Mullet stared at her for a moment, then finally the beard parted right down the middle, and for the first time words tumbled from the detective’s tongue. They were historic words, from one as strong and silent as he was. “Salvatore,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice. “But my friends all call me Sal.”

  “Well, Sal,” said Bobbi, “it’s nice to put a name to the face.”

  Sal Mullet grimaced—or at least Melody thought he did. “Can I just say you did a great job, Bobbi? You and Zita and Melody? And can I also say that I’m your biggest fan?”

  “You’re a fan?” asked Melody, highly surprised.

  “I love your Janet Lee Parker books. I read them all the time. They’re my favorite. In fact it’s not too much to say that Janet Lee is an inspiration to me. Keep em coming.”

  And with these words of high praise, Sal Mullet turned on his heel and walked away.

  “We’re off to interview the Pozdziks,” said Mike. “Dwight will take your statements. That all right with you?”

  “Absolutely,” said Bobbi, and they watched Mike stride out of the kitchen.

  And then the house of Lois and Hackman Pozdzik turned into a beehive of activity as CSI people came bursting onto the scene, and cops descended on the kitchen in droves.

  It was time to clear out and join Sheriff Woolsack for those statements.

  And as Melody, Bobbi and Zita walked out, for a moment all activity ceased and Upswing’s finest formed an impromptu honor guard, smiling and nodding as they passed.

  The three nosy parkers had done the impossible. They’d solved Marty’s murder.

  Chapter 39

  Marty’s vigil was an impressive affair. People had descended on Upswing from all over the country, and even the world. Fans and fellow writers, leaders in the cultural, political, academic and media fields, plain folk and celebrities, rich and poor, they all joined the procession that started at the cabin where Marty had died, and wended its way into the town square where a fire was burning in honor of the writer whose words had meant so much to so many. Candles were being held aloft, and songs were sung, speeches given and finally sky lanterns were lit and launched into the air, lighting up the sky as a final farewell.

  One week later, Bobbi had finished her plot outline and the first few chapters and all three writers were hard at work on the new adventures of Janet Lee Parker and Jack Black, the cabin buzzing with activity. Soft music was playing while Bobbi typed away at her keyboard at the dining room table, Zita did the same lying on the couch, and Melody gazed out through the window at the first snow as it drifted down from a leaden sky and thought of the budding romance between their fictional hero and heroine.

  Life had more or less returned to normal, with a new housekeeper taking over from Lois, and new writers arriving at the cabins to work on their respective masterpieces.

  In spite of numerous requests, the owners had decided not to turn Marty’s cabin into a museum but instead had opted for a thorough renovation and a plaque over the door indicating this was where Marty’s boundless imagination had created all of those wonderful characters and the worlds they inhabited. An actual museum was in the process of being erected in town, with Teodora having agreed to donate important pieces for posterity.

  Beau had paid a visit to the cabin, worried about the news about the murder, and so had Audra and even Rover. For a few days life at the cabin had been very busy, with Mike Mulligan and Sal Mullet dropping by from time to time to share updates about the upcoming trial. Melody, Bobbi and Zita were going to have to testify, of course, but in the meantime they’d resumed work on their own creative endeavor and their own fictional world.

  “You guys?” said Melody suddenly. “What if Janet Lee has an affair with Mike Mulligan?”

  Bobbi groaned. She didn’t like to be disturbed when she was in the middle of writing a chapter. “Can’t we just, you know, give Mike and Sal minor roles?”

  “Or what if Janet Lee has affairs with both Mike and Sal?!” Melody said, suddenly excited about the prospect of adding some real meat to Janet Lee’s romantic entanglements.

  “I agree with Bobbi,” Zita said from the couch, for a moment halting her frantic tapping of keys. “Mike and Sal are minor characters. One-offs. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “But how exciting would it be if Janet Lee gets involved with both cops, right?” said Melody, not giving up so easily. “And then we could end the book with a cliffhanger. Who is Janet Lee going to choose? The handsome burly cop? The second handsome burly cop? Or her handsome burly fiancé?”

  “Why do all men have to be handsome and burly?” asked Zita. “It gets boring.”

  “Duh. Because in a romance novel all men are handsome and burly,” said Melody.

  “I think it’s dumb,” Zita muttered. “Besides, Mike and Sal aren’t handsome and they’re definitely not burly. And aren’t we supposed to stay true to life?”

  “No, we are not,” said Melody. “This is fiction so we need to improve on real life.”

  “Mike won’t be happy.”

  “On the contrary. He’ll be very happy. I’m turning him into a regular hunk.”

  “I think Mike’s pretty hunky,” said Bobbi now.

  “Don’t let Beau hear you,” said Zita.

  “I can admire a hunky man without being unfaithful to my husband. Just saying.”

  “I’m doing this,” said Melody. “It’s decided. Janet Lee is turning all Stephanie Plum on us. From now on she’s having three men instead of just the one.”

  “Oh, God,” Zita groaned. “I’m so glad I’m a horror writer.”

  “And I’m so glad I’m a thriller writer,” Bobbi muttered.

  For a moment, soft muzak provided the backdrop to the tapping of keys and the occasional grunt of frustration when the perfect word refused to come to mind. Finally, grumbling stomachs insisted to be nourished and three writers got up from their respective perches, stretched their stiff limbs, and converged on the kitchen to prepare a frugal lunch.

  And as Melody opened the fridge and took out a carton of eggs, she had another idea. She was definitely on fire today! “You guys! Why don’t we create a podcast?”

  “Podcast? Why would we create a podcast?” asked Bobbi as she dumped slices of bread into the toaster.

  “Because we know a ton of writers and they would love to be interviewed by people who’ve been down in the trenches like them—working as professional writers, I mean.”

  “I don’t know,” said Zita, popping an olive into her mouth. “It’s work. Do we want more work?”

  “It’s also free publicity,” said Melody. “We could call it… The Nora Steel Experience.”

  “Sounds like a seventies glam rock band,” Bobbi said. “Do we have to dress up?”

  “No dressing up required. This would just be us chatting with other writers and then putting it out as a podcast. Free writing advice from three successful pro writers.”

  Zita shrugged. “Could be good for publicity, like you say.”

  “And it would give us a chance to pick other writers’ brains,” Melody added. She was getting more excited by the second. “We could travel the world, you guys. Go to writing conferences, industry events, book fairs. This could be huge!”

  “Fine,” said Zita. “But on one condition. I get to operate the camera. I do not want to be on screen. No way.”

  “Melody will be on screen,” said Bobbi with a grin. “She’ll be our very own Ellen DeGeneres.”

  “Ooh! Or Kathie Lee Gifford!” said Melody. “Or Kelly Ripa! Or Katie Couric!”

  “If you’re Kathie Lee or Kelly, who am I?” asked Bobbi, arching an eyebrow.

  “You could be our Oprah,” gushed Melody. “Our very own Oprah Winfrey!”

  Bobbi was rolling her eyes, but judging from the blush that now mantled her cheeks she appreciated the compliment. “Fine. If I’m Oprah you’re Gayle King, all right?”

  “I love that!” Melody cried. “Oprah and Gayle—finally together again!”

  “Oh, God,” Zita muttered. “Two divas and I’m the Stedman stuck in the middle.”

  “We’re not divas,” said Bobbi. “We’re professionals and we’re taking the writing world by storm.”

  “We’re going to spread sweetness and light wherever we go,” said Melody, rubbing her hands together with glee. “We’re going to make people laugh and cry and ponder in wonder at the miracle that is life!” Her face was emitting a beatific glow now, envisioning greatness and a fun-filled future replete with exciting adventures. “It’s our destiny!”

  “It’s our job,” Bobbi corrected her.

  “Or a disaster waiting to happen,” Zita murmured.

  Just then, her phone jangled in her pocket. She took it out and frowned.

  “What is it?” asked Melody.

  “Message from Audra. She ran the writing sample through the computer and the algorithm finally spat out a name.”

  “That took her long enough,” said Bobbi. “It’s been over a week since you asked.” She and Melody joined Zita. “And? Did she get it right?”

  Zita was still frowning. “This must be some mistake.”

  “Give us the name!” Melody cried excitedly.

  “We know the name,” said Bobbi. “It was Lew Bolt, aka Hackman Pozdzik.”

  Zita shook her head. “The name Audra’s computer came up with was… Nora Steel.”

  “No way,” said Melody, her jaw dropping.

  “I think your girlfriend’s computer needs some fine-tuning,” said Bobbi.

  Another message popped up, once again from Audra. This one read: ‘Just kidding! Computer crashed. Smoke everywhere! Lew Bolt prose dangerously bad—lethal for computers! Hugs and kisses to your co-writers!’

  For a moment, they were all stunned, then the toaster pinged and they burst out laughing. Soon tears were running down their faces.

  Nora Steel might not be in the same league as some of the top authors out there, but they weren’t as bad as Lew Bolt. No one was! And as the three writers sat down for lunch, soon they were discussing the launch of their latest project. Even Zita suddenly seemed to look forward to the podcast. And they quickly agreed that the first episode would be dedicated to Marty and his amazing work. And as Melody listened to her co-writers’ excited chatter, she smiled before her and inwardly yipped. She felt blessed to be a part of such an amazing group of writers. And what was more…

  The Nora Steel Experience was definitely a go!

  THE END

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  Excerpt from Purrfect Murder (The Mysteries of Max Book 1)

  Chapter One

  I lifted one eyelid and grunted approvingly at the sun bathing the room in its golden hue. It was eight o’clock in the morning, so high time for an extended nap, but first I needed to see my human off to work. As usual, Odelia had a hard time throwing off the blanket of sleep and facing the world. She was still in bed, even though her alarm clock had gone off, and I’d alerted her to the fact that a new day was dawning by meowing plaintively and as loud as I possibly could, pawing the wardrobe door in the process. She’d thrown a throw pillow at me, so I knew she’d gotten the message.

  It wouldn’t be long now. Odelia might hate getting up in the morning, but eventually she inevitably does, so I stretched and rolled over onto my back.

  I have to admit I really lucked out when I was selected by Odelia to become her pet eight years ago, when she picked me out of the litter and decided I was a keeper. Odelia is not only one of the nicest and most decent humans a cat could ever hope to get, but she’s also very generous when it comes to distributing the kibble and other goodies. She keeps my bowl filled to the rim, and frequently adds a tasty wet food surprise to the mix.

  My name is Max, by the way, and as you might have guessed I’m a feline. A male feline. Some of my friends call me fat, but that is simply a vicious lie. I’m big-boned. All the tabbies in my family are. It’s genetics. And, just like my brothers and sisters, I’m blorange. A blend of orange and blond.

  Today was going to be a special day. I could feel it in my bones. Yes, my big bones. But it wasn’t merely my intuition. Harriet, the white Persian belonging to Odelia’s parents who live next door, told me last night that a new cop had moved to Hampton Cove. And if she hadn’t told me I would have found out for myself, for there was a new cat on the block. A nasty brute aptly called Brutus. Black as coal, built like Tom Brady, and with evil green eyes, Brutus barged into our midnight meeting in Hampton Cove Park last night, announcing he was now in charge of all the public spaces in Hampton Cove, on account of the fact that his owner was a cop. Delusions of grandeur was what I called it, and in response Brutus demonstrated the sharpness of his claws by stripping a nice piece of bark from my favorite tree.

  Not a cat you want to rumble with, in other words. And if his owner was made of the same cloth, the town of Hampton Cove was in for a rough ride.

  “Hey, Max,” Odelia’s voice rang out as she descended the stairs.

  “Over here,” I said, giving her a wave from my position on the couch.

  She plunked herself down next to me and gave my belly a tickle. She was still dressed in pink PJs, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with one hand while she rubbed my belly with the other. In response, I purred contentedly.

  Odelia is slim and trim, with shoulder-length blond hair and big eyes the color of seaweed that always sparkle with the light of intelligence. She grimaced when a ray of sunshine hit her face. “Wow, too much too soon.”

  “Not really,” I said. “Sun’s been up since before seven, sleepyhead.”

  “You don’t have to rub it in,” she said, getting up with a groan. “I was up late last night working on a piece about that sinkhole on Hayes Road.”

  She shuffled into the kitchen and started up the coffeemaker while I tripped after her, then hopped onto one of the kitchen counter stools so we could continue our conversation. Oh, didn’t I mention it? Odelia belongs to that rare kind of human who can actually converse with cats. Not that she’s Doctor Dolittle or something, but she comes from a long line of women with a strong affinity with the feline species. As far as I understand it, her foremothers were witches, at a time when being a witch was a surefire way of getting burned at the stake. And even though that witchy streak has diminished over the generations, the women in her family can talk to cats, and do so to their heart’s content. Odelia even claims her ancestors used to turn themselves into cats and back. No idea if that’s true but it’s pretty cool.

  I glanced at my bowl, and saw it was still half full, which was better than half empty, so I returned my attention to Odelia, who was pouring cornflakes into her own bowl. Yikes. How she can eat that stuff, I don’t know.

  “Did you hear the latest?” I asked, draping my tail around my buttocks.

  “No, what’s that?”

  “There’s a new cop in town.”

  This seemed to interest her, for she looked up from her cereal. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, some hotshot that calls himself Chase Kingsley. Used to work for the NYPD.”

  “The NYPD? So what’s he doing in Hampton Cove?”

  I shrugged. Yes, cats can shrug, though it’s hard to notice with all the hair. “Beats me. All I know is that people are saying he might succeed Chief Alec.”

  Odelia frowned. “That’s impossible. Uncle Alec is only…” She frowned some more. “Actually I have no idea how old he is.”

  “He’s older than your mother,” I supplied.

  “Yeah, but not old enough to retire, surely.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he wants to take early retirement.”

  “I’ll have to ask him,” she said, making a mental note of this.

  Odelia works for the Hampton Cove Gazette as a reporter, and I give her the odd scoop now and then. Since us cats are pretty much all over the place, I’ve been able to provide her with a steady stream of breaking news over the years, ranging from that rat infestation at Dough Knot Bakery, to the milk spill at the dairy farm. Cats were all over that one, as you can imagine.

  This has given Odelia’s career quite a boost, and given her the reputation of a hard-nosed reporter. Her editor often asks her where she gets her information, but she’s been diligently protecting her sources—moi. If word ever got out that her sources all have whiskers, a furry tail and a propensity for licking their own genitalia, she’d probably be front-page news herself.

  “I should probably do an interview with this Chase Kingsley.”

  She took a tentative sip from her coffee and perked up. It’s something I’ve never understood about humans. How they can drink that horrible brew. I’ve jumped up on this kitchen counter once or twice to have a lick at the stuff, and I can’t get over the terrible taste. I’ll take a piece of chicken liver every time.

  “You should. I hear he’s one of those hunkishly handsome guys.”

  She looked up at this. “Hunkishly handsome?”

  “And single, if the word on the street is to be believed. At least that’s what Harriet told me.” I shook my head disgustedly. “Probably one of those playboy types who goes around hitting on every woman in sight.”

  “I’ll bet he’s not,” said Odelia, taking the next seat.

  “Oh, yes, he is. If Harriet is mooning over Chase Kingsley you can rest assured he’s the playboy type. She’s always falling for that kind of guy.”

  “She can’t fall for that kind of guy,” said Odelia, making a funny face. “Harriet is a cat, Max. Cats don’t fall for humans. It’s simply not possible.”

  “Oh, yes, they do. Cats fall for humans all the time, only not for the same reason humans fall for other humans. When we fall for one of you it’s because you provide us with a great home, great food and great cuddles.”