Murder in March

by Camilla Chafer

  Pushing open the door, I stepped inside. "Hello!" called a female voice from behind the shelves. "If you're here for the latest Miranda Marchmont novel, there're only ten signed copies left. We only got them in today and they've almost sold out already."

  "Is that so?" I asked weakly as a woman stepped out, smiling at me. She had glossy, brunette hair that fell in waves to her shoulders, big blue eyes and a true peaches-and-cream complexion. There was something familiar about her but I couldn't remember meeting her before.

  "People just love her romances," she said as she carried an armful of books to the counter and set them down. "I read all of it last night… in one sitting!"

  "Oh? What did you think?" The words shot out of my mouth before I could manage to consider what I said.

  The clerk rested her forearms on the desk and leaned in. "To be perfectly honest," she began, her face earnest, "it's not my favorite. It's fun and entertaining but... there's something missing. I don't know what it is but it doesn't have the spice and pizazz her other books have. If you're a fan, I'm sure you'll enjoy it. Shall I ring one up for you?"

  "Not today," I said, looking around. Why hadn't I ventured inside here for so long? It looked the same with the light blue walls and thickly laden shelves, yet different too. The decor hadn’t changed, but the displays were different and far more engaging than I remembered. "But thanks anyway. I really like the children's display window. Did you do that?"

  "Yes, and no. I found the castle model and the train set in the back. I think my grandfather made them when he ran the bookstore but I'm not sure. I dusted them off, touched them up with a little paint and put them out last weekend. Isn't it great?"

  "I love it. It's absolutely charming."

  The clerk beamed, her peaches-and-cream complexion lighting up. "Thank you! Do you have kids?"

  "No, but that display makes me feel like a child again. My parents used to bring me here quite often as a child."

  "And you're still a customer? That is good news. I'll be sure to tell Grandpa. I'm Holly. Holly Sparkes. I just took over the bookstore now that Grandpa is retired." She stuck out her hand and I shook it.

  "I'm Ava."

  "I'm very pleased to meet you, Ava."

  "Did you grow up here?" I asked, wondering why I couldn't place her face. She seemed to be around my age, but I couldn't recall her from any of my school classes.

  "Yes, until I was ten, when we moved away. I liked to help Grandpa out in the shop during my vacations, which I often did when I was a teenager. I always loved it here. When he finally said he was ready to retire, I jumped at the chance to come back and work in the shop again. Calendar is a great town. A little crazy lately, but a great town nevertheless."

  "Yes, it is," I agreed, taking one last look around, promising myself that as soon as I finished rewriting my book, I would come back and reward myself with some exciting fiction. "I have to get back to work but it was very nice to meet you."

  "Come back soon if you decide to buy one of the Miranda Marchmont books!" Holly called after me, waving as I left the store.

  I returned the friendly wave, still holding my latte, and started for home. I wondered what on earth I would say when Esther saw the bookstore's display. She would probably expose my cover just to make me keep writing more stupid romances! With a gulp, I hoped she chose to stay at the hotel and well away from Main Street.

  Chapter Two

  "Are you booking again for your next visit, Mr. Rees?" asked the fair-haired receptionist at the Maple Tree Hotel. I was second in line and the tall man in front of me had a small but very smart suitcase at his feet that complemented his business attire. He slid the electronic keycard across the desk and shook his head.

  "I'm not, Janey. Actually, I plan to stay with my girlfriend, Sara, when I'm in town during the week," he said.

  "It's been a pleasure having you as a guest at The Maple Tree Hotel," said the receptionist as the two exchanged goodbyes. The man turned, smiled and nodded at me before grabbing his case and strolling towards the entrance in confident strides. "Good morning. I'm Janey. Are you checking in?" she asked me with an equally welcoming smile.

  I stepped forwards. "No, I'm meeting Esther Drummond. She said she checked in already."

  Janey glanced at her computer and hit a couple of keys before looking up. "That's correct. You must be her lunch guest. She booked a table for three in the Garden restaurant. The other parties are already here. Do you know where to go?"

  "Through the doors and follow the plants?" I asked, pointing to the doors across the lobby. I was pleased when Esther’s assistant, Lisa, messaged to say she booked a table at the hotel's restaurant. The food was always great and the decor was as fancy as it got in Calendar.

  Janey beamed. "That's right. Enjoy your lunch," she said, turning away as the phone rang.

  I walked through the doors and followed the corridor lined with large, potted plants that gave it an exotic, hot-house feel. Pausing midway, I checked my reflection in the plate glass windows that overlooked the hotel's rear gardens. The big maple trees that gave the hotel its name were already erupting with new buds but I was more focused on my appearance. Esther, as always, would be dressed to the nines. She had a large, exuberant personality that she matched with loud colors and bold jewelry. Last time I met her, she took umbrage at my fashion sense, or “lack thereof" as she so charmingly put it. Her words actually wounded me and, with a sneaking suspicion that I really had become "boring," I wound up intensively shopping. I even purchased a new suitcase before my flight home.

  Today I was pleased with my reflection. Cream sweater in a pretty cable knit, tight, dark blue jeans that clung to my legs like a second skin, and knee-length, tan boots with a slim heel. I added sparkly, hoop earrings and took extra care with my red hair, using a wand to create loose curls that fell over my shoulders. My shopping trip had included makeup too, supplied by a very talented sales clerk who gave me a complete makeover. A month of video tutorials later, I was getting better at applying it. Today, I looked good. No, not just good, but elegant and refined, although still casual enough for lunch. I couldn't see how Esther could complain.

  Turning away from the windows, I continued walking to the end of the corridor and stepped into the Garden restaurant, taking a moment to look around. The ceiling was sprigged with fronds from which lights appeared and big, leafy plants were dotted around every window and at either end of the bar. All the tables had small posies of fresh flowers in glass vases. I spotted Esther at the far end of the room, like a flare in bright orange, topped with jet black hair. Her back was to me.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I walked over.

  "Hi, Esther," I said, stopping at the table. The receptionist, Janey, told me both parties had already arrived but I didn't see the man accompanying Esther until I had already reached them. A tall plant was blocking my view of him, but now I could see he was rather broad in the shoulders with very dark brown hair and a beard he kept stylishly short. He glanced up from his phone and gave me a surprised look. I gazed down at him, the air suddenly all knocked out of me before my heart seemed to skip a beat. For once, I knew what my heroines felt like! This man was gorgeous.

  Resisting the urge to place a hand over my chest and check to see I was still breathing, I was relieved when Esther's head shot up from the menu she perused, and her red lips split into a big smile. "Ava! We were just talking about you. Mark, this is Ava," she dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper, "also known as Miranda Marchmont. What are you wearing? This is a business lunch," she continued, flapping a hand towards my sweater. The stunned moment disappeared and I sucked in a breath, recovering quickly as the insult flew over my head.

  Mark stood up and held out his hand, a slightly quizzical expression on his face. "It's a pleasure to meet you finally, Ava. I'm Mark Boudreaux."

  "Hi," I said, equally surprised as I took his hand, and glad to find it warm and dry. I erroneously assumed Mark was much older, since my former publisher, Mike,
was well into his sixties. I even searched for him on the publisher's website when he was introduced as my new contact but there was no photo of him yet.

  "Sit down, sit down," said Esther at the same moment I realized I was still shaking Mark's hand. No, not shaking it. There was no shaking. We simply held hands, gazing at each other across the table. I dropped his hand, mentally gathering myself as I slid into my chair. "It's about time. Are you late? Is she late, Mark?"

  "She's perfect," said Mark. He blinked and seemed to wake up as he retook his seat. "Perfectly on time," he added quickly before reaching for his water and taking a long drink.

  Esther exaggerated how she was looking at her watch, a man's thick Rolex that was not at all feminine, yet strangely suited her. "You are on time. That's a good start, Ava. Not that it means anything. Your latest manuscript was on time too, but it's hardly good. We really need to talk about that book."

  "I know," I said. "I..."

  "I think it's going to be an entire rewrite. Everything. From the beginning."

  "Oh, I..." I spluttered.

  "It needs a lot of work, doesn't it, Mark?"

  "It needs some work," said Mark, wavering one hand in the air. "It has promise but there's..."

  "It's really not up to your usual standard," interrupted Esther. "When was it due to be published? Is it included in the summer catalogue?"

  "No," said Mark. "I'd like to get it out in the bookshops for Christmas; but if not then, I'm happy with next spring or summer. We have some time."

  "Time. Okay," I said. Time was good. I could work with time. I could even do the rewrites with a Christmas theme.

  "But there's another book due now too!" whined Esther. She shook her head and sighed as she grabbed the menu she'd been perusing when I arrived. She dropped it a second later and whipped off her oversized spectacles, allowing them to suspend from her neck on a beaded chain. "Ava, this is an intervention! What is going on with you? I got you a very good deal for those three books. The best deal you ever had! You're a bestseller! A star! And the last one you submitted was..." She flashed a look at Mark, gathering and shaking her hands as she searched for a word. Finally, she settled on... "A flop. A total flop!"

  "It's not your best work," said Mark, his voice lower and steadier than Esther's sarcastic reproach. "Ava, what happened?" he asked, leaning forward and searching my face with gray-flecked, blue eyes that I could have happily gazed into for days.

  "What do you mean?" I asked, mesmerized.

  "When I took over from my predecessor, I acquainted myself with all the authors on his list. I wanted to know exactly whom I was working with. I spent every spare minute reading and I read all of yours, that is, all of Miranda Marchmont's work. I'm not your target audience by a long shot," he admitted, smiling, "but even I was touched by the emotions your characters journey through and the revelations they endure to pursue their happiness."

  "You must have received some strange looks on the subway when you read my books," I said, thinking about the feminine, romantic covers my publishers generously provided.

  "I have a car service." Mark waved the remark away like it was nothing and continued, "But when I read your last manuscript, the first one you submitted to me, I was confused. It didn't even sound like you and I wondered what happened. Did something unexpected occur?"

  I forced myself to concentrate on his words, not his face. "I don't know what you mean?"

  "I wondered if you were ill, or perhaps struggling with something. There's a definite change in your voice, and the way you write. The characters are flat. The emotions are missing. I want to care about what happens to Jessica when she has that terrible car crash. I want to cheer for her when she decides what kind of life she's going to seek. I want to care that Ryder appears to be her nemesis but turns out to be everything she desires. I want your readers to care."

  "Jessica is a Sad Sack and Ryder is a jerk," cut in Esther with a snort. "No one cares about either of them."

  I sat back, frozen at Esther's bluntness. All I could muster to reply was, "Oh."

  "It's not that bad," said Mark, smiling warmly again. "I think we can still salvage it and make it really special, but I would like to know what happened. You don't answer my emails. I can't get you on the phone either. What's wrong? Don't you want to write romances anymore? Are you going through a break-up?"

  I lifted my eyes from my lap and breathed deeply. This was the moment, the one when I told him I wasn't sure I wanted to write about beautiful people finding love anymore. How could I keep writing about something I simply couldn't experience? Not that I actually experienced car chases or gunfights or art heists either, but at least, those got my blood pumping. And what did he mean about me going through a break-up?

  "Of course she wants to write romances!" shrieked Esther, making me jump. "Ava lives for romance! The sales figures are proof of that!"

  "Do you?" asked Mark. He looked directly at me, entirely unperturbed by the shrieking alarmist between us.

  "Yes, she does! She one hundred percent does; and Ava and I are going to work on her manuscript and turn it around. It's just a blip. The next one will be nothing less than perfect. Don't forget, her new book is number one on this week's bestseller list too. Ava is so excited to deliver these two books," Esther said breathlessly.

  "Okay," said Mark. His eyes were fixed on me throughout her speech and I knew my silence hadn't escaped him. "What about afterward?"

  "I'm thinking a two-book deal minimum," said Esther. "If you don't snap up Ava's next books, someone else will!"

  "I agree," said Mark. He reached for his menu and sat back. "Let's shelve the shop talk for now and order lunch. Are you hungry, Ava?"

  "Yes," I said quickly before Esther could answer for me again.

  "Good. Let's eat."

  Mark signaled the server and she walked over.

  "Hi, I'm Derry," she began, smiling at each of us. "Can I take your..."

  "What kind of name is that?" laughed Esther. "Is it made up?"

  "I think it's pretty," I told her as the young woman’s cheeks flushed.

  "I’ll have the chicken salad and don't skimp on the dressing," said Esther as she batted her menu at the waitress, who caught it against her midriff and exhaled a deep breath that could have been a sigh.

  I scanned the menu quickly, and Mark and I ordered. Derry took off like she couldn't get away fast enough. While we waited, Esther and Mark engaged in idle conversation, which was fine by me because all I could think about was Mark's question: what about afterward?

  What about afterward? Esther was right that I had to submit one more book after this manuscript was turned around. I was still under contract and I couldn't break it without causing a lot of trouble for myself. Plus, the future royalties would be more than useful. But after I fulfilled that contract? Esther was right that I could easily get another deal; but I wasn't sure I wanted to sign my life away for another couple of years. Maybe I wanted to retire Miranda Marchmont. Not necessarily forever, but very possibly, for now. I wanted to know what else I could write if I had the opportunity.

  Our meals arrived and as Esther began to impart some industry gossip that involved a lot of gasping and big gestures, I concentrated on eating my lunch. As I raised a second forkful to my mouth, Mark caught my eye. His lips curled into a smile as he shot a glance at Esther and rolled his eyes. Suppressing a giggle, I looked down at my plate.

  "And that is why I will never work with him again!" finished Esther. She dashed her fork onto her plate and crossed her arms with unequivocal finality. Her glasses jumped on their chain but she didn't seem to notice.

  "Absolutely," said Mark. He caught my eye again, this time with a questioning pinch of his eyebrows that I returned with a confused shrug. No, I had no idea whom or what Esther spoke about either.

  "I'm so glad Ava is usually such a dependable author," said Esther. "After Mark and I met earlier in the week, I sent you my notes. How long do you think it will take for you to do tho
se rewrites? Two weeks? A month?"

  "Oh, um..." I startled, getting flustered. I'd seen the email with a subject line of TERRIBLE! but still hadn't opened it. "I don't know. I suppose it depends on how much there is to do."

  "The entire book of course!"

  "I can email you my notes," offered Mark. "The story itself is great, just what your readers want. I would just like to see more color and emotion."

  "That's right." Esther nodded enthusiastically. "Lots more color. Big color. And screaming and crying and begging."

  "Do you have any thoughts for the final book?" asked Mark, swiftly moving the conversation on.

  "Not at the moment," I replied, wincing at my own honesty. "I've noted a few ideas but nothing stands out to me yet."

  "Could we get together so I could take a look at your notes? I'd like to see where your thoughts are."

  "Sure, I guess."

  "We can look over them tomorrow," cut in Esther. "Bring them over to the hotel."

  "Or wherever is comfortable," said Mark. "Did you have to travel far today?"

  "A ten-minute drive. My house isn't far."

  "I'm sure we can get something out of your notes," said Esther. "If I fly home, knowing you're committed to those rewrites and have a plan, I'll sleep a lot easier."

  "This is a nice town. What do you recommend I see while we're here?" asked Mark, changing the subject.

  "Oh, Mark. This is not the big apple!" sighed Esther. "There's nothing to see here beyond a few little knick-knack shops and some parochial eateries. Hummus is exotic to these people. They don't even have a theater."

  "We have a small theater but the amateur..." I started.

  "Pfft," cut in Esther rudely.

  Mark gave another little eye roll. "I thought Calendar looked charming when we drove through it on the way from the airport."