He slipped the pages into a manila envelope and carried it with him to the shed. Aubrey had arrived by then. He stood alone, pale, tight-lipped, and shaking a little.

  “Do you feel like you’re going into shock? Do you need a blanket or anything?” Darian asked him.

  “No.” Aubrey seemed offended that Darian would suspect him of such weakness. “I’ll be fine. I just want a minute to…adjust.”

  “What’s going on?” Lanislaw wanted to know.

  “Greg Hodge is dead.” Argo gestured in the direction of the body. “Killed by an arrow through the chest.”

  “How could this be? And how am I going to run this place on my own? Greg was…well, obviously we had our differences, but he was my rock when it came to keeping the campground up and running.” Incredulous, Aubrey turned and stared at Lanislaw. “Why is he here? Did you see what happened, Stuart?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t,” Lanislaw said, wide-eyed. Darian realized that with Aubrey present, Lanislaw wasn’t going to give any hint of his experience in law enforcement. He was still undercover as a writer, albeit a nosy one. “I was in my cabin…going over a story.”

  “It’s too soon to tell what took place here,” Argo informed them. “And don’t worry about Stuart. He’s here because I asked him to come. What I need you to do, Aubrey, is go back to the lodge and keep everyone occupied until the cops arrive. They’ll stay busy with lunch for a while, considering they started late. Can’t let them swarm the scene like last time. Since we can’t do anything for Greg, I’ve asked Chief Creed to approach without sirens. With any luck, the writers won’t notice anything’s going on.”

  “They’d better not,” Aubrey growled. “I’m close to having a mass exodus as it is. This damn workshop’s going to ruin me! All thanks to Hammond and his crazy idea for a comeback!” He paused to rub both palms over his face. Darian understood his frustration, even if it seemed a tad mercenary under the circumstances. Aubrey’s livelihood was on the line. “Which reminds me, I’ll need to break the news to Hammond. He was just starting to recover from the shock of Cole’s death. No telling how far this will set him back.”

  “No reason to reveal anything to anyone yet,” Argo said. “Chief Creed should make the official announcement. Just take control of the situation as best you can. Darian, Stuart, and I will be back to help as soon as we can.”

  “Poor Greg. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. I should have never sent him out here by himself. Don’t tell me this isn’t a hate crime! I’d say we need to start investigating the investigators.” Dejected, Aubrey trudged away.

  Argo motioned Darian and Lanislaw toward him.

  “This isn’t an official opinion, of course, but I’m not sure Greg died the same way Cole did. Lanislaw, take a quick look and give me your impression.”

  “Okay.” Lanislaw nodded and handed Argo the envelope that contained the manuscript. “But while I do, take a look at what’s in here. Darian will fill you in.”

  “Be careful of fingerprints,” Darian said as Argo, puzzled, pulled open the flap. Lanislaw had helpfully left the tissue tucked into the top corner. “Lanislaw said someone dropped this on his chair during the workshop. He thinks it could be meaningful.”

  Argo handed it back to Darian. “Take a picture of each page with your phone and send me a copy. We’ll deal with it later.”

  Just then Lanislaw returned, wincing. “Not a pretty sight, is it? But I’m inclined to agree with you that this scene looks different. For one thing, the position of Greg’s body and the…ah…depth of the wound suggests he fell forward onto the arrow. Whether that was after, or instead of, it being shot into his body is an open question.”

  “Wait.” Darian glanced from Lanislaw to Argo. “Are you saying this could have been an accident, too? Or a suicide?”

  “It’s possible Hodge could have stabbed himself, either by tripping or deliberately. Aubrey said he was a combat veteran. He probably knew that Roman soldiers fell on their own swords when they ran out of options in battle. It’s also possible someone stood toe to toe with him and rammed it through his rib cage. Either way, his weight would have pushed the entire shaft through him when he hit the floor.”

  “That fits.” Lanislaw nodded. “You know what else fits? One more body connected to Cole Dalton, the Black Widower. Even after death, he’s racking up fresh victims.”

  “I agree. This is definitely about Cole. If it was suicide, it might well be because Aubrey’s hunch was right. Greg killed him and was overcome with guilt, or plain old fear of going to prison. And if it was murder…well, that might also be because Greg was responsible for Cole’s death. You know, someone who wanted revenge for taking Cole out. What do you think, Stuart? Plausible?”

  “Considering how little we have to go on, one theory’s as useful as another at this stage,” Lanislaw began. Suddenly he stopped speaking and his eyes clouded over. “Hold on a second. No way are you implying what I think you are. I made that remark out of frustration. It wasn’t a threat.”

  “No? So you weren’t hell-bent on punishing the person who prevented you from nailing Cole for the two deaths in Florida? Because what happened to Greg sure resembles payback to me.”

  “I might be on leave, but I’m still sworn to uphold the law. I was—and am—convinced that Cole set up both Evan and Roger’s deaths, and I wanted like hell to bust him for murder. But stabbing a stranger, and a troubled one at that, with an arrow because he smoked Cole before I built a case? Come on, Argo. That’s nuttier than some of the stories the guys are writing at the lodge.”

  “Speaking of the lodge, I didn’t see you at lunch. You sure you weren’t down here, confronting Greg about Cole?”

  “Definitely not.” Lanislaw kept his voice level, but Darian could tell he was seething underneath that cool surface. “I already told Darian I was in my cabin studying that manuscript. I suggest you do the same. Then come and talk to me—unless you’re planning to have Chief Creed haul me in for questioning. I’m sure he’d get a thrill out of taking down an openly gay cop.”

  “I don’t plan to share any of this with Creed just yet. It’s not like I have any real evidence, and I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. In fact, you should probably get back to the lodge before he gets here. But don’t make me regret my decision, Stuart.”

  Scoffing, Lanislaw pivoted and stormed away. Darian knew he must resemble a goldfish as he stood beside Argo with his eyes bugged out and his mouth gaping open.

  “You’re not serious,” he said, echoing Lanislaw’s tone of disbelief. “You can’t really suspect he killed Greg!”

  “Why not? Because he’s a cop? Aubrey’s right about one thing in this whole mess—not to count anyone out, even if they carry a badge. I’ve seen some corruption in my day that would curl your hair like a watch spring.”

  Darian didn’t doubt that. “I’m sorry. I know this has to be hard for you. We probably should have just stayed home and worked on moving my stuff into your place.”

  “It’s okay. We’ll get this resolved one way or another. Then we can go back to focusing on the future.” Unexpectedly, Argo reached over and gave Darian’s hand a squeeze. His big thumb rubbed over the band of the Claddagh ring. The corners of his mouth lifted in a weary but genuine smile. Darian couldn’t help but smile back. No matter how dire the situation, Argo could always make him giddy. “I’m still looking forward to it, I promise.”

  “Me, too.” Reluctantly, Darian held up the manila envelope and felt Argo’s fingers slip away. “Now I guess I’ll get busy with my assignment. I admit I’m curious about what’s in here, and why Lanislaw thought it was so important.”

  “Yeah,” Argo grumbled, sounding unconvinced. “Convenient of him to find it just before we discover Hodge’s body, don’t you think?”

  “You mean someone planted it as a distraction? Not Lanislaw himself, surely…though I do wonder why someone would give it to him and not Kaz, Hammond, or even me. If the writer wanted Lanislaw’s critique specifically, why not just ask him outright? That’s the whole point of a workshop, isn’t it?”

  “You’re the English teacher, so I’ll reserve judgment until you’ve studied it. But let’s keep our minds open. We don’t want to miss anything, even if it leads us in an unwelcome direction.”

  “I’ll do my best. You’re okay to wait here for Chief Creed and his minions?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Argo tapped the butt of his gun, still protruding from his waistband, to emphasize the point. “They’ll be here any minute, and they’ll want to talk to you soon. Better get moving so you can get that read first.”

  “Okay.” Biting his lip, Darian hurried back to their cabin. This time, he moved his Wilfred Baine materials completely off the desk and set them on the floor. A quick search of the kitchenette cabinet turned up an unused pack of yellow dishwashing gloves. Being careful to touch only the edges of each sheet, he spread out the story and used his phone to snap an image of each page. As requested, he uploaded all fifteen photos to Argo. It would probably be a while before Argo got a chance to access them. Even now, he was most likely busy filling Chief Creed in on the latest catastrophe and watching as Greg’s body was examined and taken away. Before long, Creed would summon Darian himself to give his account of what he had seen at the sports shed. He would have to work fast.

  Pulling up his chair, Darian grabbed a pencil and a piece of scrap paper on which he could take notes if needed. Then he settled down to read the digital images he’d captured.

  He’d already skimmed the first page, but this time he paid closer attention to the details. The writing still struck him as a bit slapdash and, in places, downright awkward. A rough draft, perhaps, or the product of a beginner who could visualize the action in his head but didn’t yet have the skill to translate his vision into words. Presumably the unknown writer signed up for Hammond’s workshop to remedy exactly that weakness.

  Still, the description proved adequate to set the scene. Having grown up and come out in Florida, Darian could picture the beachfront bar, the steam rising from bared, sweat-slicked skin, the impossibly perfect male bodies writhing to a disco-style beat. The following paragraphs introduced an attractive but nameless couple who drank heavily, danced wildly, and observed the decadence around them with wonder and no small degree of envy. Through the exchange of some stilted dialogue, the characters revealed that they had met only a few days earlier. Each had traveled to Florida in search of excitement and capital, not necessarily in that order.

  Many of the other men on the dance floor, one of them pointed out, had come to pursue more carnal delights. Surely, he reasoned, those goals could be combined to yield tangible rewards.

  Darian wasn’t naïve enough to be shocked by the concept of hustling in a busy tourist area. Closeted and married men provided a steady stream of income to others who were down on their luck or just looking for thrills. What the two guys in the story were planning, though, struck him as more sinister than a simple cash-for-kink exchange.

  Uneasy, he scrolled to the next page.

  “At that sweltering nightclub,” he read, “three men met. The fateful night that followed would change their destinies, not to mention the lives of several people who weren’t even present. For one of them, it would mean the end of the world. For two of them, it would bring a future as bright as the swollen full moon hovering over the ocean. But it would also be a future drenched in blood.”

  From there, the plot and the prose alike became leaner, tighter, and more chilling. The two characters zeroed in on a tipsy middle-aged patron who touted himself a swinger. Pretending to fall for his dubious charm, they arranged to go back to his guesthouse and continue the party in private.

  Suspense built as the three strolled along the beach, flirting and laughing in alcohol-fueled camaraderie. Darian forced himself to read the tale’s gruesome conclusion, in which the two younger men cheerfully bludgeoned their victim to unconsciousness, or worse, in his rented bedroom. Afterward, they helped themselves to his cash, watch, and jewelry. As a final indignity, they left the man’s wedding ring, hidden in the top drawer of the bureau, on his blood-soaked bare chest. Afterward, they slipped away into the night as though nothing had happened.

  His fingers felt numb as he swiped past the last page and closed the viewing app on his phone. Despite all the true crime he’d read and even witnessed firsthand, the story repulsed and sickened him. Something about the matter-of-fact, even crude, method of laying out the steps before, during, and after the killing made him think he wasn’t reading fiction at all. To him, it sounded more like someone recounting a real-life murder.

  Who had written the story? And who had left it for Lanislaw to find and peruse? Darian didn’t agree with Argo that Lanislaw might have written and planted it himself. In the first place, he didn’t believe Lanislaw would kill Greg for interfering in his case. Second, the manuscript’s coarse structure and vocabulary didn’t sound remotely like Lanislaw’s precise, well-educated voice. Years of ferreting out student plagiarism based on speech patterns and rhetorical anomalies convinced him he was right about that.

  So where had this strange account come from? Even if one of the workshop participants made it up, had he based it on rumors, or a confession he’d heard during the retreat?

  Worse, had the information somehow leaked out and led to not one, but two additional deaths—so far? Would more follow?

  He almost jumped out of his seat when the phone buzzed beside him.

  As expected, it was Argo. Chief Creed had arrived at the sports shed, and he wanted to talk to Darian.

  “Now,” Argo added, apparently at Creed’s prompting.

  “Understood,” Darian replied. But the truth was that he didn’t understand any of it. Not at all.

  Chapter 13

  Darian’s interview with Chief Creed took place in the front of his cruiser, with Creed behind the wheel and Darian in the passenger seat. The questions were routine, almost formulaic, and took less than fifteen minutes. Since none pertained to the pages Lanislaw found on his chair at the workshop, Darian didn’t feel at all guilty for not mentioning them.

  Creed jotted down Darian’s responses in the crisp little notebook Darian suspected he’d purchased specifically for this case. His attitude struck Darian as nonchalant, as though he were investigating a bicycle theft instead of two mysterious deaths. “I guess that’ll do for now,” he said, tucking his notebook away in the breast pocket of his short-sleeved uniform shirt. “Someone will be in touch if we need any more information from you. You and Sheriff Sullivan are free to go back to the lodge. I’ll take things from here.”

  After they stepped out of the car, Creed strolled toward the paramedics gathered to transport Greg’s body. Darian heard him whistling an upbeat show tune.

  Argo wasn’t surprised when Darian filled him in on the conversation. “Creed’s satisfied that this wraps up the mystery with a neat little bow. As he sees it, Greg killed Cole and then killed himself with an identical arrow. Case closed, he says.”

  Darian blinked. “Uh…I can see a few holes in his theory, and I know you can, too.”

  “Of course I do. But like I said before, this isn’t my jurisdiction. Come on. Let’s head back and see how much misinformation has made its way to the dining room.”

  They fell into step together. As curious as he was about what the cops and medical personnel might find as they examined the sports shed, Darian was glad to leave the disturbing scene behind. “Not that we care, since it’s not our case. Right?”

  “Not that it ever would have been yours,” Argo reminded him.

  “I meant as an academic exercise. Especially since there seems to be a literary angle. Two, if you count the manuscript Lanislaw found.”

  “I took a quick look at what you sent to my phone. Not my area of expertise, like it is yours, but not exactly a soothing bedtime story, was it?”

  “That’s putting things mildly. The fact that someone left it for Lanislaw to find adds another wrinkle. I mean, if there is some connection between the story and what happened to Cole and Greg, why him? No one here is supposed to know about his involvement.”

  “You’re assuming Lanislaw is telling us the truth. I’m still not convinced he is.”

  “I don’t think he wrote it, if that’s what you’re getting at. And in the end, it might be a random event. One of the writers trying to impress him—or flirt with him. Not too hard to imagine that frosted hairdo inspiring a crush or two.”

  Argo scoffed. “That would be a bizarre way to come on to a guy. You’d think a sappy romance would work better. Still, you never know with these artistic types. But I’m also open to the possibility that it wasn’t left for him the way he claimed. What if it just ended up on his chair by accident, or what if he swiped it from someone and doesn’t want to admit it?”

  “Which still brings us back to the question of who wrote it. I can’t shake the impression that it wasn’t just describing a fictional situation. The style seemed too gritty, more like true-crime journalism. I wonder if any of the characters represented someone here at the retreat.”

  His idea caught Argo’s attention. Darian saw his steps visibly slow. “You mean it was written to blackmail someone?”

  “Or expose someone’s unsavory past. Right away, Cole comes to mind. Rolling closet cases at beachside bars seems right down his alley. Did one of his escapades got out of hand, and one of the writers here found out?”

  “Or Hammond found out. He’s dy—er, longing to write another controversial novel. Could he have written those pages, based on something he learned about Cole?”

  “But if that were the case, wouldn’t Cole want to take Hammond out, and not vice versa?” Darian felt his head begin to spin all over again. “I mean, publishing that—or giving it to a cop from Florida—could open Cole up to murder charges. If he’s the kind of sociopath described in that story, his first instinct would be to protect himself. Yet he was the one who wound up dead.”