A Murder Among Friends

by Ramona Richards

  The edge of a file folder stuck out between the mattress and the springs. Maggie lifted the corner of the mattress and pulled out two more folders of manuscript. Maggie sat down on the floor and spread them in front of her, turning through the pages, one by one.

  Scott’s submissions, with Aaron’s editorial markings.

  She frowned. A lot of markings. Too many. Maggie stopped, staring at one page that was almost completely crossed out, with Aaron’s angular but clear handwriting filling every clear space on the page and running over to the back. Her chest tightened. Aaron had not been editing Scott’s manuscripts.

  He had been rewriting them.

  ELEVEN

  “I don’t like surprises,” Judson said to his young partner. “I never talk to a suspect without a clear plan. Most of the time, I can even tell you what they are going to say.”

  “Then why do you even ask them?” Lee questioned.

  “Because it’s important for it to come from them,” Judson explained. “But it’s also vital that you maintain control and that you don’t get caught off guard.”

  Fletcher stared at his bed, not entirely sure what to do next. Lily looked like a tiny china doll, curled on her side and snuggled beneath his covers, although her light snore ruined the picture of the perfect sleeping beauty. The Dom Perignon was on the desk, and he walked over, turning it around in the dim light of the cabin and testing its weight. It was almost full, and the flute she’d filled before leaving the lodge was only half empty. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down.

  The workout with the branch had cleared his mind and renewed his energy. He’d let his emotions, especially about Maggie, about Aaron, drag him down too far. He saw a lot of things clearer now, especially where this one was concerned. He looked at the delicate curve of her jaw, the lacey frill of her eyelashes against her cheek. She was not the lightweight she’d like to have people believe, that much was certain.

  “Lily,” he called softly.

  One leg stretched and she snored harder.

  “Lily,” he said, a shade louder.

  Her eyes fluttered, and he waited. She stirred and the green eyes opened, blinked, then widened, as did her mouth. “Oops,” she whispered, staring at him.

  Fletcher laughed. “Oops?” he asked. “You wake up in a strange bed and the first thing that comes to your mind is ‘Oops?’”

  She pouted and pushed herself up on her elbows. “Don’t be mean. I didn’t intend to fall asleep.”

  Fletcher raised his eyebrows. “So you crawled beneath my covers because…?”

  “I was cold,” she finished, sitting up and bracing herself against the headboard. “I’m still dressed.”

  Fletcher turned the Dom bottle around so that the label faced front again. “It’s going flat.”

  Twin spots of red tinged her cheeks. “I wanted to drink it, believe me. It just didn’t seem right this time. I didn’t…” Her voiced faded.

  Fletcher gave her a break. “So why did you come here?”

  She rubbed the corner of her eyes carefully, trying not to smudge her makeup any more than it already was. “I thought of something this afternoon, and I don’t know if it means anything. But I thought you ought to know. And I wanted to ask you something.”

  Fletcher leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, his hands steepling beneath his chin. “Tell me.”

  She met his gaze steadily. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “I know.”

  She looked startled. “You do?”

  “Talk to me, Lily.”

  Her shoulders drooped a bit. “You know about Aaron and me, that we were…”

  “That you were sleeping together, yes.”

  Lily sat up straighter. “What did you say?”

  Fletcher’s head tilted to one side. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  The young actress didn’t relent, her cheeks pinking. “Does everyone think we were sleeping together?”

  “I’m not in a position to know what everyone else thinks. At least, not yet.”

  She looked away, out the front window of the cabin. “I didn’t cheat on my husband,” she said softly. “No matter what everyone might believe. Aaron and I were…Aaron was very sympathetic. The whole fame thing. Scott doesn’t get it, didn’t understand. He’s very temperamental, my husband. Which I liked.” She winced. “But he didn’t like it when I drank. Didn’t know how to deal with it.”

  “Is that when he hit you?”

  Her eyes flashed back to him. “Scott’s not abusive.”

  “Lily—”

  “He’s not!” she insisted. “He doesn’t…It’s not a pattern.” Her voice softened. “Maggie says we both need a lot of prayer and even more therapy.”

  Fletcher gritted his teeth and stuck one hand down in his jacket pocket. It closed around his pen.

  “Scott knows that if he hits me again, I’ll call a lawyer. It’s not that.”

  “Did he think that you and Aaron were—”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She paused, then continued, more determined to get all the details out now. “Although we only saw each other alone when Scott was gone. The first was when Scott was in New York with his agent, and I got a call about the stalker. I was so scared….” She hugged her knees to her chest. “Aaron listened. Just listened at first. Korie was gone, too, and when I was finished, he talked. We talked for hours. It felt good.” Lily’s eyes were turned toward the floor, but her focus was distant, in another time and place. “I thought it was just sympathy on his part. That we had something in common. That he even maybe liked me a little. I never thought…I never realized that he’d use me.”

  Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “What happened, Lily?”

  She was still for a moment, remaining in that far distant place. Slowly, she took a deep breath and returned. She looked up at Fletcher, her eyes hard. “After a while, he asked me to help him with a practical joke. A tease on Scott.”

  Lily got up and walked to the desk. She picked up the bottle and the flute and went to the sink, where she emptied both into the drain. Fletcher waited, and Lily was silent as she watched the liquid disappear. She then turned to him.

  “My husband had been working on two novels, rotating them, depending on how he felt that week or that day. He’d turned the majority of both over to Aaron. They’d been fighting over them, with Aaron telling him that his quality was going downhill.”

  “What did Aaron ask you to do?”

  “Scott’s notorious for depending on his hard drive. He hardly ever backs anything up to a disk.”

  Fletcher sat up straight. “You deleted his novels?”

  She nodded. “I reformatted the hard drive. It wiped out everything. Aaron had the only copies. He said he wanted Scott to beg him for—”

  Lily’s knees buckled and she turned, grabbing the sink. Fletcher was there before she started to retch, and he snatched a dishcloth off a rack and flipped on the water, soaking the cloth. He held her, bathing her face and neck, as her shoulders shook with sobs. “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m so sorry.”

  Fletcher pressed the cloth into her hands, then he picked her up and carried her back to the bed, sitting her gently on the edge of it. He brushed her hair away from her face. She was still trembling as she crossed her arms, tucking her hands into her armpits. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Fletcher pulled no punches. “Take back your life.”

  She looked up at him, confused. “What?”

  He stood up and went to the sink. He finished cleaning as he spoke, his voice hard. “Stop doing things you don’t intend to do. Stop hiding out in your sister’s backyard.”

  “You don’t under—”

  He turned. “What don’t I understand, Lily? That you decided you weren’t strong enough to handle what life handed you? That you loved success but not the downsides that come with it? That you can excuse your husband’s abuse because ‘it’s not a pattern’? That you can regret destroying y
our husband’s work when you realized it gave him a motive for killing Aaron? You love playing the victim, Lily, and that I do understand.”

  Her eyes flashed and she stood up. “I am not a victim!”

  “Then prove it. Take responsibility. Take back your life.”

  She blinked, her resolve faltering. “You mean, tell Scott.”

  “Yes. And stop drinking. Stop joking around about stopping and just do it. Call that lawyer, so Scott will know you’re serious. Take the precautions you need to and tell your stalker to go fly a kite. Live your life. Stop hiding in the shadows.”

  Lily sank back down on the bed, and Fletcher watched as a dozen emotions flashed over her face. Fear. Worry. Anger. And plain old-fashioned weariness. There was a reason she had fallen asleep in his bed. He walked over and reached out his hand. “Let me walk you over to the lodge,” he said softly. “You need to get some rest.”

  She was silent for a moment, then took his hand and stood up. “No,” she said. “I’m going back to my cabin and see my husband.”

  Fletcher nodded, then offered her a stick of peppermint gum. She laughed and took it.

  They walked silently back to her cabin, her hand curled lightly around his arm. The gesture sent an odd feeling through him, one that told him that having a lady on his arm was normal and comforting. Yet he didn’t think about Lily—his mind went immediately to the woman with the auburn curls and hint of sandalwood. Maggie. He pushed the thought—and the feeling—away, and he and Lily paused near her cabin’s front porch. “Do you want me to wait and see if I should call 911?” he asked.

  She grinned. “No. I’m not going to hit him with everything tonight. Just enough to get things started.” She tiptoed up and kissed his cheek. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  Fletcher watched her go in, then turned toward the lodge, to let Maggie know that Lily wouldn’t be spending the night. He was lost in thought as he approached the back deck, wondering if Scott Jonas really was temperamental enough to kill Aaron over a couple of lost manuscripts. It was weak. After all, they were still in existence, and all Scott would have to do was pay someone to type them into the computer again. Still, he’d seen people kill over much less.

  Fletcher stepped over the stained bottom step, as he’d seen everyone else do, before climbing the stairs. He stopped on the deck, looking into the main room of the house. The overhead lights were out, but lights in both wings were still on, casting elongated shadows into the central area of the A-frame. Fletcher’s breath fogged around his face as he watched Tim Miller pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, the last of the embers on the hearth casting a soft red backlight on the young groundskeeper. Tim had several sheets of paper in one hand. The other hand flicked nervously, and he occasionally ran it through his hair.

  Fletcher frowned. Tim had always been soft-spoken and laidback; now, he acted as if someone had dropped hot coals in his shoes. Fletcher backed away from the door, into the shadows, and waited. Finally, Tim walked to the bar and dropped the papers on it, then went down the hall toward his room.

  After a moment, Maggie came into the room and looked around, as if checking on something. She turned the light on, and Fletcher sighed. He left the shadows and tapped on the door. Maggie jumped slightly, then walked over and opened it.

  “You’re making a habit of this,” she said quietly.

  He shook his head and nodded toward the light. “So are you.”

  She shrugged. “Thought I heard something.”

  “Mind if I come in a second?”

  She stepped back, and Fletcher entered, rubbing his hands together. He headed for the fire. “It’s getting colder out there.”

  She tilted her head. “What are you doing here? I thought you were catching a train.”

  Fletcher glanced at his watch. “I just wanted to let you know that Lily went back to her cabin. She decided to stay there tonight.”

  Maggie looked worried.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I just hope Scott’s agreeable with it. He seemed really happy to have her gone.”

  “I think they’ll be okay.”

  Maggie looked closely at him. “I hope so.” She paused. “I think we need to talk….” Her voice faded as she realized he wasn’t really listening.

  He nodded, looking around on the floor, which was dry. Tim had apparently not been outside, but his previous tramps around the grounds still left their mark: a faint outline of soil and crushed leaves, in a smudged, wafflelike pattern on the hardwood floor near the fireplace.

  Fletcher then wandered over to the bar, where he glanced down at the papers Tim had left on the bar. Lily’s stalker letters.

  “What?” Maggie asked.

  He looked up at her. “What?” he asked.

  She crossed her arms and leaned on the counter. “You’re in detective mode. What’s going on?”

  Fletcher froze, staring at her.

  “Yeah, detective mode,” Aaron said. “It’s when you get so focused on the facts that you forget anyone else can see you. You walk around with your thoughts on the outside of your head, and you wander about as if your brain and your feet weren’t quite on speaking terms. I’m surprised you don’t run into walls.”

  Fletcher’s face grew warm. “I have.”

  “Ha! I knew it! I’d steal it for Judson, but he’s too classy to go about banging into things.”

  “Aaron used to say that,” he said.

  Maggie nodded. “I know. He knew you pretty well, didn’t he?”

  “I guess so, although he didn’t put much of me into Judson.”

  Maggie snorted a laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

  Fletcher shook his head. “I’m not Judson.”

  Maggie grinned. “Friends for fifteen years and you still don’t know how writers work.” She moved closer and lightly touched the arm of his coat. “You don’t look like Judson and you don’t act like Judson, but all the things that make you…well…you are the same things that make Judson who he is. The way you think, work a case. Your ethics, the determination. The way you follow the evidence and treat people with respect…” Her voice trailed off and she looked away from him.

  Fletcher crossed his arms. “You like Judson.”

  She nodded, and the reddish curls slid forward to frame her face. Fletcher fought the urge to brush them back, to caress her cheek, to check her wounds. “As much as you can like a fictional character…” she said, then looked up at him. “I like the reality better.”

  He felt his chest tighten, and he was suddenly as warm as he wanted to be. Swallowing hard, he stepped back. He wasn’t ready for this, for her to know this much about him. “I’d better go. We’ll talk when we get back.”

  Maggie blushed, and she reached out toward him again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “No. It’s all right.” He let it go and backed away again. “But I do need to go.”

  She nodded, looking away.

  “I’ll call you with the details about the memorial service.”

  “Okay.” She looked away.

  He wanted to hug her and tell her that everything would be fine. Instead, he turned his back on her and left the house.

  TWELVE

  Maggie couldn’t sleep. This is getting to be a habit, she thought. After Fletcher had left, she’d put on her nightgown and stretched out in the bed, but closing her eyes seemed to be a wasted effort. Tentatively, she touched the wounds on her face, halfway hoping they were no longer there, even though her head still ached with a dull throb that the pills barely kept at bay. She knew the drug the doctor had given her for pain would knock her out, but the grogginess she’d felt most of Wednesday was still a strong memory and not one she particularly wanted to relive.

  What she was going over and over in her mind was the way Fletcher had acted, just before he left, this strange mix of boyish curiosity and fear.

  Fear?

  That d
idn’t make sense. But then, none of this made sense. With the release of a long breath, Maggie sat up and reached for her robe at the foot of the bed. Might as well get some work done.

  She closed her door and padded to the office, where lightning from a late-night storm reminded her to close the blinds. Behind the desk, she snapped on her computer and pulled a stack of bills and the retreat’s checkbook from the right-hand drawer. Aaron had suggested turning this task over to Edward, just as he had his own finances, but Maggie liked keeping control of where the money went. Now, she thought wryly, I’m glad I did. Still, she found that she was writing out the checks almost automatically, her mind still caught on the man in the wrinkled suit.

  He was Judson—and he was not. Fletcher had moved about the room with an excitement very much akin to the fictional detective, but then froze with her tentative affection, completely unlike the sophisticated Judson. The hero of more than fifteen novels had enchanted her at one point, moreso when she was still in love with his author.

  “He’s more the me I thought I’d grow up to be when I was seventeen,” Aaron said. “Smooth, urbane, intelligent. The love child of Edward R. Murrow and James Bond. I couldn’t be that, so I wrote about it. Amazing how witty you can be when you’ve got five months to write a comeback.” He laughed. “No wonder the women love him.”

  They were walking in Central Park, which they did almost every Sunday afternoon. Maggie’s idea, but Aaron loved it, and they even explored some areas that were normally avoided. “Murder fodder,” according to Aaron. It was one of those New York autumn days that Maggie adored, almost as much as the man next to her. She loved feeling his hand gripping hers in a way that was both protective and affectionate, as if suddenly pulling her into a hug would keep her safe from the world.

  Without warning, Aaron tugged on her hand, and turned his loose-jointed lope into a trot, then a jog. She laughed as they ran until breathless, collapsing on the ground with giggles. This was the Aaron she loved, playful and challenging. It was only when they got around the gold diggers of the world that he treated her as if she were a provincial child, as if he were embarrassed that she wouldn’t sleep with him, even though no one knew that about them. It bothered her almost as much that people assumed they did.