Aaron had been angry. In fact, he had been angry a lot lately—at her, at his wife, at—
No, she told herself again. Maggie knew what she had done was wrong, but it was for the right reasons. I know what they would think. Besides, what’s done is done. Still, her conscience nagged at her. Tell him. Maggie took a ragged breath. Her mother used to say that your conscience was God’s finger on your back, poking you in the right direction. And God never gets tired.
Her mother. Aaron. Lil—Tears clouded her eyes again, the grief unstoppable this time.
Maggie had found Aaron when she had taken out the trash for the night. Why didn’t I hear anything? I must have been in the kitchen cleaning up. Maggie stopped, unable to see for the tears, unable to walk from the weakness in her legs. All that blood! She sank down next to a tree and drew her knees tight against her chest, then leaned her head on them and sobbed. The grief she had been trying to restrain for the past twenty-four hours poured out of her in lung-wrenching gulps that seemed endless. Oh, dear God, help me! The sobs ceased only when her nose became so clogged that she started to choke and cough. She grabbed the bottom of her skirt and started to wipe her face with it.
“Here, use this.”
Maggie gasped and snapped backward, hitting her head against the tree. Her screech echoed through the woods as she jerked and stared up through tears at Fletcher, who was calmly holding out a handkerchief to her. He tipped his head sideways in apology. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Maggie stared at him, still shaky, and rubbed the back of her head. “How did you find me?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
He waved absently behind him. “I’ve known moose who left less evidence of their passage.” He shook the handkerchief at her again. “Go ahead. It’s old, but it’s clean,” he said.
She hesitated a moment, then snagged the soft worn cloth, wiped her face and eyes and blew her nose. She peered briefly at the smears of makeup on it. “Great. Now I looked like a sleep-deprived raccoon.” She crushed it into a ball, then peered back up at the man she’d only known as a New York City cop. “What do you know about moose? You’re a city boy,” she said.
He nodded. “For fifteen years. But I grew up in Verm—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“Read the police report. I told them all I know.”
He sat down in the leaves next to her and she frowned, scooting away. “I did,” he replied.
Maggie twisted the handkerchief viciously. “I really don’t want to go over this again, okay?” Her voice was harsher than she intended, but she didn’t apologize.
Fletcher was silent. His eyes seemed focused on something in the distance. After a few moments, he said softly, “He was my friend, too.”
Over her head, Maggie could hear a squirrel chewing on a nut. A breeze brushed the branches around them lightly, and the remaining leaves whispered to her. Maggie turned her head slightly to look at Fletcher. He seemed totally comfortable sitting here next to a tree, even in his business suit. He sat with his long legs crossed, guaranteeing the most stains per square inch on his pants, but he didn’t seem to care. Maggie suddenly remembered a description that Aaron had written about Judson MacLean.
Judson was a man who always surprised people. He caught them off guard. With his size, with his intelligence, with his wit. And with his ability to ferret out information from the least likely of suspects.
Aaron had been right about that part. Fletcher was a large man, tall with a lean figure that belied a personal strength. Sitting here, even without speaking, Fletcher had taken charge of the scene. And what surprised Maggie was both the ease with which he did that as he sat with a woman who was virtually a stranger—and the odd twinge that ran deep in her gut. Don’t start liking him, girlfriend, she cautioned herself. He’s not here because he wants your company.
“Is that why you’re doing this?” she asked. “Because he was your friend?”
Fletcher looked directly at her, locking her in his gaze. “Partially. Are you grieving only because he was your friend?”
Maggie’s eyes widened, and she felt her anger building again. “Am I a suspect?”
“So you don’t really think it was an accident.”
Anger flashed through her, a raw combination of grief and the denial she so desperately wanted to hang on to. She stood up, tossing the handkerchief into the woods. “Aaron fell! And you will not try and convict me in my own home!” Turning on her heels, she started back toward the lodge.
He called lightly after her. “Yes, Maggie, I will.” She stopped but did not turn. “If you’re guilty.”
Fletcher watched her stomp away, unaffected by her anger. She was fighting against the truth too hard, as if she knew someone had killed Aaron, yet she didn’t want to believe it. He released a deep breath. It wasn’t an uncommon reaction to the murder of someone you love, but there were more facts that bothered him than just her behavior. According to the police report, she’d found Aaron, but she had not called the police. The groundskeeper, Tim, had called them after he’d found Maggie next to the body. Fletcher wanted to know why Tyler Madison, the local police chief, had blithely overlooked that. The amount of blood indicated Aaron had died on the steps, but the body had been moved, rearranged to make it look like a fall. Taking a deep breath, he stood up and pulled a small brown paper bag from his coat pocket. He stepped over a few broken branches and lifted his handkerchief by one corner, bagging it carefully. DNA, he thought casually, can be handy to have around.
As he turned to go back to the lodge, he could still hear Maggie crashing in the leaves. “Maggie Weston, you are most definitely a suspect,” he muttered, as he followed her wide swath through the trees. “Right now, everyone who was here last night is.”
Maggie slammed into her office at the south end of the lodge. She paced, her anger seething but with no outlet. How dare he! How dare he accuse me of killing Aaron? He has no right here! None! Tyler has ruled it an accident, and Aaron is gone. Why couldn’t Korie just have accepted that? She didn’t love him—Maggie stopped abruptly, her mind caught on a thought.
Love.
When she’d first met Fletcher five years ago, she and Aaron had been in the blush of love. They hadn’t seen each other since. Does Fletcher think I killed Aaron because he didn’t love me anymore? Maggie sank down in her office chair, her manager’s brain kicking into gear. It was a motive. And not a bad one. And it might keep Fletcher off guard long enough—
That’s illegal, girlfriend. It’s called obstruction of justice. And immoral. And against your beliefs. Maggie sighed at the nagging inner voice. God’s finger. But it’s not evidence, she insisted to herself. Not really. “And aren’t some risks worth it?” she asked aloud.
A knock on her door brought her attention back around, and she called out for her visitor to enter. Fletcher opened the door and was followed into the office by Korie. They sat in the chairs on the front side of the desk.
“I want Fletcher to stay here, in one of the cabins,” Korie announced, expertly swinging her blond hair back over her shoulder. “Surely you have one that’s empty. It doesn’t look right for him to keep staying with me, and I want him to get to the bottom of this. And I want you to call Chief Madison and tell him you’re behind it as well. He cooperated with Fletcher about the reports, but he’s acting like you’re queen of the estate and he’s deferring to you.”
Silence.
Maggie looked from one to the other, and she knew they were waiting for her to protest. After a moment, she opened her center desk drawer and pulled out a key with a numbered key chain on it. She tossed it lightly at Fletcher, who caught it with no effort. “Number four,” she said, handing him a map and a brochure. “You might have to clean it. The previous occupant left this weekend after a fight with Aaron, and I haven’t had a chance to get the cleaning service down there yet. The map will help you get around the estate, and the brochure will familiarize you with our routine.”
She paused and looked at Korie. “I’ll call Tyler as soon as you two are out of the office. I’m sure he’ll be more deferential to you, Korie, when he realizes how much you’ll inherit.”
Korie froze and Fletcher’s eyebrows arched. Maggie started her mental list. A mad writer who left in a huff and a wife who will inherit. No lies, but a bit of mud on the picture. Maggie felt a tightening in her gut, and she glanced briefly at the Bible on the corner of her desk. It’s worth it, she thought insistently, her faith at war with her loyalty.
Korie stood, muttering under her breath, and turned to leave. “Come on, Fletcher, I’ll help you get settled.”
Fletcher got to his feet, watching Maggie. He said quietly, “You go ahead, Korie. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Korie slammed the door behind her, but neither of them jumped. Fletcher turned and went to the window near her desk, staring out. Maggie turned in her chair to watch him. There was mud on his pants that he had not bothered to brush off and a leaf stuck to the back of his coat. But there was nothing sloppy about his movements or his intentions.
Maggie blinked first. “What do you want?”
“What risk is worth it?”
Maggie stood and went to his side. “Is eavesdropping part of your job?”
He was still looking out the window. “When necessary.”
“So do you just expect me to blithely confess that I know something about Aaron’s accident that I’m not telling you?”
Fletcher turned to face her, and Maggie was surprised by the intensity in his eyes. He stepped closer, and Maggie wanted to look away but didn’t dare. He loomed over her, his height and closeness overwhelming her. She took a deep breath in an effort to remain calm and only succeeded in inhaling a scent that was purely masculine, acrid and intense, like freshly tanned leather. She trembled as he leaned forward and whispered at the side of her face.
“Don’t do this, Maggie. We both know he was killed. We both know that someone moved his body so it would look like an accident. And I promise you I will find out who and why. Whatever—or whoever—you’re hiding is not worth it. Understand?”
Maggie let out her breath, her voice shaking. “Perfectly,” she whispered back.
He stepped back and smiled. “Fine,” he said, his voice light. “Then we’ll get along famously.” He turned and went to the door.
“Dinner’s at six,” Maggie said firmly. He stopped and looked at her, puzzled. She tilted her head back, regaining as much pride as she could. “Since you’ve been staying with Korie, I thought you might not know. Everyone at the retreat eats dinner in the lodge. Every night. It’s required. One of Aaron’s little dictates. Everyone who’s on the property, no matter who, eats at the lodge at six. He thought it reflected small-town life. You can meet everyone then. But I hope you’ll be gracious enough to talk to them about Aaron in private.”
He looked her over, nodding in agreement. “I will,” he said, and he shut the door behind him.
Maggie let all the air out of her lungs and sat back down in her chair, her legs unable to hold her any longer. She reached out and stroked the edge of her Bible. Is deception always wrong? Isn’t it allowed, she thought, to protect your own family? She wanted to believe she was right, but every fiber of her body seemed to twitch. Leaning her head on her desk, she let the tears flow one more time.
Fletcher ignored Korie’s protests and went out the back door to stand on the deck. He needed to be alone and he needed fresh air. He inhaled deeply, relishing the late-afternoon chill that stung his nostrils.
She had smelled like sandalwood, all spicy and sweet. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the way her auburn hair had clung in small curls to her shoulders and the gentle curve of her neck. He was also struck by her almost unnoticeable glances at the Bible on her desk. Clearly, her morals, her faith, were playing hard on her heart, which tugged at something deep in the back of Fletcher’s mind, a sensation he had ignored for a very long time.
Fletcher opened his eyes and leaned heavily against the deck rail, gazing out over the November landscape, wondering if he should bow out now. His gut still ached from knowing his best friend lay on a morgue slab, and he had never expected the impact Maggie’s emotion would have on him. Her strength, her grief, drew his attention right away, and now he fought the idea that she was involved in Aaron’s murder. But her anger hid something that ran deep, and all of his experience, all of his instincts, told him that she knew who the murderer was. Or she thought she did. Fletcher knew he had to get his own grief back under control if he was going to find any answers at all.
Because Maggie Weston was grieving not just for Aaron but for the person who had killed him. Fletcher just hoped that it wasn’t her.
TWO
Judson was meticulous, insisting especially on a spotless kitchen in which to cook the gourmet meals he cherished. Three maids in the last year had quit, unable to live up to his requirements.
Fletcher dumped the clothes out of his hastily packed bag onto the rumpled bed and sorted them into piles of clean, dirty and suits. He hung the suits in the tiny cabin closet, then dumped the clean pile into one drawer of the dresser, the dirty into another. He sat on the squeaky bed, trying to ignore the smell of sour food and stale sweat in the cabin, and pulled a small notebook and a pen out of his jacket to look over the notes he’d taken so far. As he went through the list, his left heel bounced nervously against the floor, and the pen clicked as his thumb snapped up and down on its release.
Aaron Jackson’s body showed that he had apparently died from a severe blow to the right side of his head, crushing his temple. He had been discovered by the estate manager, Maggie Weston, around midnight Monday, lying facedown on the back steps of the lodge house deck. His head was on the last step, his feet near the top. She was found about half an hour later by the groundskeeper, Tim Miller, sitting on the steps beside the body in total shock. He and another resident, Scott Jonas, had to carry her inside.
The pen clicks picked up speed as he went down the list, and he paused, taking a deep breath, looking at his left hand. This is harder than I thought it would be. Even the pen brought back sharp memories that threatened to break through Fletcher’s tightly restrained emotions. Aaron had hated the clicking pen, recognizing it as one of Fletcher’s control mechanisms. The older man’s voice echoed in his head.
“Why don’t you go ahead and just lose that Scottish temper, me boyo? Emotions are good! They make life more intriguing.”
“I’m a cop. I can’t get emotionally involved with my cases.”
Aaron clucked his tongue. “So you’re made of steel, are you?”
Hardly, Fletcher thought, forcing his heel to stay flat on the floor and his feelings for Aaron to the far reaches of his mind. He took a deep breath. “Focus,” he murmured, looking down at the notebook again.
Fletcher’s brief examination of the body at the coroner’s showed that the wound to Aaron’s head was rounded—not flat or sharp—which was the impression a step, or the edge of a step, would have left. His body position was also odd and not that of a man who had fallen down steps. Bits of blood had been found approximately six feet out from the deck, with a few smears between that had been hastily covered. The wound was dotted with tiny bits of some material the ME couldn’t identify and contained almost no sign of wooden slivers. The coroner’s preliminary findings had confirmed this. They were still waiting on a final report.
Fletcher underlined his next note. So he was murdered and the body moved. No accident. Now, why would anyone want him dead? Fletcher took a deep breath and stood up, stretching, an odd weariness in his bones. He hadn’t slept well while he was at Korie and Aaron’s. Aaron was a midnight prowler, and Korie never seemed to shut up. No wonder Aaron spent dinnertime at the retreat with his writers and Maggie.
He frowned. Korie and Maggie. Both had been involved with Aaron, and the contrast between the two women was so stark that it was ludicrous. Korie, the flamboyant flirt, was the wild party child in New York and a restless, wandering artist here in New Hampshire. Maggie was stronger, more reserved. He remembered meeting her five years ago, when she and Aaron had been lovers….
Fletcher stood very still, a memory reaching through. An argument. Maggie and Aaron. About their relationship. Well, what else do couples fight about? But this had been different. How? Had Maggie still loved him? Was she jealous of Korie? Maybe. But Fletcher couldn’t remember anything else, and he shook his head to clear it.
He sat back down, turned the page in his notebook, clicked the pen twice and started another list. “Who would hate him enough to kill him?” he asked aloud.
“The list is endless,” Maggie said from the doorway.
Fletcher stood, his eyebrows raised. “Is eavesdropping part of your job?” he asked.
She smiled wryly. “When necessary.” She carried a large paper sack. “I brought you some things I thought you might need, since you aren’t one of our regular guests. They usually come prepared.” She set the bag on the desk and looked around at the small room, which had a tiny kitchenette in one end. The furnishings were simple: a desk with phone and computer ports, two comfy, overstuffed chairs, a bed, a dresser, a small eating table with two chairs. Maggie frowned at the bed.
“I brought clean sheets, for starters.” She began emptying the bag. “Jamie left in something of a hurry, and he was notorious for being a slob. I found an extra phone in one of our guest rooms, so you won’t always have to use your cell. Some of them won’t pick up a signal here, anyway. And I’ve got towels and soap.”
Fletcher stood back as she started stripping the sheets, wrinkling her nose. “Jamie was also notorious with the local girls. I just hope I don’t find one tied up in the bathroom.”
“No, it’s clean,” Fletcher replied. She paused and looked up at him, doubtful. He shrugged. “Well, not clean exactly.”
She laughed and tossed the dirty sheets into a pile. “I called the cleaning service and they should be here this afternoon. I’m sure Korie made promises to help, but she wouldn’t know which end of a broom to hold.” She grabbed the clean sheets and shook them out. Fletcher tucked his notebook back in his coat and reached to help her. “Thanks,” she said. “There’s a washer and dryer at the lodge if you need it. Have you looked over the brochure?”
Fletcher shook his head, watching Maggie peripherally as he shoved the corners of the sheets under the mattress. Pleasant, but too efficient. Too cooperative. What are you up to, Maggie?
“There aren’t a lot of rules around here,” she said, her voice taking on a routine note. He could tell she’d given this speech before. “But the ones we do have are enforced without fail.” She tucked a pillow under her chin and slid on a case. “One, everyone eats dinner in the lodge. Nights out have to be prearranged. You are on your own for breakfast and lunch. There are several restaurants in town, or you can keep groceries here, as long as you keep the place clean. No personal visitors except at the lodge, and no overnight guests who are not spouses. Aaron’s library, as well as the local public library, is available for research, and we ask that you make any long-distance calls from the lodge. There’s also an Internet connection, if your service doesn’t have a local number. There’s no long-distance service available in the cabins. We also keep up with the ones that are business and the ones that are personal. You won’t be charged for business calls. Cell phones, of course, are permitted, but they are not allowed at the dinner table.” The pillow landed on the bed with a fluff of scented air, and she went to the closet for blankets, her voice maintaining its monotone. “Please keep the thermostat at seventy-two degrees. You can come and go as you please, as long as you maintain the required production quota for the week. Aaron reviews everything on Saturday, so make sure you—”
Maggie froze and her eyelids fluttered. “You’re not a writer. Sorry.” Fletcher watched as she blinked away the glassiness from her eyes and took a deep breath. She crossed her arms over her stomach and bit her lower lip. Fletcher thought again about the two women who had loved Aaron Jackson so passionately. Korie, told of Aaron’s death, had wailed and flailed for an hour or so, with nothing but polite tears since. Maggie’s grief ran deeper, more consuming, and it looked as if it was going to last for a long time.
He gave her a moment, then spoke softly. “Tell me about the production requirements. Were they harsh?”
Maggie took a deep breath and seemed grateful. She nodded, sniffed and spoke evenly. “Yes. The application to get in here discourages most writers from even trying. They must have at least one mainstream novel published, with more than five thousand copies sold, with good reviews. They have to produce at least two short stories or a hundred pages of a novel a week, with a rough draft of a book, play or script per quarter. Flighty temperaments—and that covers a lot of writers—aren’t allowed. Aaron’s philosophy was that you were here to work, not be trendy. He also encouraged them to form critique groups, which meet in the lodge. He didn’t expect everything produced to be perfect—or even good—but you had to show you were serious about the work.”
“How long did most people stay?”
Maggie laughed. “Most leave within a couple of weeks. Aaron could be nasty about it. Aaron the Arrogant. That’s what a lot of them call him. And worse.”
“And the ones who stay?”
Maggie sat down on the bed. “They do some amazing work in the long run,” she said quietly. “It may look casual around here, but this isn’t a weekend conference of workshops. The cabins are only allotted out in three-month increments. They remain empty if someone leaves early. I’ve helped a lot of these folks write grants so they can stay here and still pay their mortgages, feed the kids. It’s hard work, very solitary and driving, and one reason Aaron requires everyone eat together is to force some type of community on them, so they won’t hole up in their cabins. It pays off. We’ve already produced two Pulitzer nominees, three Edgar winners, and two National Book Awards nominations. Aaron really is tough on them, but the ones who stay respond to his…” Her voice trailed off again, and she cleared her throat. “I guess I’m not used to the past tense yet.”
“Why did Jamie leave?”
Maggie sat up straighter. “Aaron. Jamie kept going out at night, bringing home the girls. Not allowed.” She smiled. “James Henry. Young and talented, but too immature. As arrogant as Aaron. Thought he was Henry James and that it would be easy. He chafed under Aaron’s rules. Told him to stay out of his personal life. They had a fight over the weekend, and Aaron tossed him out on his gifted behind.”
“This is not in the police report. Did you see the fight?”
Maggie shook her head. “All I told them was what I knew about Monday night. It was an accident, remember? As to the fight, I was at church with a couple of the others.” Fletcher raised an eyebrow, and Maggie scowled at him. “Don’t look so surprised, Fletcher. Not everyone who comes out of New York is decadent.”
Fletcher wiped his mouth, her words triggering a memory of a morose Aaron after his breakup with Maggie.
“She even got me going to church again.”
“What? And the roof stayed up? No lightning strikes?”
“Humph.” Aaron shook a smoldering cigar at Fletcher, scattering a few ashes. “You’re not the decadent you’d like people to think. It wouldn’t hurt you to darken the door of a church again.”
Fletcher brushed the ashes off the table to the floor. “What makes you think I don’t go?”
Aaron smirked. “’Cause I know you, and I know why you don’t go. And that hasn’t changed.”
Fletcher looked away. He didn’t want to talk about it.
Or think about it now. He cleared his throat. “Did anyone see the fight?”
“I doubt it, unless Tim overheard something. You could ask him. There are times I think he overhears everything. The fight did happen up at the lodge. Jamie, as you can see, left in a bit of a hurry. You’ll probably find leftover pizza in the fridge.”
Fletcher frowned. This was too easy; she was leading him somewhere, and it wasn’t where he wanted to go. “Who’s been here the longest?”
Maggie got up and peered into the bathroom, then winced. “I’ll see if the cleaning folks can’t get here sooner. And the microwave will probably be safer than the stove. We didn’t expect to move anyone in here for a week or two.”
“Maggie…” Fletcher nudged.
“Scott and Lily,” she said.
“A couple?”
Maggie nodded. “Scott Jonas is the writer. He’s been here several years now, almost from the beginning. Lily came and went for a while, then started staying here steadily about six months ago. Scott and Aaron fought a lot, but they seemed to understand each other.”
Fletcher stood a bit straighter. “Lily Dunne?”
Maggie stared at him. “Please don’t tell me you’re a fan.”
He shook his head. “No. I know Scott’s novels. Aaron had me read them. His bio said he was married to Lily Dunne. I know who she is, of course.”
Maggie nodded, chewing a bit on her lower lip. “Lily stays here, too. It’s a bit unusual, but Scott’s almost a permanent resident. They have the largest cabin, which is closest to the lodge.”
“Must be quiet here for her, after the lights of Broadway and L.A.”
Maggie responded by gathering up the dirty sheets and dumping them into a bag. “You’ll get to meet them tonight. Don’t forget—dinner’s at six.”
“Anyone else here who isn’t a writer?”
Maggie paused. “Me. And Tim, of course.”
Fletcher paused. Tim Miller was the retreat’s groundskeeper and the one who had found Maggie on the steps. Tyler had mentioned to him that Aaron had confidence in Tim, even though a background check had turned up a misdemeanor trespassing charge in Tennessee. Tim had said it was a political protest, something about taxes. The charge had been dismissed, and Aaron had never reported any problems. “He must help you a lot.”
Maggie’s eyes glistened with tears. “Yes.”
“Who else would hate Aaron?”
Maggie looked at him. “He’s alienated dozens of writers who thought this was paradise on earth. Aaron has—had—a temper that could shatter steel, but you know that, Fletcher. You knew him. You were one of his best friends. Who do you think would kill him?”
Fletcher looked her up and down, taking in every inch of her anger. His voice was quiet. “Anyone who despised or feared him.”
Maggie looked disgusted. “You have a gift for the obvious.” She stuffed the bag under her arm and started out the door.
“Or loved him,” Fletcher finished.
Maggie paused, then looked over her shoulder. “Do you always have to have the last word?” She repositioned the bag and tramped out, letting the door slam behind her.
Fletcher grinned. “Always.” He walked to the screen door of the cabin and watched her slender figure disappearing through the trees, wondering how much of her grief was real and how much was a calculated act. He knew she had intentionally handed him three major suspects on a silver platter, all without lying or stretching the truth, and he was aware that whomever she was protecting had probably been carefully excluded from the conversation. He sat down on his now-clean bed and took the notebook out, adding a few sharp scribbles to it, pausing only to click the pen twice. You’re playing a dangerous game, Maggie, he thought. And you’re not as good at it as you think you are.
Aaron flopped down on Fletcher’s ancient sofa, the bottle of Green Label Jack Daniel’s held loosely in his hand. “Men should stick together, me boyo,” he said, exaggerating the fake Irish brogue he always adopted when intoxicated, or when he wanted to appear intoxicated.
Fletcher noticed that the bottle was open but still full, and he wondered if it was the first bottle…or the second. He went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee anyway, hoping to distract his friend from the whiskey. “You aren’t going to try to convince me you have women problems, are you?”
Aaron wagged his finger in the air, at no one in particular.“I am not as much the ladies’ man as my publicist would have the world believe, dear Fletcher. It is far more hype than history.”
Fletcher returned to the dimly lit living room and sat opposite Aaron in the sagging leather recliner he refused to get rid of. “So those thousands of women you’ve dated…”
Aaron shook his head. “Less than a hundred, I promise.”
Fletcher laughed. “More than most men can claim. Or would want to.”
Aaron sat up and peered at the bottle, clearly wanting to take a swig. “Well, most men could claim a bit of love along the way.”
Fletcher leaned back in his recliner. “If you’re expecting sympathy from me, you’re going about it in the wrong way.”
Aaron shook his head. “Nope. No sympathy. Just want to crash on your couch tonight. Don’t feel like driving back up to the retreat.”
Fletcher frowned. “What about the apartment? Korie—”
Aaron laughed abruptly. “Korie?” He paused and finally drank from the bottle, but the swallowing seemed painful and he grimaced. “Korie is…Korie is ‘en salon’ tonight. She couldn’t care less.”
“‘En salon’?”
Aaron put the bottle on the floor, lay down on the couch and propped his feet up on one arm. “Holding court with all her ‘artistes.’ She has illusions she’s the reincarnation of Mabel Dodge. Has dreams of re-creating a salon society and influencing the art world the way Dodge did a hundred years ago. They are all over the apartment. She won’t miss me until it’s time to order something, pay for something or tip someone for carrying something she’s bought.”
Fletcher was silent. After a moment, Aaron sat up. “I’m going to be sick now. Can I still stay?”
“As long as you want.”
Aaron laughed again as he headed for the bathroom. “Judson, my dear fellow, you may regret that offer.”
Fletcher grimaced as the door shut. Judson, the one name he hated hearing, the one name Aaron teased him with the most. It was going to be a long night.
The night turned into a week, and Korie had never once called or checked up on Aaron once during those seven days. Aaron’s anger and disgust at his wife dulled to a quiet cynicism, and at the end of the week, they had returned in separate cars to New Hampshire. Now she stood to inherit everything. If—and it was a big if—Maggie was right.
Fletcher threw his notebook on the bed and opened the door. Gazing up toward the lodge, he could see Maggie on the deck, looking in his direction. After a moment, she walked down the steps and disappeared along one of the trails. But if Korie were the killer, why would Maggie protect her? They hate each other. Fletcher smiled wryly. Perhaps, Maggie, me dear, you’ve muddied the water more than you realize.
Her feet cold and her mind numb, Maggie tramped through the woods behind the lodge again. She’d tried to do her job, had called the restaurant about tonight’s dinner and the cleaning service for Fletcher’s cabin, but nothing else. Her anger and grief of the morning seemed to have faded away, but it left nothing behind except a nagging twinge of guilt. Work should be her therapy, but she felt frozen, and everything in her office reminded her of Aaron. Thinking some cool air might help, she had gone out on the deck, then realized she just wanted to walk. She’d started down one of the trails, then left it, wandering aimlessly at first over the soft ground, relishing the last of the tiny white and purple wildflowers that dotted the ground in between spots of bright orange fungus on the tree roots. This land had been farm country until about seventy-five years ago, so the trees were relatively young and sparse, allowing for a lot of undergrowth. Maggie liked spotting new plants and trying to identify them, making almost every trip a bit of an adventure. She stopped, pulling a slice of bark off a birch tree. Breaking it into tiny bits as she looked around to get her bearings, she realized she was gradually heading west toward the edge of the property and an old logging road that only had one destination: Cookie’s.
Cordelia Holokaj, but all her nieces and nephews called her Ciotka Cookie. Maggie had found the Hansel-and-Gretel cottage on one of her first escapes into the woods to get away from the flaring temperaments of the retreat’s writers. Cookie had taken her in, served her hot chocolate and fresh gingersnaps, and told her stories from the world wars that made the retreat’s resident writers sound like poor amateurs. Cookie’s had been her retreat ever since.
The cottage always smelled like wood smoke, ginger, fresh bread and cabbage, and today was no different. Maggie stepped across the threshold and inhaled, much of her tension flooding away. “It’s so good to be here,” she murmured as Cookie gave her a hug. She bent down and scratched Cookie’s ancient mutt, Pepper, behind the ears. The overweight dachshund/sheltie mix grunted her contentment with the gesture.
“I was wondering when I’d see you,” Cookie said, her voice like gravel in a blender from her almost eighty years of cigarettes and New England winters. She motioned for Maggie to sit in one of the doily-covered horsehair chairs that crowded a tiny living room clustered with pictures, icons and books. A rickety upright piano sat against one wall, its stool covered with a well-worn blanket and its ivory keys yellow from years of enthusiastic fingers.
Maggie sat, curling her long legs beneath her, in one of the chairs next to the fireplace. Pepper waddled over to a spot between the chair and the fire, turned around once, then sank to the floor with a satisfied sigh. Pepper’s low, broad body was a perfect match to Cookie’s comfortable and huggable size.
Maggie took the offered cup of chamomile tea and found herself staring blankly into the gentle blazes of Cookie’s low fire. Cookie waited, stirring her tea and munching on a gingersnap.
“I didn’t realize how much it would hurt now that he’s gone,” Maggie said, finally. Cookie merely nodded and handed the younger woman a cookie. Maggie held it, then laid it on the arm of the chair. “I mean, I hadn’t loved him—I mean, been in love with him—for a long time. But, I mean, to have Korie acting like…and Fletcher MacAllister running around as if…” Maggie’s voice trailed off. Her numbness was giving way to confusion. What had happened to the resolve she’d felt earlier, to keep Fletcher at bay?
“What are you afraid of?”
Maggie was silent, uncertain if she should even tell Cookie.
The old woman cleared her throat. “This is a small town, Maggie. Never forget that. Never. Jackson’s Retreat does not exist in a vacuum. Word gets around. We mostly know who’s sleeping with whom, married or not. Or married to someone else. We also tend to know who’s trying to make a move, and whether the proposition’s been accepted.”
Maggie stared at her. “What are you saying?”
Cookie’s gaze was steady. “I’m saying most everyone around knows who Korie was sleeping with, and I don’t mean Aaron. How long are you going to keep quiet about it?”
“As long as I have to. Enough people have already been hurt.”
Cookie nodded. “One of them even killed.”
The tears slid from Maggie’s eyes and she set her cup aside. She got up, then knelt in front of Cookie, burying her face against the old woman’s knees. “Cookie, I was so angry! But now it just hurts. And I’m so scared.”
Cordelia Holokaj’s Polish parents had been killed in the concentration camps of World War II, and her only son had disappeared into the jungles of Laos, never to return. She knew grief, and fear, like few other people. She stroked Maggie Weston’s auburn curls. “You’ve gotta keep your head clear, baby. Don’t let what you felt for Aaron get in the way here. Don’t be lying to Fletcher MacAllister. Not only is it wrong, but it’ll come back to haunt you quicker than anything else you can do.”
Maggie raised her head, her eyes pleading. “But he could destroy everything I love.”
Cookie shook her head. “Not him. What’s done is done. He’s gonna shine some light on it, but his being around doesn’t make it more or less true.” She wiped Maggie’s face with her apron, and pushed her shoulders back. “You’re stronger than this. Be who you are. And stop lying to the man.”
Maggie got up and sat back in her chair. “I haven’t lied to him.”
Cookie raised both eyebrows. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
Maggie chewed her lower lip.
Cookie nodded. “Small town. Very small town.”
Maggie picked up her cup and stared into the tea.
Cookie watched her for a few moments. “What else, baby? This isn’t just about Aaron.”
Maggie sat up a bit straighter. “Not sure. Maybe Fletcher. I tried to lie to him, but I couldn’t—”
“Good thing. You’re a lousy liar. God’s too close to your heart.”
“Mama said it was ‘God’s finger’ poking at you.”
“Good mama. She knew you. When you believe as strongly as you do, it’s hard to turn your back on what you know is right, what you know God wants you to do.”
Maggie’s mouth twisted. “Yet I can’t let him know about—” She stopped and sipped her tea, her eyes starting to water. “He confuses me. He’s different than I remembered.”
“What’s different?”
Maggie shrugged. “I’m not sure. I saw him in his cabin this morning, and he was so calm, almost as if he were determined to make me talk.” She smiled. “And talk I did.”
Cookie snorted. “And you didn’t lie to him.”
Maggie shook her head.
“Just threw a little dirt around?”
Maggie stared at Cookie, a bit of her humor finally breaking through. “Now why in the world would I want to do that?
The old woman wagged her finger. “Now don’t think you can start trying to fool me either, baby. I know you too well.” She then stood up, motioning for Maggie to follow. “Come on. I have some dough rising on the stove. Let’s go whack some bread around.”
Maggie smiled finally and followed the old woman into the kitchen.
A local restaurant catered the retreat’s evening meals. Every day Maggie would help them set the trays of food on the counter separating the kitchen from the open and airy main room of the lodge, and the writers would go down the buffet line. Today was no different. As the restaurant workers left, Maggie started the coffeemaker, set out plates, napkins and glasses, then pulled assorted soft drinks, carafes of tea and Scott’s requested spring water out of the refrigerator.
She looked over the spread once more, then frowned. Three of the coffee cups were missing. She found one in the dishwasher, and she washed it and put it on the counter. She crossed the lodge to Tim’s room, knocking softly. He occasionally took coffee to his room after breakfast.
There was no answer, and she pushed the door open slowly. She hated invading his privacy; this was his home, too. Tim had only been here a few months, but he was as much a part of Aaron’s “extended family” as she was. She, for one, was grateful for Tim’s patience. They’d lost two groundskeepers before due to Aaron’s temper.
Tim’s room smelled faintly of machine oil and freshly mowed grass, but it was relatively neat. A computer that she had given him took up most of his desk, surrounded by printouts from landscaping sites and veterans groups. I didn’t know he was a veteran, Maggie thought. She tried not to look at the other papers, already feeling like a spy.
The two missing cups were on the nightstand, and Maggie grabbed them quickly and hurried back to the main room. She washed them, put them on the counter then checked over the table one more time. Sighing, she poured herself a cup of coffee and plopped down on an overstuffed couch in front of the fire, grateful for a few minutes of peace.
She looked around the room, feeling a melancholy sense of pride in what she saw. The A-frame lodge had been Aaron’s idea, as had many of the rules for the retreat. But the rest had been hers. She’d moved into the house when it was newly finished, still smelling of fresh wood and paint. She’d decorated it, shipping in some items from New York. Others were from local artisans. In addition to the main room, there were five bedrooms and a game room with a big-screen television in the basement. An extensive library and computer had been set up in the main room’s loft. A laundry and kitchen, which were open for anyone’s use, were at the beginning of the north wing, with her office on the other side of the main room from the kitchen at the end of the south hallway. One of the bedrooms was for visitors, with one each reserved for her, Tim and Aaron. The fifth one was reserved for one of the writers, and was a perk that was assigned on a first-come, first-deserved (in Aaron’s opinion, of course) basis. Currently, Tonya Marino, who had been at the retreat for almost two years, lived there, but she was so quiet and reserved, Maggie often forgot the young writer was even in the house.
Maggie had done it all, but the main room was her true source of pride. The room was perfectly square, with floor-to-ceiling panes of glass on the front and back walls and heavy oak paneling on the others. A fireplace interrupted the glass on the back wall, as did a door that led out onto the wooden deck. The sitting area Maggie had arranged in front of the fireplace was cozy and filled with fat pillows and thick throws to hold off the chill of the New Hampshire winters. The dining table, which could seat fifteen, was near the front, where the sloping front lawn could be seen during meals. That wall also let in the best sun of the day and gave the residents a view of gorgeous sunsets in good weather.
The colors throughout the house were rich and dark, more masculine than feminine, and the art of both sculptors and painters from the nearby town of Mercer dotted the walls, adding a dramatic brightness to the atmosphere. This was Maggie’s home as well as her workplace, and she cherished each piece. And she was terrified she was about to lose it all.
When Korie inherits…The thought was a weight in her head that both hurt and angered her as well as adding to her confusion. What would I do? New York was no longer home. She loved this place more than she’d believed she could. She loved Mercer, with its conservative yet artsy ways. The reserved but loving people there. And Cookie. She’d made a lot of friends here, far more than Aaron, who had stayed to himself, and Korie, who was seldom around except on the occasional weekends. Maggie swirled the coffee around in her cup, watching the brown liquid lap up the sides. A few drops spilled over. She watched them hit the hardwood floor, but she didn’t care. Why should I care about anything?
“Should I get you a mop?”
Maggie leaped to her feet, sloshing the coffee down the front of her skirt. “Fletcher MacAllister! Don’t you ever knock?”
His left eyebrow cocked. “I didn’t realize we had to.”
Maggie’s fist clutched the soaked fabric. “No, no. You don’t have to. But could you at least have the courtesy to make a little noise so you don’t scare a person half to death?”
He scuffed his feet.
Maggie glared at him, fighting a smile. He stared back, amusement lighting in his eyes.
“I’m starved! Let’s get this show on the road!” Scott Jonas’s voice rang out from the back door, and Maggie blinked first, turning to look at him. Lily, his wife, followed, tripping a bit as she stepped through the door. She grabbed the door frame with her right hand, since her right tightly gripped an open bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. Maggie winced, and glanced at Fletcher, whose eyes narrowed as he looked over Scott and Lily, head to toe. His focus lingered on the bottle, and Maggie felt a chill move through her. She started forward, forgetting about the wet spot on her skirt.
“Here, Scott, help me take the foil off the trays. Everything just got here, so it’s still hot.” Maggie opened up one tray after another, putting tongs or large spoons into each of the dishes.
“I’m not really all that hungry,” Lily announced. “I just came because we have to.” She plucked a glass off the bar and poured the last drops of champagne into it, frowning. Then she smiled sweetly at Maggie. “Sorry, hon, looks like I’ll have to go get another one.”
Maggie’s stomach cramped. She went to Lily and took the shorter, darker woman by the arm, speaking softly. “Don’t you think you should wait?”
Lily flipped her long hair over her shoulder. “No,” she said, in a loud stage whisper. “Why should I?”
Maggie closed her eyes. “Out of respect. And we have company,” she said, nodding at Fletcher.
Lily glared at her. “Respect? Give me one good—”
Maggie grabbed Lily’s wrists suddenly, locking eyes with her and startling the young actress. “Just because,” Maggie said firmly.
Lily froze, then slowly relaxed under Maggie’s gaze. Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Mitten. I know he was special to you.”
Maggie let go of her and pulled the empty bottle away. “Thank you. Please promise me that you’ll eat.” Lily nodded, looking suddenly very small and young as she sank down into a chair at the table.
Maggie went into the kitchen and paused, staring at the bottle in her hand. Most people would look at the expensive drink with affection. It was a symbol of so many celebrations. But Maggie despised it, despised what it had done to one of the most talented actresses she’d ever seen perform. And when Maggie refused to stock it for her, Lily had it shipped in, two cases a month, storing it in the cabin. It was an image that everyone at the retreat knew well: Lily and her bottle, wandering through the morning mist, like Catherine searching for Heathcliff on the moor.
Lily had promised she would try to cut down, but Maggie knew, all too well, that Lily used it to cope with her marriage recently—as well as other things. Maggie also knew that Lily sometimes appeared drunk when she wasn’t, just to keep Scott at bay. He hated it when she drank, and these days, Lily preferred him to be angry instead of affectionate.
Scowling, Maggie flung the bottle into the trash, where it landed with a leaden thud. She grimaced at the sound, and she felt flushed, as if her blood were racing. Please let her be acting. She promised to lay off it tonight.
Maggie returned to the great room, then realized that the room was much noisier. The rest of the residents had arrived and were gossiping and filling their plates. Maggie stopped, looking around.
They sat and started eating, talking about the day’s work. No one seemed to notice Aaron’s absence. Only a day had passed, and it was as if nothing had changed, and that any minute, the tall blond man who had so captivated her a few years ago would open the door and stroll into the room with that casual lanky way he had about him.
Maggie felt like screaming. How can you all be so callous? She stared out over the room, feeling numb again. Lily came to her, distracting her. The younger woman leaned close, whispering, “You didn’t tell me he was a cop.”
“He’s not anymore.”
Lily’s lips pursed. “Very funny, Mitten. Why is he here?”
“Korie wants him to be.”
“Korie!” Lily’s suddenly loud voice echoed, and several people stopped talking. Over her shoulder, Maggie could see Fletcher watching them.
Maggie nodded. “Yes—Korie,” she said, in her normal voice. Stepping away, she announced generally, “Korie won’t be here tonight. She called this afternoon, and she’s going to a show opening in Boston. She’ll be back tomorrow night, and will stay until—”
“Yeah, right.” Scott’s cynicism was undisguised. “I doubt we’ll see much of her ever again. She’s finally free.”
Fletcher had finished filling his plate and sat down on the opposite side of the table from Scott. “Why do you say that?”
“Who are you?” Scott asked, as he broke open the cap on a bottle of spring water.
“Fletcher MacAllister. I’m—”
“Judson MacLean,” Scott finished.
Fletcher reached for the salt. “Not exactly.”
“Fletcher is going to be our guest for a while,” Maggie said, setting a plate of food on the table and slipping into her chair. She glanced around, wondering who looked the most guilty. “Fletcher, meet our current retreat residents. To my left are Lily Dunne and Scott Jonas. Next is Patrick Stanfield, cabin three. Dan Jameson, cabin—” She stopped and smiled weakly. “I’ll give you those later. Carter Everson, Tonya Marino, Frank Petersen, Laura Baker and Mick Lovett. And down at the end there is Tim Miller.” Maggie went through the names of the nine residents and the groundskeeper slowly, noticing that Fletcher made distinct eye contact with each of them. “Fletcher is here, at the request of Korie, to look into Aaron’s death.” The table fell silent as they all stared at Fletcher.
“I thought it was an accident,” said Patrick, a writer who’d been at the retreat almost as long as Scott and Lily.
Fletcher opened his mouth to speak, but Maggie beat him to it. “It was, Patrick. But you know Korie and her drama-queen ways. We just want to make sure there are no loose ends. Don’t be surprised if Fletcher asks you about Monday night, just to see what you remember.”
“But I don’t remember anything,” Lily said.
“You never do,” responded Scott.
Dual pink flushes colored Lily’s cheeks, and there was a brightness to her eyes that everyone tried to ignore. She picked up her fork in her left hand and tried to eat, but mostly moved food from one side of the plate to the other. Maggie knew from long experience that she would probably be silent the rest of the night.
At the far end of the table, Tim Miller stood up suddenly, taking his plate back to the bar. Second helpings hit his plate with mushy slaps, as Fletcher said evenly, “I won’t bother anyone unnecessarily. Tyler has completed his report. This is just for Korie’s peace of mind.”
“In other words,” Scott said hoarsely, “she thinks one of us killed him.”
Maggie bristled. “Scott, I don’t think—”
“Oh, Maggie, just shut up,” Scott said. “Stop protecting her. You know what she’s like. She wants us out of here. What better way than to stir up the idea that we’re all killers?”
Maggie flared. “No, Scott, I will not shut up. You’re being obnoxious. Again. No one knows what’s going to happen to the retreat, but Korie has said nothing at all about closing it.”
“What about that offer?” Scott demanded.
“What offer?” asked Dan.
“Yeah, Maggie,” Scott continued. “Why don’t you tell us all about the offer? Especially Korie’s point man here.”
Maggie took a deep, calming breath. She looked at Fletcher, but he showed no emotion in response to Scott’s gibe. He merely looked at her, waiting.
“A few weeks ago, Aaron and Korie received an offer from a developer who wants this property. It was a fairly good one, but Aaron turned it down flat. He doesn’t—didn’t—need the money, and he wanted to keep the retreat up and going.”
“But Korie didn’t agree.”
Maggie looked at Scott patiently. “Korie knows what this place means—meant—to him, Scott. Even more, Korie is all about image, and the awards associated with this place mean image to her. She may change it, but I can’t see her closing it.”
“She’s also about money,” Scott answered.
“She will have plenty of money,” Maggie answered. “Aaron was heavily insured.”
“Enough to run this place?” asked Dan.
“Probably not,” Scott snapped, “but enough for Korie to want him dead.”
Maggie took a deep breath but ignored Scott. This is getting out of hand. “The retreat is self-supporting. Aaron set up an escrow account large enough that the operating expenses are covered by the interest earned every year. He once told me that he was having that handled separately in his will, but I don’t know for sure what that meant.”
“Maybe he meant he’d leave it to you. He does seem to take care of all his toys.”
Maggie slammed her hand down on the table. “Scott!”
“So who else do you think would profit from his death?” Fletcher asked quietly.
Scott slid down in his chair and took a swig of water. “Certainly none of the ones he’s tortured over the years.” He paused, then looked at Maggie. “Who’ll be the judge of the requirements now?” he asked. “Surely not you or Korie. Neither one of you knows diddly about literature. Or did you plan to claim that part of his fame, too?”
Lily looked up sharply, first at her husband, then at Maggie, who sat without answering. Fletcher cleared his throat and addressed Maggie. “I thought you had worked in the publishing industry.”
Scott made a gargling sound. “Yeah, in retail. She managed a bookstore. That’s like asking a fast-food manager to judge the food at a gourmet four-star restaurant.”
Lily slapped her napkin into her plate, then stood, picked up the plate and her glass, and went to the kitchen. Silence ruled as she left, then Dan chuckled. “Got a couch for tonight, Scott?”
Scott pushed away from the table. “I don’t need her. And I don’t need this.” He stood up and pointed at Fletcher. “Whoever did it should get a reward. Aaron got what he deserved.” He strode across the room and left, slamming the door behind him. Tim got up and went to the window, watching Scott disappear through the trees. Then he turned and watched Lily as she started cleaning up in the kitchen.
Dan lifted his glass and toasted Maggie. “Now I see why you spend so much time at Cookie’s, Maggie. We are a temperamental lot.”
Maggie frowned, then forced herself to smile. She really hadn’t wanted Fletcher to know about Cookie. “Dessert, Dan? They sent Boston cream pie and strawberry sorbet.”
Dan laughed. “Are you suggesting I eat and not talk?”
Maggie looked innocent. “Moi?” she asked, pointing at her chest. “Why, Dan, I never get tired of all my lovely writers. They keep things so lively around here.”
Fletcher stood up. “I think I’d like some of that sorbet.”
Everyone else wandered away from the table. Some to get dessert, some to get coffee and stand by the fire. A few went downstairs to the game room. Frank and Laura left, holding hands, and Tonya returned to her room. As Maggie started to the kitchen, Tim caught her by the arm. “Is she going to be all right?” he asked, nodding toward Lily.
Maggie touched his cheek. “They’ll work it through.”
“He shouldn’t hurt her like that.”
Maggie shook her head. “No, but she’ll be fine.” Maggie glanced at Lily, then back at her groundskeeper. “She always is.”
Tim nodded, then retreated to the fire, where he poked at the flames, keeping constant watch on Lily. Maggie paused, then said softly, “I had to get two of the cups out of your room tonight.”
He looked surprised, then shrugged and looked back at the fire. “That’s okay, Miss Maggie. It’s your house.”
Maggie shifted her shoulders, feeling weary. Tim sounded unusually Southern tonight. Must be her imagination. “Still, I promised I wouldn’t go into your room without telling you.”
He shrugged again, poking harder at the logs. Sighing, Maggie went into the kitchen, took a dishrag out of Lily’s hands and clutched her fingers in her own, shaking them gently. Lily’s green eyes met her blue, and Maggie wished she could pass some of her own stubbornness and strength through their mere touch. The pain and anger in those green eyes seared her heart.
“Did he hit you today?” she whispered.
Lily shook her head. “Still just that one time…” Her eyes glistened.
Maggie frowned. “No tears, not tonight. Okay?”
Lily bit her lip and nodded.
“Good girl.” Maggie took a deep breath and Lily followed her example. An old routine that gave them new resolve. “Go bring some of the dishes off the table. We’ll put them in the dishwasher, and I’ll run it in the morning. I’m going to see if the guys downstairs need coffee.”
Air hockey occupied the two men downstairs, however, and Maggie returned as Lily was loading the last of the dishes. She looked around the room, making one more check. The room was almost clean, and Dan and Patrick were finishing their coffee near the fire. Tim must have gone out for his nightly walk around the grounds. But there was still one other body missing.
Maggie frowned. “Where’s Fletcher? Did he go back to his cabin?”
Dan shook his head. “Nope. He helped Lily for a bit, then took out the trash.”
Maggie froze, a slice of fear in her stomach. “He did what?”
Dan didn’t even look up. “Garbage. He’ll be back in a few.”
Maggie turned toward the kitchen to find Lily staring at her, puzzled. Maggie just mouthed, Oh, no, when the door opened and Fletcher walked in, his face a dark mask and one gloved hand holding an empty Dom Perignon bottle. He stopped, then looked from Maggie to Lily, and back. “Call Tyler, Maggie. Tell him I’ve found the murder weapon.”
From the kitchen came a small gasp as Lily sank to the floor.
THREE
Judson was insistent that the crime scene be secured, since it was far too easy for forensic evidence to be contaminated. He’d seen too many cases lost simply because the investigators had been careless. Catching a criminal was hard enough without sloppy procedure.
“It was in the trash can,” Fletcher said.
Maggie sat on the deck steps, huddled in an oversize coat, as Fletcher explained to police chief Tyler Madison how he’d found the bottle. Inside, Lily was stretched out on a couch with an ice pack on her head, but the other residents had returned to their cabins, puzzled and annoyed.
Fletcher frenetically demonstrated his actions as he talked. Tyler’s eyes tried to follow him, but Maggie just stared, amazed at the sudden burst of energy in the detective. She now realized his calm demeanor, his control, was a part of his work. Underneath was a strong passion, just waiting to break through. No wonder he and Aaron had been so close, she thought. They’d both shared the same love of life, of their work.
The lights from the house cast long golden pools across the deck and down through the yard, with the rails and slats of the deck creating lines of darkness on the ground. Fletcher walked in and out of the shadows with his pacing, like a large dog behind a fence. “I went to put the bag of garbage in the can,” Fletcher said, “and I noticed the neck sticking up. I thought it might poke a hole in the bag, so I went to move it and saw the blood, then the fact that the label was damaged. That’s when I realized the flakes found in Aaron’s wound might be from the label.”
Tyler nodded, his hat a little unstable on his head. “We’ll have to send them off for analysis. We’re not set up for anything like this here.”
“The blood, too.”
“Of course.” Tyler crossed his arms, and Maggie looked from him to Fletcher, as if they were tennis players. The younger man had gotten his job six months ago when the previous chief had died, since he was the senior member of the five-officer police force. Yet he was still not quite thirty, and his inexperience seemed to shine.
Fletcher paced back and forth a few minutes, then stopped in front of Maggie. “Maggie, why?”
Tyler stepped in. “Now, wait a minute, MacAllister—”
Fletcher exploded. “Can’t you see? She was alone with him for over half an hour. She threw the bottle away. She moved the body. I want to know why.”
Maggie finally exploded in the face of his building temper, his relentless accusations. “I did not move his body! He was like that when I found him. He was dead! I couldn’t even bring myself to touch him. I barely remember what happened! How could I move him?” She stood up. “Don’t you dare blame me just because you’re hurting, too!”
Fletcher stopped, clenching his fists as he stared at her. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, obviously trying to regain control. “Then why hide the bottle?”
Maggie threw up her hands. “Why do you even ask? You know why!”
Fletcher’s words were crisp. “So why are you protecting Lily?”
Maggie froze. “Because she didn’t kill him!”
“Didn’t she? Don’t you think so?” Fletcher bent over her, his questions flying fast, directly at her face.
“No! She couldn’t!”
“Why not? Aaron was hit on the right side of the head. That means it was most likely a left-handed assailant. Lily’s the only one here who’s left-handed.”
Maggie shook her head furiously. “No! You don’t understand. There’s no way!”
“Then why did you toss out the bottle?”
Tears filled Maggie’s eyes. “Because I knew how it looked. The blood—but the blood was already on the bottle we’d had earlier. I knew everyone would think like you do—”
“How long has she called you Mitten?”
“Since we were kids—” Maggie stepped back, eyes wide, her hand over her mouth.
Fletcher backed off, staring at her. She watched as he blinked rapidly, studying her, and saw the understanding come over his face. “You’re sisters.”
“Say what?” Tyler demanded.
“Is that why you’re protecting her, Maggie?”
Maggie shook her head, an overwhelming weakness settling over her. She sank down on the steps. “Yes. No. No! You don’t understand. It’s the other way around. And it’s not.”
Fletcher sat down next to her. “Explain it to me.”
Maggie took a deep breath, resolved for it to come out. “I went to college. Lily went to Broadway. Bit parts, a few films, a show here and there, not a lot of money but enough, for about five years. We didn’t see each other much, even though we were in the same city. And there was no press. No one cared. Then she made Ramsey Place, then Blue Ribbon Winner, then—” Maggie stopped and wiped her face with her hands. “Her career went up and her personal life went down the drain. She was followed everywhere she went. She was stalked. People broke into her home to steal her clothes!” Maggie sat up straighter and motioned around her. “By the time things really got hot, I was already here. This place has no security, but it’s remote and hard to find. She had lied and said she had no family. My dad died before I was born and my mom married Bobby Dunne when I was only one, but they never changed my name—” She stopped, her hand waving away the past. “It’s a long story, but it worked. The press left me alone. But we traded off. Sometimes I would hide her here for weeks. That’s how she met Scott. She’s still being stalked, in fact, which is why she’s staying here with him. It’s one reason she started drinking. She can’t handle the fame, much less the fear.”
“What about her career?”
Maggie shrugged. “Right now it’s in the drunk tank. Her agent stays in touch, sends her scripts, begs her to go to rehab before it’s too late. I hoped being here would help. She’s got to stop drinking.”
“Who knows you’re her sister?”
Maggie buried her face in her hands. “No one. Not even Scott.”
Tyler crossed his arms. “But you look so different.”
Fletcher waved away the objection. “Just the hair and eyes.” He made a circular motion around his face. “Here is the same.”
Maggie sighed. “My dad had red hair—I got the auburn from him. Lily has her hair straightened.”
Fletcher stared out into the woods. “How long has she been drinking?”
Maggie shrugged. “I’m not sure. Not long, I know. We didn’t drink when we were younger. That wasn’t how we were raised, and I know she didn’t drink until she left the church. Even then it was nothing like this. Sometimes she goes through a bottle a day.”
Tyler stared at her. “A bottle a day!”
Maggie looked up at him. “You think we do that much celebrating that we need two cases of champagne a month?”
“How would I know—”
Maggie looked skeptical as she quoted her best friend. “It’s a very small town, Tyler. She orders it, it’s stored in her cabin, but it’s still delivered here. So give me a break, okay?”
Fletcher smiled quickly, but wiped it away with his hand. “But sometimes she doesn’t really drink. Like tonight. She wasn’t really drunk.”
Maggie watched him closely. “How did you know?”
“Because it’s my job, Maggie. She has the act down, but not the other signs, the stuff a cop would notice. Why does she pretend?” Shifting uncomfortably on the step, Maggie looked out, her eyes unfocused. When she didn’t answer, Fletcher prompted quietly, “Scott?”
Reluctantly, Maggie nodded. “He hates it, so he stays away from her when he thinks she’s…which is what she wants…” Her voice trailed off. This wasn’t anyone’s business.
Fletcher took a deep breath. “Tell me about their fight, Maggie. Tell me about finding Aaron. And this time don’t leave anything out.”
Maggie hugged her knees to her chest and closed her eyes, remembering and saying a quick prayer for guidance. She really didn’t want to relive that moment.
“Lily and I had been cleaning the kitchen. We do that almost every night, just to have some time together. Aaron had been at dinner, his usual arrogant, jerky self. He’d been drinking.”
“Green Label Jack Daniel’s.”
Maggie looked at him then nodded. “It hurt. He told me he’d been trying to stop lately. I thought he was serious about quitting. I hadn’t seen him drink for a long time, and he acted…weird, even for Aaron. He’d berated Scott and Patrick for slacking off. I didn’t get it. They are two of his favorites. Then he started in on Lily.” She shifted, the memory still burning, a vision of a red-faced Aaron shoving Lily backward, snatching the champagne bottle out of her hand.
“This trash will kill you, girl!” Aaron’s open hand aimed for the side of her head, but Lily turned into it and his palm landed on her cheek and lips, drawing blood.
Lily fell to her knees with a short screech, but she scrambled up, diving for Aaron. “Like you’d know, old man!” she bit back, grabbing for the bottle with her right hand as her left raked its nails over his neck, drawing blood.
His hand closed on the young actress’s blouse, and he pulled her face up close to his, raising her up on her toes, his voice low and hoarse. “You cat! You have no idea. I’m the one person who does know.”
“Stop it!” Maggie yelled, shoving her way between them as Aaron pressed his palm to the scratches Lily had left. “Look what this is doing to you! You’re acting like children, the both of you. Stop drinking!” She faced her boss, who literally towered over her. “Go home, Aaron. Sleep this one off.”
Aaron’s glare shook her all the way to her toes, but she tilted her chin up as he raised his hand again, her eyes narrowing to thin slits. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered sharply. “Don’t you even think about it.”
Maggie paused and took a deep breath, forcing her eyes to meet Fletcher’s. “Anyway, no one stayed around after dinner, not like tonight. At first he acted like he was in pain, but then he just got belligerent. No one wanted to be around him. Then he started in on Lily and me, and I called his bluff and told him to go home and sleep it off. He acted as if he was going to hit me, and I stood him down. He laughed, making a comment that I would never take it from a man like Lily did—”
“Scott hits her?” Tyler demanded.
Fletcher looked up at him. “Pay attention, Tyler. Or does your mother not go to the local beauty shop to keep up with what’s happening around town?”
Maggie almost laughed, and she looked at Fletcher, grateful. He smiled briefly and nodded his encouragement. She continued with a sigh. “Scott only hit her one time, but it’s left her skittish. It’s made things very tough for them, for us. So when Aaron hit her, I can understand why she went after him.” She looked up at Fletcher, her eyes pleading. “I thought the blood was from the fight, but I knew how it would look!”
Fletcher was back under control and merely nodded at her. “Keep talking.”
She shrugged. “Lily left, and Tim went to bed. I was going to take out the garbage and go to my office to work for a bit. That’s when I found him. He was just…there. Lying on the steps with that look. No life in his eyes.” Maggie stopped, staring up at the bright stars, which were blurry through her tears. Are You listening, God? Are You watching? Am I doing the right thing? The relief she felt from the release of the information was tempered by doubts about Lily, about Fletcher. About herself.
Fletcher took her hand, folding it in the warmth of his. “Go on.”
Maggie sniffed back the tears, relishing the comfort of his grasp. “Tim got up to go to the bathroom and realized all the lights were still on. That’s when he found me.” She paused. “Us.”
Fletcher squeezed her hand. “No, Maggie. Before that. What did you do?”
Maggie looked at him, puzzled.
“How did you react?”
She lowered her eyes and tried to call back the memory. “I…I…dropped the trash bag. I remember it spilling all down the steps as I went to him.”
“Who cleaned it up?”
Maggie suddenly felt confused. She didn’t remember. She looked up at Tyler, who shook his head. “There was no trash when we got here.”
“Then Tim must have picked it up before you got here. Or Scott.” Maggie racked her brain. “I don’t remember anyone else being around.” Why can’t I remember?
Fletcher tugged on her hand. “When did you find the bottle?”
Maggie stared at him. “This morning, just before you and Korie got here. I didn’t know how it got there, and I realized how it looked…Lily’s bottle close to where he’d died. The blood. Everyone was already saying it wasn’t an accident, that the body had been moved.”
“So how do you know it had not been in the trash after all?”
“I guess I don’t.” Maggie studied Fletcher’s face. His gaze was distant; she could almost see him processing what he’d been told. You don’t believe me, do you?
Tyler shook his head. “No. MacAllister, I know we’re just a small-town department, but we would have noticed a bloody bottle at the crime scene. There was no trash at all when we got here.”
Fletcher nodded. “No doubt. So it had to have been placed afterward. Either to look as if it had been an overlooked piece of your trash…”
“Or to implicate Lily,” Tyler finished. “I still don’t understand why the bottle didn’t break from such a blow.”
Fletcher spun on his toe and headed back to the trash can.
“Other brands might have,” Maggie said, “but the Dom’s bottle is pretty…” Her voice trailed off as Fletcher started digging through the trash, coming up with the bottle she had tossed earlier that evening. “What are you doing?”
Fletcher paused, looked from her to Tyler, then with a sudden jerk, he slammed the end of the bottle down on the ground, the thick glass burying itself several inches into the dirt.
Maggie gasped, then closed her eyes, burning tears leaking through the slits.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Tyler said softly.
Fletcher crossed to Maggie and leaned over her. “He didn’t deserve this,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Help me. Don’t hinder me.”
Maggie opened her eyes. “Please stop. I can’t do this.”
Fletcher looked into her eyes a moment, then nodded, emotion giving way to business. “We’ll finish tomorrow. Nothing is going to get solved tonight. I’ll talk to the other residents in the morning. Tyler will get the analysis done. There’s a good chance our killer left more than fingerprints on that bottle. We can get elimination prints from everyone here, if they’ll cooperate—”
“My fingerprints will be on that bottle.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“I didn’t kill him. Neither did Lily.”
Silently, he stood up, pulling her up with him, then he put his hand on her elbow as she climbed the stairs. They were almost at the door when a memory sparked in her brain—just a flash, but it might be important. Maggie turned abruptly at the door, to speak to Tyler.
The pain slapped into her face almost at the same time she recognized the sound of the gunshot in the distance. There was a moment when she wondered where the pain was coming from, almost as if it were not a part of her. Then everything shifted into a slow blur. She felt remote, pulled out of her body, and she heard herself screaming. She was falling, then not, then there was the solid wood of the deck beneath her. At once, the pain hit in full force, a thousand shards of glass against her skin. Then Maggie’s vision faded, and with the darkness, relief. She closed her eyes, embracing it.
FOUR
Work was his passion, and Judson pursued it with a relentless sense of perfection. His personal standards were tougher than the department’s, and he went through a number of partners before finding one suitable. “My partners,” he once told his captain, “keep forgetting that it is the work that you are involved with, not the crime victims.”
He watched her breathe, his eyes tracing over every contour of muscle and bone, every bit of pale flesh. Every bruise. Every bandaged wound.
It was his mistake, and she had almost paid the price for it. If she had not turned so abruptly—
The bullet had grazed her scalp and blown apart the wooden door frame, embedding a half-dozen shards of wood in the side of her face, near her hairline. Sometimes Fletcher thought he could still hear her screams. Maggie had fallen against him, then to the deck, as Tyler had bounded into the woods after the shooter. The screams had brought out Lily, who surprised Fletcher by taking charge of her sister and yelling at him to go, go!
But he and Tyler had not found so much as a shell casing in the dark, and Fletcher had returned to the lodge, his anger barely under control, to find that Lily had called 911, pulled the first-aid kit out of the kitchen and removed most of the wooden slivers. She had stopped the bleeding with pressure bandages, directed the arriving officers into the woods and helped the ambulance attendants load Maggie. Maggie had only remained unconscious a few moments, and it had been Lily who had calmed her, trying to ease the panic with a soothing voice. As they had watched the ambulance leave, Lily had spoken evenly. “Who’s going to take me to the hospital?”
Fletcher never took his eyes off the flashing lights. “You’re not drunk at all, are you?”
“I am…” Lily had said, with an exaggerated pause for effect “an actress.”
Fletcher had nodded. “One of the officers will take you. I have to stay here.”
“She’ll be disappointed.”
Fletcher had looked down at her, frowning. “What?”
She had smiled. “Never mind. I’ll snag an officer. You’d better stick to Tyler. He looks a little out of his element.”
Fletcher had watched as Lily sauntered off. A smile, a flirt and a coy squeeze on the arm later, and she and an officer were headed for the hospital in Portsmouth. Maggie had been treated and kept overnight for observation. She was released this morning, sent home doped up on the appropriate painkillers.
Now, he watched her breathe.
“Not my usual type, is she?” Aaron asked him, as Maggie had headed for the ladies’ room.
Fletcher had noticed. He was so used to seeing far too many perfect, rich, trophy-wife candidates on Aaron’s arm that Maggie’s difference shone—her soft but out-of-control curls, her light use of make-up. He tilted his head as he watched her walk away. There was a slight awkwardness to her gait, a faint limp that Aaron had explained was left over from a childhood accident, but the sway of her hips still made men turn and look. Nice legs.
He looked back at Aaron. “She’s not your typical airheaded beauty queen, no.”
“But she’s smart. And sasses me back like no one ever has. She’s got spunk.”
Fletcher took a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Aaron laughed, his voice muffled by his raised glass. “I like it when you two fight. I like the way she tries to defend me.”
“You would. Don’t you ever fight with her?”
“Only about one thing, my dear Fletcher, and eventually, I promise you, I will win.”
Fletcher looked at Maggie, who had taken a quick sidestep to avoid a waiter loaded down with dishes. She had to be the most determined women he’d ever met. “You may have met your match this time.”
“Never, me boyo. No woman bests Aaron Jackson.”
“You know, Aaron, your humility is one of the things I like best about you.”
Aaron had scowled. “Humility is a much overrated virtue, usually touted by those who have nothing to be humble about.”
Fletcher studied his friend’s face. “Why are you so intent on this?”
Aaron was quiet for a few moments, then said evenly, “Because if I lose this one, I lose the girl.”
And he had. Aaron and Maggie had called it quits a few months later, and Aaron had gone on to a series of lovelies, all of whom bored him within a few weeks. Korie had latched on, and Aaron had married her quickly, as he had told Fletcher shortly after the wedding, “out of attrition.” Were you still in love with him, Maggie?
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Ramona Richards
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The death of bestselling author Aaron Jackson turned Maggie Weston′s world inside out. The manager of Jackson′s Writers Retreat, Maggie knew a murderer hid among her colleagues and friends. Was it actress Lily Dunne, target of a stalker′s obsession? Lily′s writer husband, struggling to make a name for himself? Money-loving Korie, Aaron′s wife? Or someone else?Maggie herself stood to inherit from Aaron′s estate. As former New York City cop Fletcher MacAllister piled up evidence against Maggie, only faith kept her strong. And Fletcher needed to rekindle his own faith in time to prevent the killer from claiming another victim.