by Shéa MacLeod
“Greta Morris?” I asked as if I didn’t already know who she was. She blinked up at me through watery eyes. I noticed her nose was a bit red, and she clutched a tissue in her hand. Was she crying over poor Natasha? Or perhaps she was getting a cold. They seemed to be running rampant through the ranks of the NWA writers. Going from heat to cold every fifteen minutes had a habit of lowering one’s immune system. So far, I’d been lucky to avoid it.
“Yes?” she blinked at me from behind thick lenses. She was pretty much the exact opposite of Piper: frumpy, not particularly attractive, and at least two decades older. Probably the exact sort of person I would have hired if my first PA ran off with my husband.
“I’m Viola Roberts.” I didn’t stick out my hand, not wanting her germs, but offered her a warm smile.
“Oh yes. I remember.”
“And this is...”
“Lucas Salvatore,” she breathed as if suddenly being confronted by a living god.
I resisted an eye roll, barely. “Erm, yes. You know his work?”
“But of course,” she said eagerly, setting down her e-reader. “Sir, I can’t tell you how many of your books I have enjoyed. I’m always up until at least four a.m. reading.” She giggled like a schoolgirl, her cheeks pinkening even more.
“You just made my day. And call me Lucas.” His voice was a low rumble. I shot him a glare. He was going a bit overboard on the sexy-writer thing.
His words made her giggle and blush some more, which was really unfortunate. The blushing, I mean. If her complexion had clashed with her outfit before, it did doubly so now. I tried not to be judgy, but pink was the last color poor Greta should be wearing. But if it made her happy...
“What are you reading now?” I asked with genuine interest.
She sighed. “Natasha’s last book. The one we were working on before...well, you know.” I nodded. “The publisher is still going to release it, so they’ve asked me to send them the files. I figured I might as well read it first. So emotional. So moving.”
I frowned. Natasha’s books were about as emotional as a donut. Scratch that, donuts elicited more emotion. Like that time when my local donut shop gave me a bacon maple donut instead of a regular maple bar. Trust me when I say bacon does not belong on a donut. Serious emotion happened there.
“Er, you mean because she died?” I asked, finding myself swimming in unfamiliar waters.
“Oh, no, the story really is moving. Unlike anything she’s ever written before.” Greta gave a surreptitious look around the lobby. “Let me tell you, I don’t know how she had the following she did. Mediocre, if you ask me, but my job was to assist, not judge. This one, though...” She picked up the e-reader. “It’s not like the others. This one is filled with passion and empathy.” She gave me a funny look before stating awkwardly, “If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought someone else wrote it.”
“AH, HA!” I SAID AS I dragged Lucas outside into the muggy air.
“What ‘ah ha’?” He asked in genuine confusion. I got it. He’d been too busy flirting with Greta to notice what I had noticed.
“Did you hear what Greta just said? How different that last book is? That if she didn’t know better, she’d have thought Natasha didn’t write it?”
“But Greta claims Natasha did write it. That she saw her working on it.”
“Yeah,” I admitted, “there is that. But she had a funny look on her face when she said it. What if Natasha was faking? It would be easy enough to copy and paste a block of text, then add a few words when the assistant walks in, so it looks like you’re writing.”
“But from where would she have got the manuscript?” he asked.
I frowned, nibbling on my thumbnail. “That’s where I’m stumped.”
“Anyway, I think you can strike Greta off the short list. She seemed surprisingly happy working for Natasha despite everything.”
He was right. Greta had clearly been so grateful for the work, she hadn’t minded Natasha’s abuse. In fact, she’d gushed over the woman. Unless she was the world’s greatest actress, she was telling the truth. After all, she’d been honest about Natasha’s work. But what if she’d found out the truth about the new manuscript? Whatever truth that was.
Still, I couldn’t imagine Greta plunging a dagger into Natasha’s back. Kitchen knife. Whatever. Point was, I wasn’t sure she was strong enough. Plus she was a lot shorter than Natasha. Not that I’m an expert or anything, but the angle of the knife suggested someone closer to Natasha’s height.
“Okay, so Greta is off the list, but I still want to know who wrote that book. If it’s as meaningful as Greta says, there is no way Natasha wrote it. She had to have stolen it from someone, and I’m pretty sure Greta knows it.”
“Couldn’t Natasha have had hidden depths you just don’t know about? A secret yearning to write something deep.”
I snorted with laughter. “Natasha? I take it you never met the woman.”
“Only at the party.”
“Well, let me assure you, I’ve known Natasha a long time. The woman was about as shallow as they come.”
“Are you certain? After all, most people are multi-faceted. There could be more to her than you know.”
I glared at him. “Whose side are you on anyway?”
He smiled. “The side of truth.”
I sighed. He had to go and be all noble. “All right. I get it. I’m being judgy. But seriously, Natasha once told me something that has always stuck.”
“What’s that?”
“That she would do anything, even sell her own mother, to stay on top.”
He gave me a look. “Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?”
“I wish. You see, I made the mistake of asking her how she did it. Wrote so many books that readers love. You know what she said? She said that readers were intrinsically dumb and that if you just spoon-feed them what they want over and over, they’ll eat it up. That she basically didn’t give a fig for the craft or even about telling a good story, but rather cranking out more of the same. She said if she did that, she’d always be on top.”
“I take it you don’t feel the same,” he said.
“Good grief, no. I can’t speak for anyone else, but my readers are smart, savvy people. They’re intelligent and educated. If I’m not keeping it fresh, they let me know. If I screw up the historical facts, they let me know. And I appreciate that. Keeps me honest and on my toes.”
He nodded. “I get it. I have many readers like that. I once used the wrong caliber weapon, and believe me, I got lots of nasty emails educating me on my mistake.” He laughed, clearly unoffended by any rudeness. “I won’t be doing that again in a hurry.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “You and I care about our readers. We care about our work, but Natasha cared only about winning. She wasn’t the sort of person who would take a risk and write something so different from her usual trope.”
“How are we sure it’s that different?”
“Trust me, if it made someone cry, it’s different,” I said dryly.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Maybe if I could get my hands on a copy, I could figure out who actually wrote it,” I mused. “Then maybe we’ll have a new suspect.”
The devilish grin flashed across his darkly handsome face. “Leave it to me.”
“What? You got some special super powers I don’t know about?”
Laughter was his only answer.
Chapter 17
Ghosts of the Past
“VIOLA ROBERTS!” A STRIDENT voice boomed across the lobby. Startled, I glanced up from my tete-a-tete with Lucas to find Maggie and Lu striding toward us.
“Ladies,” Lucas said with his usual suavity.
“Good. Caught you,” boomed Maggie, ignoring Lucas completely.
“How can I help you ladies?” I asked.
Lu beamed at me, but said nothing. Maggie continued at the top of her voice. “Party. Tonight. All the best people. Be there.” She shove
d a handwritten note in my hand. There was an address and time. Nothing more. “Bring that skinny friend of yours.”
I frowned. “Cheryl?”
“Yep. Funny girl, that. Like her immensely.”
“Sounds fun,” I agreed. “We’ll be there.”
“And bring that one.” She stabbed a finger in Lucas’s direction.
“Ah, sure,” I agreed.
The two older women started to turn away when Lu suddenly turned back. “I think you might find this of interest,” she said in a soft Southern drawl. I stared at her in surprise. I was pretty sure this was the first time I’d heard her speak.
“Um, what?” I asked.
“I just overheard two of the maids talking about the dead girl.”
“Natasha?”
“No.” Lu shook her head. “The other one.”
“Andrea? The girl from the spa?”
She nodded, pink, glittery Eiffel Tower earrings swinging wildly. “I heard one of them say she had a boyfriend.”
”You mean Kyle? The bartender?”
“The same one Natasha was hanging around with? That’s the one. I guess you already know.” Lu looked disappointed I’d already heard her juicy news.
“Yeah. I heard last night. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“Come on, Lu.” Maggie grabbed her arm and gave it a tug. “That’s enough gossip for one day. See you tonight.” She gave a vigorous wave and then strode off, Lu trailing behind her.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Lucas said.
“You’re telling me. Now all we need to do is find Kyle. We’ve got another suspect added to the list.” Which, of course, was turning into a problem. Because I was finding a whole lot of suspects and not nearly enough answers.
“ARE YOU SURE I LOOK all right?” Cheryl asked, fussing with the hem of her navy sundress. It fell to her knees, showing off her long legs. Simple silver sandals matched her jewelry. “This isn’t very fancy.”
“You look great,” I assured her. “Stop worrying.” I didn’t bother to point out that everyone would be so busy staring at me, they wouldn’t notice her elegant shift.
That may have sounded arrogant, but that was not really how I meant it. I bought the maxi sundress on a whim because it was bright and cheerful and I’d been doing some online shopping on a gloomy Astoria day. The dress turned out to be a lot brighter than it seemed on the computer screen. I’d nearly sent it back, then figured what the heck? I was headed to Florida, after all. The eye-searing coral and turquoise certainly stood out and, when paired with matching coral shoes, made a statement of epic proportions.
Sure enough, the moment we stepped onto the terrace, every eye swiveled toward me. I was hard not to notice. Which may have subconsciously been my point in keeping the dress.
The party was at the home of a friend of Maggie’s and was situated on one of the many canals of St. Petersburg. It was a nice mix of elegant and relaxed with a massive terrace containing a small pool and a fire pit, unnecessarily lit on the hot Florida night. In my opinion, they should have had the party indoors in the air conditioning. Still it was a lovely spot, palm trees waving gently in the sunset.
“Viola! You made it!” Maggie’s voice boomed across the terrace, setting off another round of staring. “And Cheryl. Lovely. Come on over. Get a drink.”
Who was I to ignore such a command? With hibiscus martinis in our hands, Maggie and the ever-present Lu dragged us around the terrace making introductions. From industry professionals to other authors, Maggie seemed to know everyone. We weren’t even halfway through before my head went fuzzy from all the input, and I could only smile and nod.
“And you know Lucas Salvatore, of course,” Maggie boomed.
I sure did, although I might not have recognized him. He was wearing light khaki pants, flip-flops, and a flowery Hawaiian shirt, of all things. Mirrored aviators hid his eyes, and he leaned one hip casually against the bar, a sardonic smile on his handsome face. It was as if the guy I’d gotten to know had disappeared, and the famous author had appeared in his place. I wasn’t sure I liked it.
“Ladies.” He straightened and bowed over our hands in a ridiculous European manner. Not that it would have been ridiculous on an actual European, but in this setting, it felt contrived. He held on to my hand a little longer than necessary. I jerked it back, resisting the urge to smack the back of his hand like an old-fashioned school marm.
If I expected Cheryl to swoon over the royal treatment, I was disappointed. Her focus was on the other side of the pool. I squinted at the group standing there. There were a couple of female reps from one of the booksellers, neatly turned out with polished coifs and perfectly pressed skirt suits. How they didn’t melt in this heat was beyond me. Around them hovered half a dozen authors, all vying for attention. One hung back from the group, obviously wanting to talk to the reps, but uninterested in playing sycophant. He wasn’t terribly tall or super buff, but he was cute. He seemed a little shy, but stood his ground. I had no doubt that was where Cheryl’s mind was. I couldn’t remember meeting him, so I leaned over to Maggie.
“Who’s that?”
Maggie turned toward the group, pineapple earrings swinging wildly. “The quiet one? Max Force. Not his real name, I’ll bet money. Good choice, though. Writes crime novels.”
I’d heard of Max Force. He was nothing like I imagined—my imagination tending toward brawny, retired cop. I nudged Cheryl. “Go talk to him.”
She blushed furiously. “I couldn’t.”
“Sure you could,” Maggie said with her usual subtlety. “He’s single. Straight. Makes good money. Decent sort. You could do worse.”
I nearly sputtered with laughter. “See? Maggie’s seal of approval.” I glanced at Lu who beamed and nodded. “Lu’s, too.” I gave Cheryl a little push. “Go get ’im, Tiger.”
Cheeks still burning, Cheryl made her way around the pool. She hesitated a moment, but then Max glanced over at her. It was a whole their eyes locked and the world stopped moment. I couldn’t have written it better myself. Leaving the two to their own devices, I turned back to Maggie, Lu, and, yes, Lucas.
“So,” I said, eyeing him. “Would the real Lucas Salvatore please stand up?”
Maggie howled with laughter. Lu giggled, her eyes sparkling behind her red-rimmed glasses. And I swear Lucas actually snorted. With laughter.
“Ah ha!” I crowed. “I knew this one was a big, fat fake.”
“You caught me,” he admitted. “Truth is, people expect a certain sort of behavior from Lucas Salvatore.”
“And you’re happy to give it to them.”
He shrugged. “Don’t you find the same?”
I mulled it over. “Suppose so. I mean, people expect me to be perky and bubbly and obsessed with hot men.”
He laughed. “Aren’t you?”
“She’s got the perky and bubbly down,” Maggie said wryly.
I wasn’t sure about that. “I do post a lot of half-naked men on social media,” I admitted. “Usually cowboys. My readers have come to expect it.”
“Exactly. As my readers expect a certain mysterious aloofness from me.”
I gave him the eye. “Yeah. Good luck with that.”
Lu let out a gasp, and Maggie swung toward her. She made her own sound of shock, so Lucas and I glanced over to where they were looking. Standing across the terrace was a woman of about seventy, although well preserved. She wore a flowing white pantsuit thing with gold high-heeled sandals and a matching white and gold turban on her head. She looked like a movie star from the seventies or something.
“Who is it?” I asked Maggie.
“Our nemesis,” she hissed.
“You guys have a nemesis?” I asked, more than a little surprised. Maggie seemed the type to steamroll over anyone who tried to get in her way, and Lu wouldn’t hurt a fly. I couldn’t see anyone not liking her.
“You had Natasha. We have Veronica Dunham.”
“That’s Veronica Dunham?” I hissed. She was only one
of the most famous historical romance writers in the history of historical romance. She was more or less the American answer to Dame Barbara Cartland. In her day, she’d churned out at least two romance novels a month. Her books could be found everywhere: from airport lounges to dollar stores. She’d made a veritable fortune before disappearing from public view. She hadn’t been seen nor heard from in years. “I thought she was dead.”
“Unfortunately, she’s very much alive,” Maggie said dryly. “And she’s been talking making a comeback. She should have stayed retired.” Her tone was nearly a growl.
I glanced at Lu. “What the heck did Veronica do?”
Lu’s eyes glittered with excitement at knowing a piece of gossip Maggie was clearly reluctant to share. “She stole Maggie’s work and her first husband.”
Crikey. Just like Piper stole Natasha’s husband, Jason. I swear writers do drama like nobody else. Not even soap-opera actors.
“Good riddance,” Maggie muttered. Her gimlet eyes laser-focused on Veronica who was swanning down the steps in a way that made Natasha seem like an amateur in the diva business.
“Oh, do tell,” said Lucas languidly, back to his author persona, it seemed. “It sounds juicy.”
Juicy? “Yeah, spill. Maggie writes mysteries, not romances.”
“Ah, that’s what you think.” Lu seemed to relish her sudden moment in the spotlight. “Once upon a time, she was poised to become the Next Big Thing in romance.”
I stared at Maggie, my eyes wide with surprise. “You?” I just couldn’t see the brusque, straightforward woman writing romance.
Maggie flushed bright red. “Hey, I enjoy romance as much as the next person. And I’d have done well in it if it hadn’t been for Miss Diva over there.”
“They’d been good friends since high school,” Lu continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “We all were. But when Maggie married her high school sweetheart, the two stopped speaking.”
“Why?” Lucas and I asked together, now on the edge of our seats.
Maggie growled. Lu was downright giddy. “Because Veronica had always had a crush on him. She even tried to steal him away during senior prom. It didn’t work. Then.”