It was obvious she wasn’t too well pleased that the cops had revealed the extent of her wealth.

  “We don’t make millions, alas,” said Melody, taking dainty sips from her orange juice.

  “Yeah, we wish,” Zita chimed in.

  “Who knows? Maybe one day they’ll sell Janet Lee Parker novels in every airport, stocked right between the latest Nora Roberts and the new Danielle Steel,” said Bobbi.

  “I hope they do,” said Lois graciously. “You girls certainly deserve it, seeing how hard you work at those books of yours. Did I ever tell you that I’ve read them and that I love them?”

  “No, you haven’t,” said Bobbi, pleasantly surprised.

  “Oh, I’m a true fan. And so is Hackman—isn’t that right, Hackman?”

  Hackman grunted something that could be construed as assent. His eyes were raking the crowd, however, possibly looking for Mulligan so he could grill him some more about Marty’s millions. The story seemed to have captured everyone’s imagination, not least of all Jack Parker, the reporter Melody had met, and who’d been making overtures to interview the three of them. Bobbi didn’t really feel like being interviewed, though. At least not in connection to Marty’s murder. If they were going to be interviewed it should be because of their books, not some superficial connection to the murder of a writer they’d barely known.

  “You have to come round for dinner tomorrow,” Lois was saying. “I want you to tell me all about Janet Lee and Jack. How you came up with such wonderful characters, how you write your amazing books, and, most of all, when Janet Lee and Jack are finally going to move in together, get married and have a baby!”

  “Oh, but if we tell you we would have to kill you, Lois,” Zita quipped.

  Lois laughed heartily. “Writer’s humor. I love it!”

  “Excuse me,” said Bobbi. She’d spotted Mulligan and was determined to have a word with the cop. He was chatting with Mayor Kadow but she didn’t care. She walked straight up to him and got right in his face. “What’s all that nonsense about me being Marty’s killer? Are you just plain dumb or are you playing games?”

  Mayor Kadow looked nervous, and quickly excused himself from the conversation. And then it was just her and the veteran detective.

  “Do you really think I did it?” she asked.

  He was gritting his teeth. “No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But I do find you the most irritating woman I have ever met, and I want you out of my face and off this investigation.”

  Bobbi was taken aback. “So all that was just posturing? Why? I don’t get it.”

  His jaw was working. “Look, I hate nosy parkers, all right? All you ever do is screw up perfectly good investigations with your snooping around and poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. What it all boils down to is that no citizens should interfere with a police investigation. It simply creates a big mess. And who do you think is going to have to clean it up?” He tapped his chest. “Me. When the dust settles you all mess up and get yourselves into a heap of trouble—possibly even killed. And I’m the one who has to explain why I allowed you to trample all over my case and allowed you to get yourself killed.”

  “What happened?” she asked, for she could see he was speaking from experience.

  He looked uncomfortable. “I’m not discussing this with you, Boulder.”

  “I can look it up or you can tell me. Either way I’m going to find out, Mulligan.”

  “See? That’s exactly the kind of behavior I have to deal with. Instead of devoting all of my time and energy to catching Marty’s killer, I have to police a bunch of romance writers thinking they’re God’s gift to detective work. It’s infuriating!”

  “What happened?” she repeated.

  He fumed for a moment in silence, then finally relented. “I was heading up an investigation into the death of a six-year-old down in Atlanta. Accidental death, or so it seemed, until the coroner determined otherwise. The uncle quickly became the focus of the investigation, and we would have nailed him if it hadn’t been for a committee of concerned neighbors who got tipped off by someone in the sheriff’s office and decided to raid the uncle’s house, allowing the bastard to destroy crucial evidence before we ever got there.”

  “The uncle got off?”

  “He did, yeah. He got into a bar fight six months later and died from a stab wound but he did get off.” He was pointing his finger in her face again. “So don’t mess with me, Boulder. I’m not going to tolerate another bunch of amateurs getting in my way this time.”

  She held up her hands. “I have no intention of getting in your way, Mulligan.”

  “And I can still arrest you and your writer friends for interfering in a police investigation. Don’t think I won’t because I will.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I mean it, Boulder.”

  “I know you do, Mulligan.”

  They were staring each other down for a moment, then Mulligan suddenly and unexpectedly flashed a smile. “You are something else, aren’t you?”

  “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  He seemed to relax a little. “You know, my wife loves your books.”

  “She does?”

  He nodded. “The Janet Lee Parker ones? Absolutely adores them. So when I told her I met you and your two co-writers she said I should get your autograph. I told her you were a suspect in an ongoing investigation and she said I was an idiot for even thinking you could have killed Marty George.” He shrugged, then sheepishly took out a battered copy of Death in Disguise, the first Janet Lee Parker novel and the one that had kicked off Bobbi’s career.

  She was grinning as she grabbed the novel from his hands and accepted his ballpoint pen. She then scribbled her name on the title page. “What’s your wife’s name?”

  “Susan. Though her friends all call her Susie.”

  There was a softness about his features when he said the name that suddenly endeared him to Bobbi. This big, bad cop wasn’t so big and bad after all.

  “I’ll get the others to sign, too?” she suggested.

  He nodded gratefully, then added, “That doesn’t mean I can’t still arrest you for—”

  “Interfering in a police investigation. Got it.”

  Somehow she didn’t think he would carry out his threat, though. And the twinkle in the hardened cop’s eye was all the confirmation she needed.

  Just then, there was a commotion near the front of the hall. A bespectacled young man with pale pimpled face and dressed in a long, black robe, had climbed the stage and was waving a thick book over his head and screaming something.

  “I did it!” he was yelling. “I killed the King of Bones and I stole his novel!”

  At this, and to the shock and surprise of everyone present, he dropped the thick tome to the stage floor, squirted what looked like lighter fluid on top of it and struck a match.

  “Martin SS George killed off my favorite character Suki Cleggan, the lovable giant! To avenge Suki’s death I killed Martin SS George and now I’m going to destroy his wretched book!”

  “Nooo!” yelled Mulligan, racing to the stage. “Don’t do it!”

  But too late. With a look of determination, the young man dropped the match. Instantly the book erupted into flame. The conflagration was so sudden that a lick of fire jumped to the kid’s robe and before he knew what happened he, too, was fully ablaze!

  Mulligan jumped the stage, shucked his jacket and instantly covered the kid with it.

  Panic engulfed the town hall, but a few levelheaded townies still managed to join Mulligan and try to put out the fire.

  Ten minutes later, they’d finally succeeded, but of Marty’s manuscript there was nothing left but a pile of ashes.

  Chapter 32

  The deranged fan had been taken into custody, flanked by Mulligan and Mullet, and the crowd at the town hall was finally starting to disperse. This was the kind of thing people would feast on for months or even years to come, Zita thought as she studied the spot where Marty’s book had been turned into toast. The wooden stage floor was blackened where the novel had been burnt to a crisp, and she felt a pang of sorrow for the fate of both Marty and what essentially was his life’s work. No one would ever know how his masterpiece ended—his killer had made sure of that.

  “Crazy stuff,” Bobbi remarked as she joined her. “I hear there’s going to be a candlelight memorial in town tomorrow night. It will start at Marty’s cabin, then proceed towards St John’s Church, where Marty used to come and worship and where his funeral will be held.”

  “Aren’t they going to bury him back home in LA?”

  Bobbi shook her head. “Teo feels that Marty’s heart was here in Upswing and that he would have liked to be buried here—close to where his famous works were created.”

  “This town will turn into a memorial site, his cabin a shrine.”

  “Now already fans are leaving flowers, cards, candles and other mementos outside the cabin. It’s going to get busy out there.” She grimaced. “Looks like the peace and quiet of our writing retreat is a thing of the past. Piers Schumer made sure of that.”

  “Is that the name of Marty’s killer?”

  Bobbi nodded, and looked out across the hall, where little groups of people were speaking in hushed tones, as if this was Marty’s funeral and they were in church. “Yup. He ran an online Game of Bones fan site and was Marty’s self-appointed ‘biggest fan.’”

  “Jeez. With fans like that, who needs enemies?”

  Melody had joined them. “The interview is off, you guys. Jack went down to the police station to try and get an exclusive one-on-one with Marty’s killer.”

  “At least the case is closed,” said Zita. “Poor Marty. What a waste.”

  “Apparently Schumer had been sending death threats via Twitter,” Bobbi said, “which had caused his account to be closed. Marty hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He was used to that kind of craziness. He never even thought to report it to the police, figuring Schumer would go away.”

  “But he didn’t,” Zita said.

  “No, he did not.”

  “So this Suki Cleggan character died in the seventh book?” asked Melody.

  Bobbi nodded. “Marty published a few sample chapters in his Facebook group a couple of months ago, and one of the biggest surprises was the death of Suki Cleggan. There was a big uproar amongst the fans, and Piers Schumer even launched a petition to ‘save Suki’ and sent it to Marty. He wasn’t budging, though, saying he was the writer and he decided who lived or died in the world he had created.”

  “So Schumer decided Marty had to die,” said Zita, shaking her head.

  “Nasty little creep,” said Melody with uncharacteristic vehemence. When her two co-writers stared at her, she added, “Well, he is, isn’t he? Who kills a writer because they don’t like what they’ve written? That’s just crazy. Imagine if a ‘fan’ decides to kill us because they don’t like Janet Lee Parker and Jack Black ending up together.”

  “Well, they do end up together,” said Bobbi. When Melody didn’t respond, she said, “Don’t they? Mel?”

  A rebellious look had stolen over Melody’s face. “You know? In deference to Marty, maybe we should do something bold and daring. Like… have Jack Black die at the end of the next book. Just… to make a statement.”

  “We can make a statement without committing career suicide, Mel.”

  “It’s not career suicide. We’ll just replace Jack with another dude.”

  “What other dude?!” Bobbi cried. “It’s been Janet Lee and Jack from the start! There is no other dude!”

  “So we’ll shake things up. Kill off Jack and replace him with a new character. Let Piers Schumer chew on that!”

  “I’m sure Piers Schumer is not a fan of ours,” said Zita.

  Melody’s cheeks were flushed. “I still think we should make a statement.”

  Bobbi placed an arm around Mel’s shoulder. “Let’s not decide now. We have plenty of time to figure out what we’re going to do with Janet Lee and Jack.”

  “Not that much time,” said Zita, thinking about their fast-approaching deadline. The moment the funeral was over, they probably should get back to work. Marty was gone, but they were still here, and had their careers to think about. Otherwise she and Audra could forget about their trip to Hawaii, or even keeping the house.

  As if Audra had sensed that she was thinking about her, just then Zita’s phone chimed with a message from her partner. She opened the message. It was Audra’s analysis of the list of suspects Zita had sent. She’d assigned every suspect a percentage. Teo George got the lowest score: 60 percent. Then Stan Thurber: 70 percent. Carl Dennison: 75 percent. Marty’s alleged girlfriend Ferdinanda Zebra: 77 percent. She smiled and tucked away the phone. Audra hadn’t rated Piers Schumer, because he hadn’t been on Zita’s list of suspects.

  She suddenly wondered what other suspects she hadn’t listed. Not that it mattered now that Schumer had confessed and was in custody. Still, as she stared at the final remnants of Marty’s magnum opus, she couldn’t suppress a tiny sliver of doubt.

  Then she firmly dismissed it. Piers Schumer was Marty’s killer. Case closed.

  Chapter 33

  Melody tiptoed barefoot through the living room, careful not to disturb Bobbi, who was sweating over her plot outline upstairs in her bedroom. Zita was lounging on the couch reading a book, and apart from the rustling of the pages, Bobbi’s mutterings upstairs, and Melody’s tip-tip-toeing through the room, all was quiet and the world was at peace.

  Three days had passed since the shocking events at the town hall meeting, and gradually life was returning to normal. Lois had dropped by that morning with fresh supplies and the latest news from town, Marty’s cabin was still the scene of his fans’ fervent vigil, and reporters from every major network and plenty of minor ones had descended on Upswing to cover the demise of one of the country’s favorite sons and writers.

  Marty’s book might have been lost to posterity, but his name would live on forever.

  Reporters had also come banging on their door, but Melody, Zita and Bobbi had steadfastly refused to be interviewed. They were not the story here, and didn’t want to be.

  “What are you doing?” Zita whispered from the couch.

  “I don’t know!” Melody whispered back, throwing up her arms.

  “Sit down!”

  “I can’t! I’m feeling so restless I could dance a little jig.” She sighed. “I need my cross trainer. Why didn’t I bring my cross trainer?”

  “Why don’t you go for a quick run?”

  “And bump into a bunch of reporters? No, thank you very much.”

  They’d been pretty much cooped up inside ever since the national media had arrived, and even though that’s what writers did, sit on their butts and write, Melody felt trapped.

  The writing process they’d decided on was thus: first Bobbi wrote her outline, then passed it on to Melody, who added the romance plot and passed it on to Zita, who sprinkled in more suspense and those twists and turns every thriller reader loved so much. Finally, when the three of them had signed off on the outline, Bobbi wrote the first chapter, passed it on to Melody, who rewrote it, passed it on to Zita, who did the same. And on and on it went until the final word had been written. But as long as Bobbi hadn’t laid down the foundations for the story, there was nothing to do but wait.

  And Melody hated waiting. It drove her nuts.

  She picked up a book from the shelf. It was written by the same author she’d discovered in Carl Dennison’s cabin: Llewellyn Bolt. The title of the book was Hard Shot, and once again the cover featured a buff male cradling a partially-nude female in his muscular arms. She idly flicked through the pages and indiscriminately read a few paragraphs. The prose was pretty wooden.

  ‘James Hard flexed his guns, both of them. His brawny arms were pulsating violently with the mystical power of his outrageously muscular physique. He pointed two Lugers at the hideously disfigured crime lord’s visage, his lips twisted down into a cool snarl.

  “Hey, dirtbag. The gig is up!” He spoke in his customary gravelly voice.

  Frank ‘The Tank’ Harlow looked up, his eyes flickering with evil design. “And who are you?” he snarled viciously.

  “My name is Hard,” said Hard. “James Hard. And I’m your worst nightmare.’

  Melody giggled and turned the book to the first page. The dedication read, ‘To Mimi. Stay Hard. Lew Bolt.’

  Melody giggled even harder, and checked the copyright page. Publisher: Llewellyn Bolt. Huh. Self-published. She briefly wondered who this Mimi could have been. Probably a writer who’d once stayed at this cabin. And Lew Bolt was probably another writer who used the cabins to churn out his dubious masterpieces.

  “My name is Hard,” she said in a deep ‘gravelly’ voice. “James Hard.”

  “What’s that, hon?” asked Zita.

  “Nothing. Just that writers are funny creatures.”

  “Don’t forget that we’re due at Lois and Hackman’s at seven,” said Zita, returning to her book.

  “Oh, yay,” she said, and plunked down next to Zita. Finally something to do apart from sitting here and sprouting roots. “She’ll probably have all the latest gossip.”

  “Mh-mh,” Zita muttered, turning over another page.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Rereading. Game of Bones. Book one. I’d forgotten how great it is.”

  She glanced up at the landing. “Any chance of white smoke today?”

  “Nope,” said Zita without looking up. “She told me this morning she doesn’t like the killer.”

  “Piers Schumer?”

  “She’s using a different name, but yeah. Doesn’t like him.”