“I didn’t imagine a writing retreat was your thing, either,” Argo said. “Are you sure you came here just to get in touch with your creative side?”

  “Of course I did.” Lanislaw, suddenly evasive, tore a doughnut into quarters.

  “Okay, then. I suppose you’ll tell us when the time is right. I just hope it’s before you land yourself into some kind of trouble, since you’re probably counting on Darian and me to bail you out.”

  “Me? Got that backwards, I think. Or am I misremembering a certain sequence of events at an upscale hotel in Florida?”

  “You might be,” Darian put in, annoyed at Lanislaw’s implication. He and his fellow cops had been all too eager to arrest one or both of his moms for murder until he and Argo had basically stepped in and solved the case for them. “And speaking of Florida, why did you get my moms to recommend me for the position here? Seemed totally random at the time, but then I started thinking it through, and I realized it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.”

  “Because I thought you’d enjoy it.”

  “Come on, Stuart. Bottom line, there’s some reason you wanted me and Argo here with you. Nothing short of a notarized statement would convince me otherwise.”

  Lanislaw’s confident grin never flickered. “Enough shop talk. How have you two been? How’s the big move going?”

  “Fine,” Argo said. His upper body relaxed, though Darian still saw the wariness in his eyes. He had no doubt Lanislaw saw it, too. “We’re thinning out Darian’s books, much to his displeasure.”

  “I’m not opposed to thinning them out. I just don’t want to discard something and then discover I need it for my next year’s classes. I’d have to order a new copy and pay again.”

  “Trouble is, my shelves will only hold so much. I’ve already installed a whole new set in the study. And they’re still not enough.”

  “Being together is all about compromise.” Lanislaw sounded wistful as he peeled an orange.

  “We’re finding that out,” Darian said. “We can do it, though.”

  They chatted some more about inconsequential things, after which Lanislaw excused himself. He slipped away ahead of them, thinking it best they not be seen in public together. As far as the retreat was concerned, he stressed to them, he was just one of many aspiring writers with no connection to anyone else there.

  “We both know how people are around cops,” he reminded Argo. “They act differently around you. I’m sure you’re not planning to flash your badge around, either.”

  “Correct, but I’m not even here to write anything. I’m strictly a plus-one,” Argo told him, pausing to wink at Darian. “I plan to keep it that way.”

  Frankly, Darian didn’t have any objection to treating Lanislaw as a virtual stranger, and he told Argo so as they walked across the grass to the lodge. “Lanislaw is a slippery eel, isn’t he? I can’t help thinking he’s using my mother’s academic connections for his own nefarious purposes, even if we don’t know what they are yet. I’m not very happy with him at the moment.”

  “If that’s true, and it very well might be, both your moms would understand,” Argo said, though Darian didn’t necessarily believe that. They never hesitated to make their feelings clear about Darian’s involvement in any of Argo’s cases, though in recent months they’d come to admire Argo’s skills as well as his ability to shield Darian from serious bodily harm. “Lanislaw’s definitely hiding something, but we have to trust his motives. Or if not trust, then at least give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  As they moved past the rec storage shed, raised voices caught Darian’s attention. Argo noticed, too, and the two of them turned the corner to see what was happening.

  Kaz was standing at the door with a bow in his hand. One of the battered canvas archery targets leaned against his right leg. Greg Hodge stood beside him, fists clenched in fury.

  “You took that without my permission,” Greg shouted. “You have no business going into my shed on your own. Don’t you know this stuff is dangerous?”

  “Not to me,” Kaz snapped. “I was on the archery team at my private school and again in college. I probably know more about target practice than you do. Guaranteed I’ve had more professional training.”

  Hodge wasn’t impressed. “The shed is off limits to guests.”

  “Well, good thing I’m staff, then.”

  “You’re staff for the writing part. Not the recreational stuff! That’s my job! Only mine!”

  They both jumped back, startled, when Argo stepped between them. “What’s going on?” he demanded, shifting effortlessly into cop mode.

  “He was using the bow and arrows without authorization!” Hodge gestured wildly as his rant continued. “Aubrey says I’m supposed to make sure the guests don’t take any of this stuff out—especially the weapons! They’re dangerous in the wrong hands.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” Kaz persisted. “Mine are exactly the right hands. I know what I’m doing and I assure you, no one was in the slightest danger.”

  “Why were you out here playing Robin Hood now?” Argo asked. “Isn’t everyone at breakfast? You and Darian will be starting the workshop soon.”

  “I got here early and had some fruit and herbal tea. I prefer to eat light and exercise my body in the morning, not sit around poisoning my blood with caffeine and sugar. Yesterday, I noticed these canvas targets and thought it might be refreshing to give it a try after all these years. What’s wrong with that? Or more to the point, what’s wrong with him?”

  Argo raised his shoulders and repositioned himself between Kaz and a fuming Greg. “All right. I take it you’ve finished your practice for now. Is it okay if Greg puts the equipment away while you come back to the lodge with us?”

  When Kaz seemed to hesitate, Darian added, “It’s almost time for the workshop anyway. Hammond might want to meet with us before we start.”

  Though Kaz didn’t exactly embrace the prospect of relenting to Greg, he didn’t object either. Grumbling what sounded like curse words under his breath, Greg snatched up the target and stomped into the rec shed. The door slammed behind him.

  “That guy has some major problems,” Kaz told Darian and Argo as the three of them walked back to the lodge. “But then, everyone here does. I heard some gossip about our fearless leader, Hammond. He grabbed an early meal, too, by the looks, but it sure wasn’t fruit juice he was pickling himself with.”

  “Oh, no,” Darian said.

  “Last I saw, Cole was trying to funnel some coffee down his throat in Aubrey’s office.” Kaz scowled. “I’d like to say a few words to Hammond about his obnoxious partner if I didn’t think he’d fire me on the spot. I wouldn’t want to leave you alone to deal with them all week, though, Darian.”

  “Thanks.” Darian wondered what had happened after the lakeside chat he’d witnessed between Kaz and Cole. Kaz had not seemed to find Cole’s company objectionable then.

  “My pleasure. You and I need to stick together this week, or we’re going to endure an unpleasant stay, to say the least.”

  Darian flashed back to Marc’s strange curiosity at the firepit. “About Hammond and Cole…Argo and I were wondering what the attraction is between them. Besides the obvious, I mean. Beauty will only take a guy…much less a relationship…so far.”

  “Don’t be so sure. For some people, appearances alone matter,” Kaz said. “Did you know Cole showed up at my cabin last night? It was long after the bonfire. I guess Hammond had passed out by then and he was bored. Apparently he got the wrong idea after we went swimming together—which, I assure you both, is all that happened. When I didn’t invite him in, he made up a dumb story about how he got lost in the dark. He was wearing this thin kimono thing with nothing underneath. The porch light made that very obvious.”

  “Wow.” Darian feigned surprise.

  Kaz snorted, pleased to have shocked him. “When I still didn’t answer, he tried to play it off like he and Hammond decided to invite me over for a drink. To talk about the workshop, you know.”

  “Did you go?” Argo asked.

  “I did. Probably shouldn’t have, but the way I saw it, Hammond is my employer this week and I wanted to seem cooperative. Plus I’ll admit I was curious what Cole had in mind. Was he using me to torment Hammond? Was he afraid to be alone with him? Or were the two of them looking for some…ahem…adventure?”

  The same possibilities occurred to Darian, too. He recalled Argo speculating about Hammond and Cole enjoying an open relationship. “What happened?”

  “Not much. Hammond was already three sheets to the wind. They poured me a couple fingers of Scotch and babbled on about nonsense for nearly an hour. I pretended I was having a great time. Then I said I needed to call my significant other back in New York and they cut me loose. That was a lie, I’m ashamed to say. I’m kind of between boyfriends right now. However, I didn’t want to offend them. It seemed the easiest way out of the situation.”

  “Quick thinking,” Darian said. He couldn’t help reflecting on a similar embarrassing proposition he’d rebuffed at Birchwood Academy by using Argo as an excuse.

  “I’m not going to tolerate any funny business this week,” Kaz said, raising his voice for emphasis. “I’m all for enjoying the retreat and opening our minds, but I draw the line at sexual harassment. Granted, they didn’t go that far last night, but all I can say is they better not. I’m immune to pretty boys like Cole, not to mention overrated, washed-up drunks like his husband.”

  When they reached the lodge, they found Aubrey waiting for them at the door. “Hammond’s running late,” he informed Darian and Kaz. “Bad headache. Cole will hustle him over as soon as possible, but meanwhile you’ll have to start without him.”

  “So the liquid breakfast I saw him knocking back didn’t agree with him after all,” Kaz muttered, prompting Aubrey to dart a warning look in his direction.

  “We’ll deal with Hammond later. Right now, I need one or both of you to get into the rec room and keep the guests busy. Some of them are already at the tables.”

  “I’ll do it,” Darian said. “I was going first today, right after Hammond’s opening remarks, so my activity is ready to go. We’ll just lead with that, and Kaz can do his poetry exercise after lunch as originally planned.”

  “That should work.” Aubrey sighed in obvious relief. Argo offered Darian a supportive smile, while Kaz rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  “Someone needs to get this workshop’s fearless leader under control, or we’re going to have a lot of guys demanding their money back in a day or two,” he told Aubrey.

  “Let me worry about that,” Aubrey said.

  “All yours, bro. If you’ll excuse me, I want to go back to my cabin and touch up my workshop plan. I’m getting the sense I may need to stretch it out a little. You’ll be okay on your own, Darian?”

  “I’ve got this,” Darian said, determined to ignore the fluttering in his stomach.

  Moments later, Darian was at the podium alone, with Argo once again seated at the back of the room. He thought about making some excuse for Hammond, but decided to plunge ahead as though this had been the plan all along. With luck, the participants wouldn’t notice the change in the schedule.

  “I thought we’d start the workshop with something easy…or deceptively easy. Let’s write a letter. Address it to your future author self—the you that’s already completed whatever project you intend to pound out during this workshop. You can play the role of your ideal reader, the one you hope will read your work and send you a fan letter at some point down the road. Or you can write as yourself—as you are today, looking ahead to that magical day when you’re published and famous. Either way, congratulate your future self on what he wrote and tell him what your favorite parts of the book were. Tell him what the novel meant to you, the reader. Tell him what emotions or memories your story stirred up in him. Let’s take fifteen minutes and do it now. Don’t stop to think or censor yourself. Just write.”

  He heard a ripple of amusement go around the room. Marc Fresno, seated near the front, chewed his ballpoint pen and smirked. Lanislaw, smack in the middle of the room so Darian couldn’t help looking right at the frosted tips of his perfectly styled hair as he lectured, nodded and flicked on his laptop. Nonetheless, everyone dutifully concentrated on the assigned task.

  “Okay, time’s up,” Darian called out after a while. “Anyone like to share?”

  “I told my future self he owed me money for stealing my ideas,” someone shouted, and the room broke into relieved laughter.

  “I apologized for putting so much pressure on my future self,” the guy with the handlebar moustache said. “But I also told him it was okay to make mistakes, that we’d get through the process together.”

  “Great advice,” said Darian. “Encouraging ourselves is important. All too often we let the inner critic cut us down before we’ve given ourselves half a chance. Then we never make progress.”

  “That’s always been my problem,” said Raymond, one half of the meek middle-aged couple Darian and Argo had first encountered in town. “I’ll write a little bit, but then I worry it’s terrible, or I fret about what someone might think of me if they saw it. I don’t mean my prose is explicit or tasteless in any way. Quite the contrary—I aspire to literary fiction that uses lofty metaphor in place of crude idiom. Yet I fear falling short.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Darian said. “We have to set aside that mindset. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “How do you overcome your fears?” Marc piped up. “You’re our instructor, so presumably you know. What’s the secret?”

  “I’m happy to confess that I’m as insecure as anyone else in this room when it comes to my writing,” Darian replied, “never mind any other areas of life. Most of my work is academic in nature. You might imagine advanced degrees and a teaching career would give a guy confidence—excuse him from berating himself too much. But nope. It just opens up a whole new avenue of second-guessing. Now, in addition to comparing yourself to your imaginary ideal, you have to contend with a whole universe of writers who came before you in your field. Critics who are waiting to pounce and tear apart your ideas just to make themselves feel superior. Experts who have already covered the subject better, you think, than you ever could if you lived a hundred years.”

  Lanislaw raised his hand. “So what’s the point? If it’s so painful and nerve-wracking, why do it in the first place?”

  “Excellent question. Certainly we could all get through life without scribbling more than a check now and then to pay our bills, or a grocery list. Yet writing well is a dream for everyone in this room, and a good many other people besides. Who wants to answer that?”

  “We want to create something lasting,” Raymond said. “Something that will speak to future generations. Who wouldn’t want to invent a character the world recognizes...like Sherlock Holmes or Huck Finn. It’s like they really existed, right? As long as they live on, the author lives on. We all want to exist forever, even if we don’t last long enough to enjoy all the money that will roll in.”

  Cheerful laughter filled the air, and Darian began to relax. This was going much better than expected. He’d even managed to distract the writers from noticing that Hammond hadn’t shown up for the kick-off event.

  No sooner had he completed the thought than the door to the rec room banged open to reveal Hammond and Cole. At first Darian thought they were standing close together in a show of affection. Then he realized Cole’s arm around Hammond’s waist was the only thing holding him up.

  “Stories that will last an eternity?” Hammond bellowed. “Books that will keep you alive forever?” He flung out one arm in an exaggerated wave, but nearly lost his balance and dropped it to his side again. Instead, he cackled out a nasty laugh. “You think any of you are ready for that? Darian, back away from the podium! This is my event, and the opening speech is mine to give!”

  Breaking free of Cole’s grasp, Hammond lurched toward Darian, hands extended as if he intended to shove him out of the way. The stale scent of old whiskey flared around him. At the back of the room, Argo tensed up at his desk, prepared to rush forward and take control of Hammond if necessary. Thinking fast, Darian stepped aside and yielded his spot to Hammond, who gripped both sides of the lectern to prevent himself from falling over. Darian discreetly covered his nose and mouth to block out the alcohol smell.

  “Delusional, every one of you!” Hammond shouted.

  Chapter 7

  “Some of you possess potential, even a sliver of talent.” Hammond drew each syllable out, bending closer to the podium. Either he worried his voice wouldn’t reach the mike or he was in danger of crumpling to the floor. “Sure, I’ll admit that. Trouble is, the world will never know because they’ll fall asleep before they get to the parts worth reading—assuming there are any, of course.” He paused to chortle at his own remark.

  Marc Fresno raised his hand but didn’t wait to be called on. “Seems a little early in the workshop to be passing judgment on our drafts, don’t you think?”

  Hammond attempted a dismissive wave and almost lost his balance again. “Your current drafts may not be done, or for that matter you might not even have started them. Trust me, I’ve slogged through plenty of amateur writing samples over the decades. How many more do I need to see? Every one of them has the same problems as all the rest in the stinking heap. I feel as though I’ve given this same speech dozens of times, and no one ever seems to listen. This may be your last chance to buy a clue, gentlemen. I hope you’re ready to take me seriously.”

  Marc, far from mollified, stood up behind his desk. Darian saw Lanislaw, seated beside him, tense up. “You’re basing this offensive crap you’re spewing on a bunch of samples from some other workshop? You’ve got some nerve, Hammond, I’ll give you that much. I’m not sure just what else you have to offer us, though, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

  “Not to mention, we haven’t revised our stories yet,” Raymond pointed out, while his partner Terry bobbed his head in support. “Bound to be a few rough edges in the early days. All a matter of sanding and polishing, isn’t it?”