by Nic Saint
A peppy, happy blonde, Melody’s forte was romantic banter, not plotting. She was, after all, the romance author of the trio, her own novels as successful as Bobbi’s thrillers and Zita’s horror output.
Three authors working in three different genres, they’d met at a writer’s conference five years ago and had hit it off immediately. They couldn’t be more different and yet there had been an instant rapport. Hanging out after late-night karaoke the third night of the conference, they’d decided to work together, and create a joint pen name they could all contribute to. Nora Steel had been born that night, and the first novel saw the light of day soon after. A series of romantic suspense novels featuring feisty heroine Janet Lee Parker was the result, the sales of Nora Steel novels quickly surpassing their individual output.
“But if you can’t think up a plot we’re sunk,” said Melody now, her cornflower blue eyes wide. “Sunk!”
“Oh, I’ll think of something,” said Bobbi, ladling more pudding into her mouth. “Have I ever let you down before?”
“Well, there was that one time when Janet Lee broke up with Jack Black,” Zita reminded her.
“They got back together in the next novel. No harm done.”
“Readers hated us for that,” said Melody, smiling at the memory. “Hated us.”
“Readers don’t like cliffhangers,” said Bobbi. “But sales of the next book went through the roof.”
“Maybe you can kill off Jack?” Zita suggested.
Melody turned to her, her cupid’s-bow mouth forming a perfect O. “You can’t!”
“Why not? Talk about a cliffhanger. And the next book you simply bring him back.”
“Back from the dead,” Bobbi muttered, nodding. “I like it.”
“Kill Jack? You wouldn’t!” Melody cried.
“Or we could kill off Snookie,” Zita continued.
“No!” Melody cried. “Not Snookie!”
Snookie was Janet Lee and Jack’s teacup Maltese. They’d adopted him in book three and had never looked back. Now Snookie was a fan favorite. She even had her own fan club.
Bobbi grimaced. “If we kill Snookie there will be hell to pay.”
Zita grinned. “At least they won’t be able to accuse us of being predictable.”
“No,” said Melody. “I’m putting my foot down on this one. Snookie lives, and so does Jack.”
Zita sighed. That’s what you got from collaborating with a romance novelist, that sigh seemed to indicate. Always going for that happy end. In her own novels Zita liked to explore dark themes and all manner of murder and mayhem, but they’d made a pact when they first created Nora Steel: every decision had to be agreed upon by the three of them.
“Oh, all right,” said Zita. “But I think you’re being silly. A romantic suspense novel should have suspense, and what better way to create suspense than killing off a fan favorite?”
“No means no,” said Melody, her face a mask of determination. “As long as I have a breath in my body, Snookie will never die, and nor will Jack or Janet Lee.”
“Spoilsport,” Zita muttered.
Just then, a fist pounded the door of the cabin they were staying at, and the three friends looked up in surprise.
“Are we expecting someone?” asked Zita.
“Nope,” said Bobbi.
“Lois?” Melody suggested.
Lois was the housekeeper who kept the fridge and the larder stocked and made sure the cabin was looking spic and span at all times.
“She never comes in before lunch,” said Bobbi, frowning. She dumped the empty tub of Trader Joe’s Pudding in the trashcan and moved towards the door.
The log cabin where they were currently holed up, hard at work on the next Nora Steel novel, was located in Upswing, Georgia. Dotted with similar cabins, the North Georgian forested setting provided the requisite peace and quiet writers needed to produce their next masterpieces.
Bobbi paused in front of the door for a moment, then threw it wide. When she found herself face to face with none other than Martin SS George, the famous fantasy writer, she blinked in surprise. The bearded scribe gave her a wide grin and held up a meaty paw.
“Howdy, neighbor.”
Chapter Two
MSSG, as the fabled and much-lauded writer was affectionately called by his fans, was a bearlike presence with a Santa Claus twinkle in his eyes and signature black fisherman’s cap firmly lodged on his head. Tiny white curls peeped from beneath the cap, adding to the Santa Claus look. He pushed his wire-rim glasses up a bulbous nose and beamed at them.
Melody thought he looked exactly like the pictures she’d seen. A sweet grandpa.
“Mr. George,” said Zita, practically genuflecting before their famous colleague.
“Just call me Marty,” said the writer with a chuckle.
“I love your work,” Zita gushed. “Especially Game of Bones, of course.”
“Thanks. And I have to say I’m a big fan of your Janet Lee Parker books.”
“You know Janet Lee?” asked Melody.
“Of course I know Janet Lee. Who doesn’t? Your books have taken the writing world by storm. Three consecutive New York Times number one bestsellers? I’ve read them all and I love them. Especially Snookie. I’m a big fan of Snookie.”
“We were actually thinking about killing off Snookie,” said Zita, earning her a prod in the ribs from Melody.
Marty’s smile vanished. “Kill off Snookie? Why would you kill off Snookie?”
“Well, you kill off popular characters all the time,” said Zita with a shrug.
“That doesn’t mean you should,” said the writer, who looked visibly upset. “How can you kill off a cute, sweet, innocent little doggie like Snookie? That’s just plain cruel!”
“We won’t kill off Snookie,” said Melody. “Zita was just kidding, weren’t you, Z?”
“Actually—ouch!” Another prod in the ribs and Zita gave Melody her best glare.
“So what brings you here, Mr. George?” asked Bobbi.
“Marty, please.” He arranged his bearded visage into an expression of apology. “The thing is—I’m guessing you’re here for the same reason I am. To write a book, right?”
“That’s right. We’re hard at work on the next Janet Lee Parker,” Bobbi confirmed.
“And I’m slaving away at my next doorstopper,” said Marty, nodding. He threw a quick look over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. “See, the thing is, I got this housekeeper who keeps my fridge stocked and my cupboards overflowing. Only, somehow my wife has managed to convince her I’ve given up smoking but I haven’t.” He took off his cap, fiddled with it and gave his best impression of Puss in Boots, directing an imploring look at the three of them. “Do you happen to have a cigarette? Any brand will do. I’m not fussy.”
“I’m sorry, Marty,” said Melody. “But we don’t smoke. Do we, girls?”
As there was no reply, she turned to look at her two co-writers. Bobbi looked sheepish. “I only smoke when I finish a book,” she said. “I keep a celebratory cigar just for that occasion.”
“You smoke?” asked Melody, aghast.
“Like I said—only when I finish a book.”
“You wrote a dozen books last year.”
“So I smoked a dozen cigars last year.”
Melody turned to Zita, who was giving her a cool look. “Yeah, I smoke. So what?”
“Could you…” Marty began, and both Bobbi and Zita nodded and moved off.
Marty gave Melody a slightly embarrassed look. “You’re a lifesaver, Miss Steel.”
“My name actually isn’t Steel,” said Melody. “It’s Pen. Melody Pen. Nora Steel is the name we use when we write together.”
“Of course, of course. And a fine name it is.” He glanced beyond her at the cabin’s interior. “I see yours is slightly bigger than mine. Have you been coming here long?”
“This is our third year, actually. Do you come out here a lot?”
“Oh, yes. I do all of my writing ou
t here. I love it. Absolutely love it. Couldn’t write anywhere else.”
He’d stepped inside and stood looking at the interior with a connoisseur’s eye. “Slightly bigger, like I thought. Then again, you are three people and I’m only me.”
“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how is the writing going?” asked Melody. Now that she was in the presence of greatness she was feeling more than a little bashful.
“Oh, fine, just fine,” he said. He was still turning over his cap in his hands and stood surveying their living quarters with a glint of amusement in his eyes. In fact from where they stood he had a great overview of the entire arrangement: the living space, with a cozy little nook in front of a large fireplace to one side and the kitchen to the other. A staircase that led to a landing and three bedrooms and a bathroom, and of course their pride and joy: a window overlooking the deck, where a large hammock greeted the weary writer.
“Pretty cool,” remarked Marty, rocking back on his heels. “How long are you here for?”
“We booked the cabin for the month. We’re hoping to finish a rough draft by then. You?”
“I’ve been here two months now—haven’t even finished two chapters. Three more to go.”
“Slow going?”
He shrugged. “It’s a labor of love. And I love the process. I’m happiest when I’m writing, actually. I dread the day the book is done.” He grinned. “Which is probably why it’s taking me so long.” He spread his arms. “What am I gonna do when it’s finished? No idea!”
“You can always write another one.”
His smile faltered. “Somehow I have a feeling this is my last one, Melody—can I call you Melody?”
She nodded. “Why would you say that? Of course this won’t be your last. You’re a writer. Writers write. There will always be a next book—and then a next one after that.”
“Sure, sure,” he said vaguely, but he was looking a little sad now. When he saw both Zita and Bobbi descend the stairs, both carrying gifts in the forms of a brightly pink e-cig courtesy of Zita and a box of fine cigars courtesy of Bobbi, he almost cried with relief.
“It’s my spare vape,” said Zita as she handed him the gadget. “I’ve never used it so it’s all yours. It’s got the cartridge inside,” she added when he opened his mouth to speak.
He held a hand over his heart. “This is more than I could ever have hoped for. My dear girl. You have saved this wretched writer’s life. And you. I love a good cigar.”
He tucked the gifts away in the pockets of his cardigan. Then he took Bobbi’s hands and pressed them warmly. “How can I ever thank you?” He reached out to Zita and repeated the procedure. “And you. I’ll be forever in your debt, Miss Steel and Miss Steel.”
“Zita,” said Zita.
“Roberta,” said Bobbi. “But my friends call me Bobbi.”
“Right. Of course.” He stood beaming for a moment. “Zita, Bobbi, and Melody. Whenever you want to drop by my place, please do. Mi cabin es su cabin and all that.”
And with these words, he turned on his heel and strode out. And after a final kindly wave—reminding Melody of Santa Claus getting ready to mount his sleigh—he was gone.
Chapter Three
“Sweet man,” Melody said as she closed the door.
“Sweet man?” Zita gasped. “Sweet man? He’s a legend! Best writer in the world!”
“He’s a great writer, sure, but the best in the world? I don’t think so.”
Zita was aghast. “Of course he’s the best writer in the world. He’s MSSG! Have you not seen the show?”
“Actually, I haven’t,” Melody said. “Too violent for my taste.”
“Game of Bones isn’t violent. It’s real. It has blood and gore because blood and gore are part of life.”
Melody quirked an eyebrow. “Blood and gore aren’t part of my life, honey, and I hope to keep it that way.”
Zita groaned. It was hard for her to understand how anyone could be this dispassionate about the amazing Marty SS George. His oeuvre was like the bible, an inspiration to her and other writers—in fact he was the reason she wanted to become a writer in the first place. Only in her wildest dreams could she ever have hoped to meet the legendary writer in the flesh, and have him bum a vape off her! She sank down onto the tawny leather couch, her heart beating a mile a minute. This was the greatest day of her life. And she’d played it cool. She’d wanted to hug the man—to kiss that fine bearded face of his—to squeak like a fangirl—but she hadn’t. She’d restrained herself with extreme effort.
Bobbi sank onto the couch next to her. “I like blood and gore,” she grunted.
“Who doesn’t?!” Zita exclaimed. “He’s the finest writer on the planet, isn’t he?”
“Uh-huh,” Bobbi muttered with a frown. And Zita could tell her friend had already forgotten all about the unexpected visit from the literary god, and was back to ruminating about the plot line for Janet Lee Parker’s next big mystery.
“Do you think he’s out there in that cabin all by himself?”
Bobbi looked up. “Who?”
“Marty. Do you think he has, like, an army of assistants at his beck and call?”
“I doubt it. If he had, he would have asked them to go out and buy him a smoke.”
“Makes sense,” Zita agreed. “We should visit him soon.”
“Uh-huh,” Bobbi muttered, frowning again.
Zita patted her co-writer on the shoulder. “Kill off a character. It’ll make all the difference.”
“But not Snookie.”
Zita thought back to Marty’s vehemence when confronted with the impending death of the teacup doggie. “Nope. Snookie lives—and he has Marty to thank for it.”
Marty made his way back to his secret lair. Well, maybe not all that secret. Ever since he’d entertained a couple of New York Times reporters last year, the whole world knew where he wrote those massive tomes of his. They’d even snapped shots of the cabin in all of its austere glory. Ever since the article had appeared, every fan in the world had been dying to visit him out here. The upshot was that he’d been forced to move cabins, it being a little tough to write when being harassed by hordes of ecstatic fans every hour on the hour.
He touched the vape in his left cardigan pocket and the small box of cigars in his right pocket and grinned like a kid who’s just raided the candy store. His wife Teodora might be a little miffed when she saw him like this, but then she’d never know, would she?
This would be his little secret. Well, his and those three nice ladies next door.
He passed the cabin that used to be his—now occupied by Stan Thurber—and hurried along, hoping Stan wouldn’t catch sight of him. He could have asked good old Stan for a smoke, but he was pretty sure he’d rat him out to Teo the first chance he got.
Taking a shortcut through the trees, he hurried along. This was dangerous ground, as Game of Bones groupies had been known to camp out here, hoping to catch a glimpse of their idol—or harass him about when the next book in the series would be published.
With surprising agility for a man of his considerable bulk, he cut a clean swath through some rhododendron bushes and came out on the other side, then made a beeline for his own cabin. Once inside, he’d light up and smoke to his heart’s content.
And he was so giddy with anticipatory excitement that he didn’t even notice the gaunt figure watching his progress through the shrubberies with laser-like focus. The man’s skull was angular, his skin almost translucent and his thin lips twisted down in an expression of perpetual disapproval. But it was his eyes that stood out the most: red-rimmed and sunken, they stared at Marty as he disappeared inside his cabin with a searing intensity.
Start Reading Murder Retreat Now
About Nic
Nic Saint is the pen name for writing couple Nick and Nicole Saint. They’ve penned 70+ novels in the romance, cat sleuth, middle grade, suspense, comedy and cozy mystery genres. Nicole has a background in accounting and Nick in political s
cience and before being struck by the writing bug the Saints worked odd jobs around the world (including massage therapist in Mexico, gardener in Italy, restaurant manager in India, and Berlitz teacher in Belgium).
When they’re not writing they enjoy Christmas-themed Hallmark movies (whether it’s Christmas or not), all manner of pastry, comic books, a daily dose of yoga (to limber up those limbs), and spoiling their big red tomcat Tommy.
www.nicsaint.com
Also by Nic Saint
The Mysteries of Max
Purrfect Murder
Purrfectly Deadly
Purrfect Revenge
Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)
Purrfect Heat
Purrfect Crime
Purrfect Rivalry
Box Set 2 (Books 4-6)
Purrfect Peril
Purrfect Secret
Nora Steel
Murder Retreat
The Kellys
Murder Motel
Washington & Jefferson
First Shot
Alice Whitehouse
Spooky Times
Spooky Trills
Spooky End
Spooky Spells
Ghosts of London
Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place
Public Ghost Number One
Ghost Save the Queen
Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)
A Tale of Two Harrys
Ghost of Girlband Past
Ghostlier Things
Charleneland
Deadly Ride
Final Ride
Neighborhood Witch Committee
Witchy Start
Witchy Worries
Witchy Wishes
Saffron Diffley
Crime and Retribution
Vice and Verdict
The B-Team
Once Upon a Spy