“The spouse that did it. I know, I know.”

  Zita was staring up at the ceiling, lying on her bed. Cooking smells had been drifting up to her room for the past twenty minutes and her stomach was grumbling. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until Bobbi had started on the spaghetti sauce. Then again, the only thing she’d eaten in the past couple of hours was that carrot cinnamon cake. And no matter how delicious that was, it wasn’t enough to fill her up for the rest of the day.

  “Hey, babes,” she was saying into her phone. “What have you been up to?”

  “Oh, this and that,” said Audra, sounding laidback as usual. “What about you? Your novel almost finished?”

  “Nope. Haven’t even started. There’s been a murder and no writing is being done.”

  “Nothing? Not even a few teensy tiny paragraphs?”

  Audra liked to tease her about her writing. Not that she wasn’t proud of Zita’s accomplishments, but she was more into computers than books. An accomplished IT careerist, formerly employed by an internet startup in Silicon Valley, where she met Zita, Audra specialized in Artificial Intelligence and now worked for NASA. Which meant she was probably a minor or a major genius. The only books she read were thick instruction manuals.

  “We’ll get round to the book once Bobbi solves Marty’s murder,” said Zita, tossing a tennis ball at the wall and deftly catching it. She’d taken off her combat boots and wiggled her toes, discovering a hole in one of her black socks.

  “But aren’t you supposed to be on a writing retreat?”

  “Yeah, but you know what Bobbi’s like.”

  “Like a dog with a bone.”

  “And this bone is an extra juicy one.”

  “You better help her solve this murder or else there won’t be a book this year.”

  “I know, I know. And no book, no money.”

  “And no money, no expensive trip to Hawaii.”

  Ever since Zita had quit her job to become a full-time writer, her finances had taken a nosedive. Audra was earning a nice paycheck but there were student loans to pay off and when NASA had called they’d gotten a little overexcited and had splurged on a three-bedroom pad in Washington, a short commute from Two Independence Square, NASA Headquarters. The mortgage had turned out a little heftier than they expected and now they were pretty much drowning in debt, unless Zita kept churning out those bestsellers.

  “We’ll write the book. It’s just… tough to focus on fiction when real life suddenly turns into an actual murder mystery, you know.”

  “So do you know who did it?”

  “Nope. Plenty of suspects, though. The wife, the friend, the ex-college roommate… us.”

  Audra laughed. “You! You can’t kill a mosquito! I have to do all of your killing for you.”

  “Shh. Don’t let the cops hear you. They’ll think you killed the poor guy because I asked you to.”

  “Yeah, right. Listen, shoot me a list of suspects, will you? I’ll take a look and I’ll tell you who did it.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Sure. I’ll just plug all the variables into a mathematical model and tweak the formula until I hit on the right person. It’s all math, dearie. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  The tennis ball bounced against the wall and hit her face. “We have to go to this town hall meeting tonight. Sounds like the cops have hit a wall and now they’re going to ask John Q Public to help them out. Why don’t I tell them about your mathematical model?”

  “Don’t. They might get jealous. Cops don’t like to be upstaged by us mere mortals.”

  “You, my dear, are not a mere mortal. In fact I think you’re a superhero.”

  “Ooh. Keep going. This I like. Which superhero?”

  “Brie Larson’s Captain Marvel?”

  “Yes! I like your choice, my sweet. You can be Supergirl. Or no, wait. Black Widow.”

  Zita grinned. “I don’t have the curves to be Black Widow.”

  “But you definitely have the attitude.”

  That, she did. “You know what? I will send you everything I have on this murder thing. I can’t wait to see what my superhero genius girlfriend comes up with.”

  “I’ll serve you your killer on a platter before you can say ‘Who dun it?’”

  Chapter 29

  When Melody, Bobbi and Zita entered the Upswing Town Hall, they were surprised by the number of people already present. There were easily a hundred people there, some of them seated on folding chairs, but most of them standing around chatting, plastic cups of coffee in hand. In the corner of the large space a huge Christmas tree had been set up, its twinkly lights providing a merry atmosphere to the gathering. In fact the whole setup reminded Melody more of a Christmas party than a meeting organized by the police.

  “This looks so much fun,” she gasped as she drank in the festive scene.

  “It’s fun until the crying begins,” said Bobbi dryly.

  “Rely on Bobbi to spoil the mood,” Zita muttered as her eyes uncomfortably flicked about the room. She wasn’t big on crowds. She wasn’t big on people in general. When the others recruited her as the third member of the writing team she’d been this reclusive hacker type who rarely ventured out of the house. The one time she did, to attend a writer’s conference, she met Melody and Bobbi at the hotel bar, the three of them refusing to partake in the karaoke which had been a big hit with the other writers. They’d bonded over their shared dislike of karaoke and had been inseparable for the duration of the conference.

  “It’s all right, Zita,” said Melody, rubbing her friend on the back. “We can sit in the last row. That way we’ll be out of here first, before the big stampede for the exit begins.”

  Zita gave her a grateful nod. “I wonder how many of these people knew Marty.”

  “A lot, I would imagine,” said Bobbi. “He was a regular. And so was his wife.”

  Melody searched around for Teodora, and finally saw her chatting with Carl Dennison. She gave Bobbi a poke. “Look over there. It’s the two lovers. Reunited at last.”

  “I can’t believe Teodora would fall for Carl Dennison,” said Zita. “He’s so skinny.”

  “He’s also a terrific writer,” said Bobbi, leaping to her hero’s defense. “His Preacher novels have changed the thriller genre. The man is an amazingly accomplished writer.”

  “Only yesterday you thought he was an amazingly accomplished killer,” Melody reminded her.

  “We all makes mistakes.”

  “He could be an amazingly accomplished writer and a killer,” Zita said.

  “Possibly,” Bobbi admitted.

  They studied Teo and Carl’s body language. It was obvious from the way Teo kept touching Carl’s arm and hanging on every word he said that they were familiar with each other, and also genuinely liked each other’s company. Melody’s eyes drifted over the crowd, looking for other familiar faces, until she landed on Stan Thurber’s emaciated frame. The fantasy writer was looking around nervously, a cup of coffee in his hand from which he took tentative sips. Melody wondered if he’d dumped something a little stronger into his cup.

  “Look, there’s Stan Thurber,” she said. “Our original suspect.”

  “He’s still a suspect in my book,” Bobbi announced stubbornly.

  Lois had now approached Stan and was chatting with him amiably. A man was standing next to Lois. Her husband Hackman, Melody knew. They’d met him once, when he was helping his wife deliver some supplies to the cabins in her care. A large and gruff-looking man, he was wearing a bright red ball cap on his head, gray curly hair sticking out from under it, his face square and flabby, his cheeks sporting red stubble and his big belly tenting the coveralls that seemed to be his work costume. A handyman by trade, he kept the cabins in tip-top condition while his wife supplied the same courtesy to its inhabitants.

  “I wonder who Norris is,” said Melody as she surveyed the crowd.

  “Norris? Oh, you mean the owner.” Bobbi shrugged. “You’d have to ask Lois.”

  “You guys, there they are,” said Zita, gesturing with her head to the entrance.

  All heads turned when Detectives Mulligan and Mullet walked in, looking as self-important as ever. They were accompanied by Sheriff Woolsack and a spreading, balding man of middle age who was probably the mayor of Upswing, Kevin Kadow.

  The four men made their way to the front of the room, where a podium had been erected. It took them some time to reach their destination, as the townspeople were eager to accost the mayor, the sheriff and the two cops to find out the latest or simply to express their opinions. Near the stage Melody saw Jack Parker, taking pictures of the mayor and the police delegation as they mounted the three steps to the podium and took their seats.

  “Please be seated,” the mayor besieged the crowd, waving his hands to add emphasis to his words. There was a scraping of chairs and clearing of throats but finally order descended upon the gathering as everyone settled in for this most important meeting.

  Seated in the back row, Zita shuffled nervously, and darted an eye to the doors behind them. Melody gave her a reassuring smile. Bobbi leaned in and whispered, “Here we go!”

  “As you all know by now a terrible crime was committed in our peaceful little hamlet,” said the mayor by way of introduction. He was standing at a lectern while the three cops were seated behind him, looking grim and businesslike. “A man we all know and loved was brutally murdered. Yes, murdered,” he repeated when a collective gasp rose up in the hall. “A man who was a famous writer but also a friend of Upswing. A man who’d been coming to our town for many, many years. He wrote his bestsellers in Norris Monk’s cabins—churning them out one by one until he hit the big time and his name became a byword for Hollywood entertainment. To us he was simply Marty, though, and that’s how most of us will remember him. With fondness and gratitude for choosing our town as a second home.”

  Behind him, Detective Mulligan coughed into his fist, as if to say: ‘Get on with it.’

  Mayor Kadow gestured to the crowd. “His wife Teodora is here with us tonight. I want to offer her my condolences, and I know I speak for all of you when I tell her that her husband was one of us. He was an Upswingian, just like the rest of us. May he rest in peace.”

  ‘Amen’ rose up from a hundred throats and Melody had to wipe away a tear.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I didn’t know how much Marty meant to these people.”

  “And now for the part y’all came down here for,” said the mayor. “Dwight and I decided early on we needed help to solve this heinous crime, which is why you see these two gentlemen up here with him. Let me introduce you to Detectives Mulligan and Mullet. Some of you have already met them. They’re with the state police and they’re going to give you an overview of the investigation so far. They’re also going to ask you to be the good citizens we know you are and give them any help you can. Anything you know—anything you’ve seen. Come forward now so we can give Marty the justice he deserves.”

  Then he stepped back and Mulligan got up, cleared his throat and surveyed the crowd from beneath glowering brows. “Marty George’s killer is among you,” he said, his voice carrying a distinct threat. He pointed a finger at the crowd. “He or she is here. Right now. Watching me. Listening. And let me tell you. I will catch you. And you will go down for this. Mark my words.”

  At this point, he seemed to focus on Melody, Bobbi and Zita, his eyes shooting sheets of flame across the crowd.

  “You’re going down,” he growled, pointing directly at Bobbi. “I’m onto you and you’re going to pay the price.”

  Chapter 30

  “Detective, Detective!” a man in the front row yelled, trying to attract Mulligan’s attention. Mulligan—or Mully as his wife liked to call him—reluctantly tore his eyes away from Bobbi Boulder and gave the man the nod. “What about the theory that a crazed fan did this because he wasn’t happy with the way the Game of Bones TV show ended—killing all of the fan favorites in the final five minutes of the final episode of the show?”

  “We’re keeping all of our options open,” he said, even though inwardly he cringed at the inanity of the questioner. What a nutty idea. Crazed fan my foot, he thought.

  “What about the theory that one of Marty’s characters came to life and assassinated him?” another moron piped up. A pimpled pipsqueak with a squeaky voice. He had that crazy grin on his face, the dumb smirk of the true fanboy. “I’m thinking the dragon lady didn’t like that Marty killed off all of her dragons so she materialized out of the fifth dimension and took him out. What’s your view on that, Sergeant?”

  “Detective. We’re pursuing all possible lines of inquiry,” he said dutifully, though he had to suppress a strong urge to bean the pimpled kid over the head with this lectern.

  “My husband did it!” suddenly a woman exclaimed. She was wearing a floral-pattern dress that had seen better days, and had a face like a horse. “He says he was with me that night but he wasn’t. He was out killing Marty—yes, you were, Frank. Don’t lie to me!”

  “I was out with the boys—you know this. I told you. We went bowling,” an exasperated-looking man with a bowl cut said.

  “You killed him!” she insisted. “I can’t lie for you no longer, Frank. I just can’t.”

  “I didn’t kill Marty, Officer Mulliner,” the man exclaimed. “She’s crazy!”

  “It’s Detective Mulligan, and I believe you,” said Mulligan, suddenly starting to feel the strain. It was becoming more and more clear to him that the town of Upswing, Georgia consisted of the biggest collection of nitwits and dumbasses he’d ever seen. If he survived this investigation he was going to take a week off. Fishing in the Florida Keys. Just him and the fishies. No wife. No Mullet. No kooks. Peace and quiet. Oh, how he longed for some peace and quiet. “Anyone else?” he bellowed. “If you feel uncomfortable coming forward please see me after the meeting, or come into the station tomorrow. I promise you we’ll treat any information you can give us as absolutely confidential. Nobody needs to know.”

  He could only imagine the crap the station’s dispatcher would have to swallow. He didn’t care. If a tip proved the ticket to nabbing Marty’s killer it was worth the aggravation.

  He stared out across the vast sea of people until his eyes met Bobbi Boulder’s. He hoped he’d put the fear of God into the woman. He hated amateur snoops like her and her friends. Trampling all over his murder case. If his threats and warnings finally penetrated her thick skull, all the better. If not? He wouldn’t mind letting her spend a long night in the local slammer. Anything to dissuade her from butting into an official police investigation.

  Though something told him it would take more than the threat of a night in jail to dissuade Miss Boulder. She was a tough egg. And she just kept on coming. Everywhere he went, there she was. Everyone he talked to, she’d been there first. It drove him cray-cray.

  He pointed to a guy in the third row. “Yes, please speak up so we can all hear you.”

  “What about the rumor that Marty’s manuscript was stolen from his desk?” the man with the terrible combover asked. “Can you comment on that, Detective Muppet?”

  He ground his teeth for a moment, then nodded. “It’s Detective Mulligan, sir. And yes, that rumor is absolutely true. When we searched the cabin we found no trace of the manuscript Martin George was supposedly assiduously working on when he died.”

  “So… did they kill him over his darned manuscript?” Combover Dude insisted.

  “As I said, this is an ongoing investigation and we’re following all possible leads. But yes, it is possible that the killer took the manuscript. As I’ve been given to understand, both from Marty’s wife and his agent, the manuscript of his next book—the final one in his epic and universally acclaimed Game of Bones series—was almost done. Only a couple more chapters remained, all outlined and ready to be turned into story. He’d been working on that novel for over a decade, and according to the information I’ve received it stood at one thousand pages, even without those remaining chapters. It was to be the final novel in his series, his crowning achievement. Whoever took that novel knew what they were doing.”

  “How much is a novel like that worth?” asked a chubby woman near the back.

  He scratched his scalp. Did he really want to give out that information? Then again, it was probably all over the internet already, as Marty’s publisher had issued an official statement. “Mr. George had been paid an advance of one million dollars, and stood to receive an additional two million upon completion of the manuscript. Taking into account that to date Mr. George has sold upwards of one hundred million copies of his books, I think it’s safe to say that the stolen manuscript is worth a great deal of money indeed. Especially,” he added, raising his voice over the sudden excited hubbub his words had caused, “since the writer is now dead and no more original work will ever be written or published.”

  Chapter 31

  “I didn’t know you writers made so much money!” Lois exclaimed.

  The meeting was over but most Upswingians had no intention of going home and were milling about, chatting and enjoying a few brewskis courtesy of the open bar Mayor Kadow had so graciously arranged.

  “Not all writers,” Bobbi said. “Just the top ones like Grisham, Patterson, King…”

  “And Marty George,” said Lois’s husband Hackman.

  He was nursing his beer as if his life depended on it.

  From up close he looked like a big teddy bear, Bobbi thought. A teddy bear dressed in coveralls. His eyes were shining, the story of Marty’s millions clearly having made quite an impression. Then again, Mulligan’s words had made a big impression on everyone present. Apparently the locals had never fully realized that a multi-millionaire had lived in their midst all these years. A couple of guys had accosted Teodora right after the meeting, possibly hoping to induce her to share her millions with them instead of the plastic surgeon she was rumored to be seeing. She’d ignored all advances and attempts at chivalry and had stalked out of the town hall the minute Mulligan and Mullet had left the stage.