by Livia Day
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Letters?’
They all looked at each other, uncomfortable.
‘There were four,’ Debbie said finally. ‘One for each of us. They were pushed under our bedroom doors on the third day of the workshop. Nasty things—poison pen stuff. Someone was trying to rattle us.’
‘I think we all know who,’ Vi snarled. ‘I don’t know who put Queen Beatie in that hospital bed but I’m glad of it, the sour old bitch.’
‘The letters were random,’ Lise said firmly. ‘Nasty, but not targeted. I don’t think they were actually aimed at specific individuals.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ I asked.
They all glanced at each other. Then Debbie sighed and went to fetch a folder. ‘These two came to the room I share with Sally,’ she said.
I KNOW YOUR SECRET, said the first. WHAT WOULD HE SAY IF HE KNEW YOU WERE CHEATING ON HIM?
The second said SHE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU, AND THE WORLD SHOULD KNOW.
So now I knew why they were upset. This was dark stuff. ‘I hate to ask, but did these mean anything to either of you?’ I ventured. ‘Are they referring to anything in particular?’
Debbie and Sally looked at each other, and shrugged. ‘My husband and I split up two years ago,’ said Debbie. ‘No cheating was involved. Sally doesn’t have a partner. And neither of us lost anyone like the second one says.’
Sally burst into tears. ‘It’s horrible,’ she said. ‘I didn’t do anything. I was just here to improve my book. Getting published is all I’ve ever wanted!’
‘Here are ours,’ said Lise. ‘From the room I share with Vi.’ She squeezed Stewart’s hand, and then leaned forward and opened a notebook she had resting on the coffee table. She placed the two notes next to the others.
YOU’RE A USER AND A FAKE, said one. ‘WHY DON’T YOU JUST DIE?
The other was longer. YOUR CHILDREN WILL HATE YOU FOREVER FOR LEAVING THEM—IF THEY EVEN REMEMBER YOU.
Debbie sucked in a long breath. ‘You didn’t show us yours before,’ she whispered.
Lise gave her an odd look. ‘You didn’t show us yours, either. You said they didn’t mean anything. I told you, it’s someone stirring up trouble—’
Debbie reached out, though, and picked up the YOUR CHILDREN WILL HATE YOU FOREVER note. ‘Maybe whoever it was got the wrong room,’ she said dully. ‘My kids—my husband has custody. That’s why I was trying to do this, to make a career for myself, finally get some money together to show I could look after them.’ She stared at her lap.
Vi looked at the notes from the other bedroom, her lips very thin. ‘That one’s for me, then,’ she said, picking up the YOU’RE CHEATING ON HIM note. ‘I don’t have to tell you why,’ she added defiantly, scrunching it up and shoving it in her pocket.
Lise stared at the SHE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU note. ‘My sister,’ she said softly. ‘I blamed myself for a long time. It wasn’t my fault, I know that. But I could have done more.’ She didn’t pick up the note.
Sally’s eyes went desperately to the one that wasn’t claimed YOU’RE A USER AND A FAKE, WHY DON’T YOU JUST DIE? She burst into tears, and ran out of the room.
Stewart and I exchanged mildly desperate expressions, of not wanting to be in this room with these devastated people. He put an arm around Lise, who turned her face into his side.
‘Right,’ I said firmly, turning the notes on the table upside down so no one had to look at them. ‘Never mind which note belongs to who. Which of you believed that Queen Beatie had written the notes?’
‘It’s what she does,’ said Lise, surfacing from her hug with Stewart. I knew from experience that his hugs were extremely comforting. Like cake warm from the oven, or tea with honey when you have a cold. ‘I interviewed several of her former students before coming on this retreat. Most refused to go on the record. But those whose manuscripts she took as her own—all of them reported that she found out secrets about them, things that they didn’t want anyone to know, and made them feel threatened anonymously. The second stage was to convince them that writing books for her was a step up in their career—they would get a one-off payment that was more than they would command from a publisher themselves, as an unknown. She always promised them it would be just one book ‘for the experience’ and then would come back to them later, time and again, for yet another book. The payments and the professional mentorship dwindled each time. I found one woman who had been writing for her over the last six years, at least one book a year.’
‘Five years,’ said Jake Madison in a sulky growl. Oh look, he did have a repertoire other than flirting and smouldering. ‘It’s been five years for me.’
‘Ha, yes, you,’ his sister said sarcastically.
We all looked at them. Jake at least was eating a cherry Danish—no one else had touched them. He tore at it with his teeth, looking furious. ‘Journalists in the room, Vi.’
‘Did you miss the part where someone tried to murder the woman?’ Vi shot back. ‘I don’t fancy being a suspect.’ She gave suspicious looks to Stewart and Lise. ‘Off the record?’
Lise sighed and nodded. Stewart spread his hands wide in surrender.
‘Jake Madison was first published at the age of twenty, and he was one of the first ‘out’ male romance writers in Australia,’ said Vi. ‘You wrote some pieces on him, Lise, you know how it went.’
‘Hot Aussie writer proves that romance fiction is a man’s game,’ said Lise with a wry smile. ‘Weren’t you Cleo Bachelor of the Year?’
‘Runner up,’ Jake said, recovering some of his smoulder as he licked pastry crumbs from his fingers. ‘Twice in a row.’
‘But then he started getting anonymous emails, threatening to blow his big secret,’ said Vi, crossing her arms. ‘That his sister actually writes all his books.’
‘I help with the ideas,’ Jake protested.
She all but patted him on the head. ‘Yes, darling, but I do the actual work. Still, I’d never have got the publicity we got for Jake if I published under my own name. It worked fine for us. But Jake panicked about the bloody emails and handed over one of my manuscripts. Six months later, it was published as a Beatrice Wilde bestseller.’ She glared furiously at her brother. ‘I can write four books a year comfortably, and thanks to this moron, we only get to put three under our byline because of a deal he cut with Queen Beatie. I’m done with it. I’m out.’
Is that why you tried to kill her? I didn’t say aloud, but part of me really wanted to. I met Stewart’s eyes across the coffee table and he looked like he was restraining himself the same way.
‘She did it to me,’ said a small voice in the doorway. Sally was back, looking wrecked. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she drooped as if she was beaten. ‘At least, she was going to. She said the manuscript I brought to the workshop had potential, and—I thought it was a good deal. A stepping stone in a career. She said I only had to give her three manuscripts over the next two years, and then I’d be able to start on my own.’
‘Oh, sweetie,’ said Debbie sympathetically.
‘Three manuscripts,’ Vi said sourly. ‘That’s what she told Jake too, the first time around. That she would stop at three. But she didn’t. If we’d been actual ghostwriters with legitimate contracts, we’d have been fine, but she wouldn’t give us anything in writing. It wasn’t a business deal, it was blackmail, and blackmailers always come back to wring you dry, every time.’
Sally burst into tears. ‘She had me running around doing chores for her like some kind of minion. I scrubbed the grouting in her shower! Because—I thought.’ She sobbed harder.
Lise got up and hugged her, then took her to the couch so Debbie could hug her too. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said sharply. ‘None of us tried to kill her. All we’re doing is spilling secrets and making each other miserable. The old bitch isn’t even dead. We should make her an insincere Get Well Soon basket with her stupid favourite tea and all the other fancy supplies she brought and wouldn’t share with us, and then cut her out of
our lives once and for all.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Vi, blowing out a deep breath. ‘I am so sick of that woman I can’t even tell you. Even when she’s not here, she’s poisoning the air.’
I stood up quietly, and motioned to Stewart. We left the angry sad romance writers in a huddle together, and went outside together to sit on the verandah steps.
‘So do you feel betrayed that Jake Madison isn’t really flying the flag for male romance writers?’ I asked him.
‘Tae be honest it makes more sense this way,’ Stewart said thoughtfully. ‘His books were always smarter than the rest o’ him.’
‘Lise seems nice,’ I said in a cheeky voice.
He shoved me lightly with his shoulder. ‘Shut up.’
‘What, I don’t even get five minutes of teasing you about the new lady in your life? I feel I should get at least five minutes.’
‘Behave.’
I lay my head on his shoulder. To prove there was no awkwardness here. ‘It’s not going to work, Stewart.’
‘What d’ye mean?’ Oh, oops. Now it actually was awkward.
‘This lot,’ I clarified quickly. ‘We don’t know if any of them were involved in making her sick. I don’t think we’re going to get a confession out of anyone with the power of cherry Danishes. And if we did—I’d kind of feel bad about it.’
His arm came loosely around me. ‘Aye, yer probably right.’
‘We should leave it to the professionals.’
‘I wouldnae go that far.’
‘Murder mysteries are hard work.’
‘Ye should try romance some time.’
‘So,’ I said, trying to sort it out in my head. ‘Six romance writers.’
‘Seven including me,’ Stewart added.
‘I’m not including you. You’re not a suspect, Stewart.’
‘Actually, it’s six including me if we kick Jake out o’ the club on the grounds he’s a faking faker.’
‘A little too much enthusiasm kicking him out of the club, Stewart—jealousy issues much? Six romance writers. Four poison pen letters, but five secrets because the Jake and Vi story didn’t come in a letter. How many stolen manuscripts?’
Stewart sucked his breath in slowly. ‘More than I thought.’
‘Three,’ said a voice behind us. ‘Three that really matter.’
Stewart and I both turned around as Lise came out of the cabin and sat on Stewart’s other side. His arm now felt officially awkward around my shoulders, but he didn’t move it yet. ‘Wha’ d’ye mean?’ he asked her.
‘How to Ditch Your Duke—the new release? It’s the first in a trilogy that Beatie signed with Lovesong Publishing last year. Her biggest advance yet—she signed a seven figure contract and I have hard evidence that she not only didn’t write a word of the manuscripts, but the original writer didn’t even get paid off.’
Now Stewart’s arm slid naturally from my shoulders, as if hugging me was the last thing on his mind. ‘Good source?’
‘Oh, yes. But the story doesn’t mean anything if Beatie dies.’ Lise looked fierce. ‘Bringing her down in public won’t be nearly as satisfying if we have to wade through a shrine of paperbacks and red roses.’
Huh. I was almost starting to like her. Though I had to work very hard to keep liking her when I noticed that Stewart’s hand now lay lightly over her own. Damn it, Tabitha.
My phone beeped at me. A message from Xanthippe. ‘Don’t mind me,’ I said, and texted her back. If anyone could find out who the real author of How to Ditch Your Duke was, she could.
Eventually, Stewart and Lise went inside the cabin, still holding hands. I alternated between web searches and texts with Xanthippe that became more and more urgent as we swapped our findings back and forth.
The more I learned, the less happy I became. This one was going to get messy.
When I finally went back into the cabin, I found the group in a frenzy of creativity. They had found a large pink basket from somewhere, and were filling it with goodies from the kitchen, and an assortment of Queen Beatie promotional loot: badges, stickers and postcards. Several bright pink ribbons trailed from it.
‘It’s ironic,’ said Vi proudly. ‘Also, we don’t want her to know that we’re on to her. Not yet, anyway. Got to let her get better before we sink the boot in.’
‘We have to go to the hospital,’ I blurted out. ‘I just got a message—Beatie’s taken a turn for the worse. And she’s asking for all of you.’
They stared at me for a short moment.
‘Well,’ said Debbie finally. ‘The good thing about an ironic Get Well Soon basket is that we can now pretend it’s a real one.’
Xanthippe stood outside the door of Queen Beatie’s private hospital room, dressed in black from head to toe with a pair of reflective sunglasses that made her look more like a bodyguard than a caterer. This was not a coincidence. ‘She’s waiting,’ she said as I arrived with my entourage of students and writers.
‘How bad is it?’ asked Lise.
‘You’ll see.’
And Xanthippe waved us all in, following close behind to stand in front of the door on the other side. It was then that I realised there was something a bit off about this situation.
Queen Beatie was not lying wanly in bed. She sat in an exquisitely floral chair at the window, coiffed and glamorous in a scarlet suit, as if she was waiting for a photographer from Vogue to walk in the door. She smiled at the crowd of uncomfortable people.
‘I suppose you’re all wondering why I gathered you all here,’ purred the surprisingly healthy Beatrice Wilde.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ I whispered to Xanthippe. So that was how she had found out Queen Beatie’s secrets so easily. She had teamed up with the attempted murder victim.
Xanthippe put a finger to her mouth and whispered. ‘Appreciate a good piece of theatre for what it is, Tish.’
‘You’re all right,’ Sally blurted. ‘I mean, you look fine. Can I get you anything?’ She looked like she wanted to slap herself.
‘Of course I am fine,’ said Queen Beatie with a sharp smile. ‘Is that basket for me? How sweet.’
Sally held it out, then realised Beatie was never going to take it from her, and drew it back to her body, blushing. ‘Um, we wanted you to have the things you like.’
‘How kind,’ said Queen Beatie. ‘This is a very civilised hospital, but I’m afraid the tea is dreadful. Still, you can understand why I would be hesitant when the last cup I drank nearly killed me.’
‘Oh, it was in the tea!’ I exclaimed in relief. Everyone looked at me. ‘Sorry, don’t mind me. Was it nuts or strawberries?’ Was she going to sue the leaf designer instead of Café La Femme?
‘Penicillin,’ said Beatie in a clipped sort of voice. ‘You will forgive me, Tabitha, that I didn’t include that in my list of allergies as I was hardly expecting to be served it at high tea.’
‘The Duchess of Bedford would not have approved,’ I agreed. ‘Um. So it wasn’t in the cakes. Is the part I would quite like to confirm.’
‘The helpful police officers discovered that the container of artificial sweeteners in my handbag had been doctored,’ said Beatie, her eyes flinty.
Doing a little dance of vindication would be highly inappropriate right now. So I did it in my head. Even I can put a lid on inappropriate behavior sometimes.
‘Now,’ said Beatie, looking far too pleased with herself. ‘The question of course is, which of you doctored my sweeteners? I hate to think that anyone would wish to do me harm…’
‘Half the romance writers guild,’ Vi coughed into her hand, then glanced innocently at the rest of us.
‘…but the fact is, those of you who stayed at the bush retreat had the most obvious opportunity. And the police officers who stationed themselves outside my door as soon as you entered rather agree with me.’
Queen Beatie smiled like a shark. No one else smiled.
Vi walked slowly towards the older woman, her hips rolling back and
forth. ‘You’re a terrible person,’ she said calmly. ‘I didn’t poison you. But good luck to whoever did. Now I’m going to go outside and chat to those nice police officers of yours about our history with you and blackmail. I believe they call it ‘obtaining a benefit by deception’ under Australian law. So I’m going to chat to them, and then Jake and I are going to have a few conversations with our publishers and our journalist mates to tell everyone who really wrote the Jake Madison novels. You won’t have anything to hold over us any more.’
‘We’ll enjoy that,’ said Lise cheerfully. ‘Hello, did I mention? Undercover journalist.’
‘Aye, me too,’ Stewart added, shaking Jake’s hand briefly as the rather shell-shocked fake romance writer followed his sister out of the hospital room. ‘We travel in pairs.’
Beatie’s shark smile faltered as she watched Vi’s departing back.
‘And then there were —’ I paused, and counted. ‘Oh, only two of you were genuine writing students.’
Debbie and Sally looked at each other in mute horror, as if they both suddenly believed the other must be the attempted murderer.
‘Oh, please,’ sighed Xanthippe. ‘Tabitha, are you going to put everyone out of their misery or am I?’
‘I’m not an amateur detective,’ I said firmly. ‘I can quit any time I like.’
Xanthippe gave me a skeptical look.
Stewart was staring at us both. ‘Am I missin’ somethin’ here, Tabitha?’
‘I want it on record that I didn’t mean to go sleuthing at all. I truly meant it when I said I wasn’t going to solve any more mysteries, and you all have to back me up when I explain this to my—boyfriend later.’
‘Spit it out,’ Stewart said slowly. He was holding Lise’s hand again. So this sucked all around. He was going to hate me as soon as I told him what I had found out. I was going to hate me too.
But that’s never kept my mouth shut before.
‘Lise said that there were only three stolen manuscripts that mattered—the new trilogy, starting with How To Ditch Your Duke. And I couldn’t help wondering, why did she think they mattered more than all the others? Vi wrote eight books for Beatrice Wilde.’