A Murder Among Friends. Ramona Richards
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.