The Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 7)

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  “Soooo sorry I’m late, everyone.” She sashayed right up to the table, plopped her briefcase down, and let out a dramatic sigh. “My cleaning girl forgot her key, and I had to go all the way back home to let her in the house.”

  Ben gave her a tight-lipped smile. “We were just getting to know Sarah a bit.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right.” Samantha held out her hand to me. “Sarah Woods, I presume?”

  “Nice to meet you, Samantha. And thanks again for letting me participate in your group.”

  “I’m looking forward to hearing a chapter of your writing. But, first, I need my double cappuccino. Be back in a jiffy.”

  As Samantha flitted off toward the counter to order her drink, I could tell Jessica was seething. “She’s already fifteen minutes late, and now we have to wait so she can get her fancy drink? I don’t think I can take this anymore.”

  “Why don’t you read your chapter first,” Ben said calmly. “Then you can leave when you need to leave.”

  “That’s not the point.” Jessica’s eyes narrowed. “Samantha thinks she’s too good for us. We should form our own group, and let Samantha find a bunch of new writers who will bow down to kiss her feet. That’s the only reason she gets together with us. When was the last time she brought in a chapter for us to critique? It’s been months.”

  Ben shrugged. “Well, she does give us some good marketing advice. You don’t think that’s valuable?”

  “Not anymore. There are lots of other successful indie authors we can get in touch with online. We don’t need Samantha anymore. It’s the perfect time to break away.”

  Ben turned to me. “I’m sorry you had to come on board under these circumstances, but Jessica is right. Samantha hasn’t been contributing very much to the group in a long time. But, you contacted her first, so we’d understand if you wanted to be a part of her circle.”

  I glanced over toward the counter where Samantha had her cappuccino in hand, but she seemed more interested in chatting with the barista then getting back to the group. I thought it was rude, and I could see why Ben and Jessica were miffed. “She doesn’t seem to value our time, that’s for sure.”

  “Exactly,” Jessica said. “This is ridiculous. She might have the luxury of working as a full-time author now, but she doesn’t seem to understand that the rest of us actually have day jobs.”

  “Have either of you talked to her about how you feel?” I asked. “Maybe she doesn’t realize, or needs to be reminded, that you both have limited time.”

  “Yes, I have told her many times.” Jessica gathered her sheets of paper and notebook and stuffed them in her backpack. “As you can see it hasn’t done any good. She’s got this air of entitlement, and it drives me crazy. She wasn’t like this before she became a bestselling author.”

  Ben seemed hesitant, but he stood up and gathered his things, too. They both looked at me expectantly, but I hadn’t been prepared for this turn of events. Finally, I said, “I’d love to join your group, but I should stay. Samantha was gracious enough to include me, and it’s not right that I just up and leave now. But, could I give you my number. Next time you guys get together, I’d love to join you.”

  “I guess I understand that.” Jessica got out her phone and punched in my number as I recited it. “I’ll call as soon as we figure out a day and time.”

  Ben held out his hand to me. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Sarah. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

  A few minutes after the two left the coffee shop, Samantha finally returned to the table with her cappuccino. “Where did Ben and Jessica go?”

  “Jessica had a dentist appointment,” I said. “They both seemed pretty irritated, in fact.”

  “Irritated about what?”

  The quizzical expression on her face seemed genuine. Like she had no clue. Maybe Jessica and Ben were right about her and her sense of entitlement.

  “Frankly, they said you haven’t been respectful of their time,” I said. “I think they plan on starting their own group.”

  Her eyebrows rose up, as if she finally understood. “Every time I try to help out other writers, the same thing happens. They eventually come to resent me. I guess it’s all part and parcel.”

  “You mean, they resent you for being successful?” I asked.

  “Exactly.” She took a slow sip of her drink and set it down. “Well, I’m sorry this had to happen today of all days. You must be very confused right now. However, let’s not make this a wasted trip for you. If you’d like to read your chapter, I’ll give you my feedback.”

  “Okay, but didn’t you bring a chapter, too?”

  “No. I just finished my latest novel, and I haven’t started the new one, yet. So, I have nothing to share at the moment.”

  There was something in her eyes that told me she was lying, but I couldn’t see why she’d lie about that. I thought the whole point of the writing group was to share our writing.

  “Don’t be shy, Sarah. Read it to me.”

  With a slightly trembling hand, I put on my reading glasses. Then I cleared my throat and began to read.

  When I was done, Samantha smiled reassuringly. “That’s a promising first chapter. The dialogue and the characterization need fleshing out, but overall, well done, Sarah.”

  I couldn’t take any pride in the compliment, but I thanked her anyway. “Do you think I have what it takes?”

  “Yes, I do, and I encourage you to finish this novel.”

  “I’d really like to become a full-time writer. I’ve heard a lot of self-published authors making it big.”

  “I’ll be honest with you. Most indie authors don’t make enough money to live on. Heck, most published authors don’t make enough to live on. Writing has to be something you love to do, no matter what. That being said, there are ways to improve your chances of success. Write a good book, and then keep on writing good books until you have a backlist. It takes time, believe me, but it’s the only sure way to have a fighting chance.”

  “I can barely write my first book,” I said. “It’s a lot of work.”

  “You’d be amazed at what you might accomplish, when you want something bad enough. Don’t you owe it to yourself to try? If becoming an author is what you want, then go for it. If you’re doing it only for the money, then I’d say, be prepared for disappointment.”

  “I appreciate this candid advice. I guess I need to do some soul searching to figure out if I have enough passion to see it through.”

  With her mug empty, I got the sense that Samantha was itching to leave. I decided it was time to bring up Jeffrey and see where it might take me.

  “So, I don’t mean to change the topic, but I heard about your fellow writing friend, Jeffrey Kendrick. Ben and Jessica said that he was a good writer. So sad what happened to him.”

  Samantha stared at me, mouth open. “They told you about Jeffrey?”

  “They said he . . . well, they said he committed suicide.”

  She nodded slowly, eyes staring off into space. “Yes, it was a shock.”

  There was a trace of sadness in her response, but certainly not that heart-wrenching sadness of losing a lover. Although, just because she might have been sleeping with Jeffrey, didn’t mean she had deep feelings for him, either.

  “Do you know why he killed himself?” I asked. “Especially since he was on the cusp of becoming a bestselling author? Seems to me, he had everything to live for. Why throw it all away?”

  She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Just between us, Jeffrey’s book wasn’t selling like he’d claimed. He confided that to me, so I feel like a heel for telling you, but he really was discouraged. He wanted to save face with the others, so he embellished his numbers a bit. He didn’t want anyone to know he was struggling. The poor guy put too much pressure on himself.”

  Now, we were getting somewhere. The fact that Jeffrey had confided these feelings to Samantha, meant that he’d trusted her. It also meant that he’d probably spent time alone w
ith her. Since she seemed to be in a talkative mood, I decided to take it another step further.

  “By the way,” I said, “your husband must be very proud of your success. I couldn’t believe how many books you had when I went on your website. Congratulations, it’s quite an accomplishment.”

  “Oh, thank you. But I don’t have a husband. I got rid of mine a long time ago.” She made a flicking motion with her hand, like her ex was a piece of dust on her collar. I wondered if she had kicked him to the curb once she became wealthy from her writing.

  “Yeah,” I said with a chuckle, “I’m divorced, too. Don’t think I’ll ever tie the knot again. I’m living with a guy, but we haven’t talked about marriage.”

  “You’re a smart woman. Don’t do it.”

  “So, there’s another woman that Ben mentioned. Vicki Macomber. Why isn’t she in the group anymore?”

  “Vicki? Oh, she’s going through some personal stuff right now. She might come back to the group in a few months.”

  “What kind of books does she write?”

  “She has a collection of self-help books, mostly about self-healing through meditation. She’s a special kind of therapist. Calls herself a mystic healer.”

  “No kidding,” I said. “What does a mystic healer do?”

  “She performs energy work on her patients, and it’s supposed to help them become more in tune with their life purpose. She does weekend retreats and personal sessions at her house.”

  “Fascinating. I look forward to meeting her.”

  “Well, Sarah.” Samantha grabbed her purse and set it in her lap, a subtle hint that she was ready to leave. “We might have to put our writing group on hold until I find some new members, but I will give you a call as soon as I do, OK?”

  I still had so many questions I wanted to ask her about Jeffrey, but she’d get suspicious if I brought his name up again. I had to think of an excuse to talk to her in the near future. “Samantha, would you ever consider mentoring me? I’d love to see how you manage your writing career. You are such an inspiration to me.”

  I could tell she was flattered, which was my intention.

  “I’ve never formally mentored anyone before, but I don’t see why I couldn’t start now. What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, I’d love to see your office, where you write all your wonderful stories. I’d like to know about your process, how you come up with ideas, and how you are able to get so many words down. I’d be happy to pay you for your time, it would be worth it to me to learn first-hand from one of the most successful indie authors out there.”

  My compliment must have stroked her ego to the point where she couldn’t say no. “Tell you what, Sarah. I’m willing to make an exception for you. I can see that you want to take this writing career seriously, so why don’t you come to my office tomorrow morning, say ten-thirty? I can show you where all the magic happens.”

  “Seriously? I’d be forever grateful.”

  Chapter 5

  When I got home, Carter was on the porch talking to someone on the phone, so I made my way inside and headed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

  When he joined me a few minutes later, he said, “How’d it go?”

  I plopped down at the kitchen table and shook off my shoes. “It was weird on many levels.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, first of all, it looks like there is no more group. Ben and Jessica were so fed up with Samantha when she showed up late, they both walked out. They talked about starting their own group and invited me to join them. I can’t really blame them since it seems like Samantha’s success has gone to her head. Anyway, I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to them about Jeffrey, but after they left, Samantha insinuated that she and Jeffrey had spent alone time together. Or, at least, they had been communicating in private.”

  “So, do we think Samantha is our woman, then?”

  “It seems likely, but the next time I see Jessica and Ben, I’ll find a way to turn the conversation to Jeffrey. Since they have no loyalty to Samantha, they might dish the dirt.”

  “What about the other woman with the burned face? She didn’t show up?”

  “Nope. Vicki didn’t show. Samantha said she’s dealing with personal issues.”

  “By the way, did you end up reading the chapter to anyone?”

  “Yeah, and Samantha had good things to say about it.” I gave him a wink. “She encouraged me to keep writing.”

  By the timid smile, I could tell Carter was feeling pleased with himself but he didn’t want to appear too pleased. “Well,” he said, “I might have good news. Cooper called. He recovered a couple of deleted messages from Jeffrey’s cell phone. Said he’d email me the screen shots, so they should be in my inbox now.”

  “Do we know who the messages came from?”

  “Not yet, but he said the texts sounded intimate in nature.”

  “Great,” I said. “If it’s Samantha, we’ve solved the case, and then I won’t have to pretend I’m a writer anymore.”

  Carter and I sat down in front of the laptop and read the texts dated June 24, the day before Jeffrey died.

  4:25 p.m.: Just checking in to see how you’re doing. Please call me back. I know things are hard right now, but just remember you are strong.

  4:55 p.m.: I’m worried about you, Jeffrey. Please don’t shut me out. If you need to talk, call me any time. Remember what I said today. I forgive you. Now you must forgive yourself.

  5:43 p.m.: Have you told Mary the truth, yet? Everything will be better if you are honest with her. She will understand.

  Jeffrey sent a reply text at 6:45 p.m. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can talk then. I promise.

  “Sounds pretty ominous,” Carter said. “Do these texts seem like they could be Samantha?”

  “Maybe. How long will it take you to find out who the number belongs to?”

  “As long as it’s not a burner phone, I should have a name within five to ten minutes.”

  As Carter went to work, I printed out the texts and read them several times, trying to imagine what Jeffrey couldn’t forgive himself for. It certainly sounded like an affair.

  I replayed the sequence of events in my mind as Mary had told them. Jeffrey had gone to the writers group at nine o’clock, then he went home around noon and told his wife that he wasn’t going back. He wouldn’t give her any details. Mary assumed he was having an affair with one of the women, and consequently made him sleep on the couch. The next morning, he took the dog out for a walk and never came back. Was the suicide a direct result of the shame he felt over the adultery? Or was there something else Jeffrey had done?

  “Well, this is interesting,” Carter said. “The number is registered to Vicki Macomber.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “OK, well, maybe this makes sense. Vicki is a mystic healer. Maybe Jeffrey just had a session with her, and that’s why she was so concerned about him. She was just following up.”

  Carter’s eyebrows knit together. “What does a mystic healer do, exactly?”

  I did a quick search online for Vicki’s website, and read the mission statement. “Mystic healing induces an awakening to direct awareness of God consciousness on all its levels, dimensions, and aspects. Turmoil of all suffering, disease, pain, and illness are dissolved and released.”

  Carter rolled his eyes. “In other words, mumbo jumbo, hocus pocus.”

  “Some people believe in this stuff, and it helps them. Don’t be so closed-minded. Says here she holds sessions at her home office. If she’s inviting clients into her home, she must be authentic.”

  “Fine. Let’s go meet this woman in person, and I’ll make my own assessment of her. Do you have her address?”

  “I have the address on her driver’s license, so let’s hope it’s current.”

  Chapter 6

  When we arrived at Vicki Macomber’s address around three o’clock, we pulled into a long driveway that event
ually led us to a farmhouse with a wrap-around porch. Behind the house, what appeared to be corn stalks stretched down the hill in neat rows. To the left was a two-story barn that looked fairly new. The unmistakable scent of manure stung my nostrils.

  The only vehicle around was a rusty, antique Chevy pickup that was parked next to the barn.

  “Are we at the right place?” I asked Carter.

  “This is the right address,” he said, as he double checked the information I gave him.

  He parked the Buick in front of the house and we both got out. “I guess we should knock on the door and see if someone’s home.”

  As we headed toward the farmer’s porch, a middle-aged man appeared behind the screen door. He was wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt with brown and reddish stains. His brown hair was cropped short, like a marine. “Can I help you with something?”

  By the brusque tone of his voice, he was clearly in no mood to be helpful.

  “Hello, sir,” I replied in a chipper voice. “We’re looking for Vicki Macomber. Do we have the wrong address?”

  “She doesn’t live here anymore.” He stood there with arms folded across his chest, an air of indignation. He wasn’t exactly a hulk of a man, but I was intimidated by his hard glare.

  I wondered if this was Vicki’s husband or ex-husband.

  I waited a few seconds to see if he might offer any information. When he didn’t, I said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. Do you happen to have her new address?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “We were told that Vicki holds seminars and retreats here,” I said. “I’ve read some of her books and I’m really looking forward to meeting her. Are . . . you her husband?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Before I had a chance to say anything, Carter pointed toward the barn and said, “Hey, is that a ‘67 or a ‘68 Chevy? My dad had a ’68, and I’m pretty sure that’s a limited edition color.”

  The man turned to look at the truck. “Yup. It’s a ‘68. Belonged to my old man. Gave it to me last year.”