Bobbi sank onto the couch next to her. “I like blood and gore,” she grunted.

  “Who doesn’t?!” Zita exclaimed. “He’s the finest writer on the planet, isn’t he?”

  “Uh-huh,” Bobbi muttered with a frown. And Zita could tell her friend had already forgotten all about the unexpected visit from the literary god, and was back to ruminating about the plot line for Janet Lee Parker’s next big mystery.

  “Do you think he’s out there in that cabin all by himself?”

  Bobbi looked up. “Who?”

  “Marty. Do you think he has, like, an army of assistants at his beck and call?”

  “I doubt it. If he had, he would have asked them to go out and buy him a smoke.”

  “Makes sense,” Zita agreed. “We should visit him soon.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bobbi muttered, frowning again.

  Zita patted her co-writer on the shoulder. “Kill off a character. It’ll make all the difference.”

  “But not Snookie.”

  Zita thought back to Marty’s vehemence when confronted with the impending death of the teacup doggie. “Nope. Snookie lives—and he has Marty to thank for it.”

  Marty made his way back to his secret lair. Well, maybe not all that secret. Ever since he’d entertained a couple of New York Times reporters last year, the whole world knew where he wrote those massive tomes of his. They’d even snapped shots of the cabin in all of its austere glory. Ever since the article had appeared, every fan in the world had been dying to visit him out here. The upshot was that he’d been forced to move cabins, it being a little tough to write when being harassed by hordes of ecstatic fans every hour on the hour.

  He touched the vape in his left cardigan pocket and the small box of cigars in his right pocket and grinned like a kid who’s just raided the candy store. His wife Teodora might be a little miffed when she saw him like this, but then she’d never know, would she?

  This would be his little secret. Well, his and those three nice ladies next door.

  He passed the cabin that used to be his—now occupied by Stan Thurber—and hurried along, hoping Stan wouldn’t catch sight of him. He could have asked good old Stan for a smoke, but he was pretty sure he’d rat him out to Teo the first chance he got.

  Taking a shortcut through the trees, he hurried along. This was dangerous ground, as Game of Bones groupies had been known to camp out here, hoping to catch a glimpse of their idol—or harass him about when the next book in the series would be published.

  With surprising agility for a man of his considerable bulk, he cut a clean swath through some rhododendron bushes and came out on the other side, then made a beeline for his own cabin. Once inside, he’d light up and smoke to his heart’s content.

  And he was so giddy with anticipatory excitement that he didn’t even notice the gaunt figure watching his progress through the shrubberies with laser-like focus. The man’s skull was angular, his skin almost translucent and his thin lips twisted down in an expression of perpetual disapproval. But it was his eyes that stood out the most: red-rimmed and sunken, they stared at Marty as he disappeared inside his cabin with a searing intensity.

  Chapter 4

  It was crisis meeting time. Bobbi didn’t like this, but sometimes, when the juices really ran dry, it was the only option. The three of them were seated at the dinner table, yellow pads out, pencils poised, wracking their brains to come up with a plot—any plot—for the next Janet Lee Parker.

  “I thought you said you had a plot,” Zita grumbled. “You said you had it all figured out.”

  “Yes, and I thought I had,” Bobbi explained patiently, not for the first time, “but I was wrong. The plot wasn’t as appealing as I thought it would be—and it didn’t allow for a lot of romance, which is, sadly enough, a prerequisite for our Janet Lee Parker novels.”

  Zita smirked. “Janet Lee and Jack have to get it on.”

  “It’s not about ‘getting it on,’” said Melody primly. “It’s about progressing the relationship. These are romantic suspense novels, after all, and the romance is just as important as the suspense.”

  “Right,” said Bobbi somberly. How much simpler would it be, she thought, if they could dispense with Jack Black altogether and focus on a nice juicy thriller plot instead. But no, they always had to drag ridiculously handsome and outrageously rich Jack Black in there—whether it fit the plot or not. Sometimes she hated being a romantic suspense writer. Then again, Janet Lee Parker books sold well. Exceedingly well. In fact it wasn’t too much to say that Janet Lee Parker had made the three of them very wealthy indeed. When they were still writing books under their own names they made peanuts. Now? They could afford to rent one of these nifty cabins just like the big boys and girls of the literary world.

  “What does your husband say?” Zita asked, idly doodling ghouls on her pad.

  “Yeah, Beau usually has some great ideas, doesn’t he?” Melody chimed in.

  Beau Boulder was Bobbi’s husband of twenty-plus years, and he did indeed have some pretty good ideas from time to time. A former real estate broker, he now handled the business side of the burgeoning Nora Steel publishing empire. He was also an avid thriller aficionado and liked his books with plenty of spills, thrills and chills on top.

  “Beau suggested we delve into the world of real estate scams.” Beau had assured her there were lots of possible scams to choose from. It just didn’t sound very exciting to her.

  Judging from the expression on her co-writers’ faces, they thoroughly agreed with her assessment. “Real estate scams? How is that exciting?” asked Zita.

  “Well…” Bobbi tapped the pencil against her teeth. “Some lowlifes could be targeting Jack’s business, threatening to ruin him or something.” She threw down the pencil and rubbed her eyes. “Oh, God. I hate not being able to come up with a single good idea.”

  “No, go on,” said Melody. “Someone is threatening to ruin Jack—maybe causing him to lose his billion-dollar business, and so he fakes his own death, but neglects to tell Janet Lee so now she thinks he’s dead and vows to get back at the thugs who killed him and so when at the end of the book she discovers Jack isn’t dead she’s both elated and extremely upset because he didn’t tell her and so now their relationship is in jeopardy…” She gave them a bright smile. “Throw in a couple of terrorists and a rogue cop and we’re all set!”

  They stared at her. “This could work,” Bobbi conceded grudgingly. She didn’t like it when her co-writers took over plotting duties, which she considered strictly her domain.

  Zita was frowning. “Explain to me again how does this real estate scam figure into the thing?”

  “Well, one of Jack’s competitors could be targeting Black, Inc,” Melody explained, “by making him look like a fraud or something.” She cast a helpless look at Bobbi. “That’s where you come in, honey. You know I’m worthless with plot.”

  “You’re doing great,” Bobbi said, nodding. She’d been jotting down a few notes. Maybe her husband was right. Focusing on Jack and his business would add personal stakes for the couple—and as every thriller writer knew personal stakes were the holy grail.

  Just then, the door to the cabin swung open and a round-faced apple-cheeked woman strode in. “Sorry I’m late!” she hollered, panting slightly. “Had to pop into town for Stanley. He does like his single malt whiskey. Claims he can’t write without it.” She laughed merrily and dropped a hefty bag to the floor, then planted her hands on her sizable hips. “And how are things with my favorite romance writers?”

  Zita muttered something under her breath. In spite of the fact that they’d told their housekeeper they weren’t romance writers, Lois kept confusing them with Roxie Enola, who occupied the cabin behind theirs, and who was a writer of particularly steamy romance.

  Bobbi got up from the table and made a beeline for the hefty bags Lois had dropped to the floor. “Did you get my Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?” she asked anxiously.

  “Of course I did,” Lois caroled heartily. “Did you think I’d forget?” She stuck a hand into one of the bags and brought out Bobbi’s favored threat, much to the latter’s relief.

  “Let me give you a hand with that,” said Melody helpfully, and assisted the kindly housekeeper in bringing the bags filled with supplies into the kitchen. And as kitchen cupboards clanged and loud voices pierced the air, with Lois Pozdzik chatting happily with Melody, Bobbi returned to her plotting, now munching on a butter cup. Lois was a treasure, no doubt about it, and one of the finest features of Upswing’s writer’s retreat, but as Bobbi fruitlessly tried to work out a real estate plot for Janet Lee Parker and the delectable Jack Black, she briefly wondered if Lois couldn’t have popped in at a more opportune time.

  Chapter 5

  Marty was sitting at his desk, gazing through the window at the greenery outside and sucking on his vape. This was his favorite time of the day. He’d showered, breakfasted and now he was having a smoke, mildly staring before him and dreamily gathering his thoughts.

  In front of him on the desk stood his aged Corona Four typewriter. Even though he lived in modern times, he steadfastly refused to work on a computer, his hunt-and-peck typing methods having served him for the past forty years in a life marked by highs and lows—more lows than highs—and still serving him even now, perhaps at the height of his career.

  It wasn’t given to many writers to write at their leisure, undaunted by deadlines or clamoring fans, and even as he sat savoring the heat from the vape warming his lungs, he acknowledged the privilege. Teo was staying at a hotel in town, the housekeeper wasn’t due until later, and so it was just him and the muse—waiting for the right words to start flowing.

  He shuffled his notes and reread the few paragraphs he’d written the previous day, even as the light had started to fade. “And Raellius wept,” he muttered, reading the final words.

  He frowned. Why the hell did Raellius weep? And who the hell was Raellius anyway? And as he allowed the words to permeate his consciousness and gently transport him to a different world, he suddenly became aware of a slight draft making his beard tickle his face.

  He looked up just in time to see his visitor loom up behind him.

  He frowned, confused. “What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

  But then the poker was already meeting his temple, and before he could cry out in pain and horror, he was already falling to the floor, the pages of his manuscript raining down around him. Whatever Raellius had been weeping about, the world would never know.

  Melody threw a scarf around her neck, adjusted her knitted cap, complete with pompom, and stepped out of the cabin and onto the deck. Behind her, Zita quickly followed suit and carefully closed the sliding glass door.

  Half an hour of Mrs. Pozdzik’s merry yapping and Bobbi had practically thrown a fit. She was right, of course. They’d come out here to Georgia to write a book—the only way they’d manage by being away from their significant others—and so far, three days into their sojourn, they had nothing to show for it except a list of vague plot ideas.

  “I don’t think she’s too keen on that real estate idea,” said Melody, darting a quick glance through the glass door at the lone figure of Bobbi hunched over the table.

  “Frankly I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes right now,” Zita admitted. “Writing one of these thrillers is tough, but plotting it is even tougher.”

  “But you plot thrillers, don’t you? I mean, a horror story is almost like a thriller.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Zita, scoffing a little. “All I need is a good monster and then I’m off. A thriller needs an actual plot, with crimes and suspects and clues and tension and all that stuff.” She’d taken out a yellow vape and was shaking it in anticipation of lighting up. “You plot, though, right? I mean, I don’t pretend to know the first thing about romance but there must be some kind of plot, right?”

  “There is a plot, but it’s fairly straightforward. You just figure out your trope. Second chance at romance or fake fiancé or something like that, and then you take it from there.”

  “And then you mix in a bunch of steamy scenes and you’re set, I get it,” Zita said, nodding.

  “I don’t mix in steamy scenes, though.”

  “What, no steamy scenes?”

  “I write sweet romance, remember? No steam involved whatsoever.”

  “Huh. Weird.”

  “Not weird. Sweet.”

  “Right.” Zita gave her a skeptical look, as if she couldn’t imagine anyone reading the kind of stuff Melody wrote. Then again, Melody couldn’t imagine anyone reading horror, or thrillers, for that matter. Which is what made their joint effort so unique: three writers from absolutely dissimilar genres coming together and creating something completely different.

  “You know what we should do? Ask Marty to help us out. I’ll bet he’s aces at plotting.”

  Zita nodded seriously. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Marty is an ace at plotting. And he wouldn’t even have to give us a readymade plot, just a nudge in the right direction.”

  “Sometimes the kernel of an idea is all it takes to get those creative juices flowing.”

  It was probably too much to say that Zita was smiling—Zita rarely smiled—but the hard features of her pale face softened to some extent. “Let’s do it now.”

  “What, just like that?”

  “Sure. He told us to drop by any time.”

  Melody cast another nervous glance at Bobbi, who was now banging her head against the table. “She’s banging her head, Z. Banging her head like a woodpecker.”

  “Crap. That means it’s pretty bad. Soon she’ll start pulling her hair.”

  Melody decided. “Okay. Fine. Let’s ask him now.” She couldn’t see Bobbi like this.

  “Do you know what cabin he’s staying at?” asked Zita as they stepped off the deck.

  “I thought you knew.”

  “Can’t be hard to find. How many cabins are there? He’s probably next door.”

  Zita seemed buoyed by the prospect of meeting her great idol again, nor was Melody surprised. If Nora Roberts or Danielle Steel were renting a cabin right next to hers and invited her to drop by any time to have a little chat she’d have a spring in her step, too.

  The cabin next door turned out to be empty, and so did the next one. Then there was the cabin where an irate writer sat on the deck, all bundled up in a plaid, a laptop on his knees, and giving them the evil eye when they walked by.

  “That’s Stanley Thurber,” Zita whispered as they hurried along. “He’s also a fantasy writer. Only not as successful as Marty, obviously.”

  “We should have asked him if he knew where to find Marty.”

  “Better not. They hate each other’s guts.” She patted Melody on the back. “Cheer up. He’s out there somewhere.”

  Just then, they almost bumped into a gaunt man, walking at a quick pace. He brushed against Melody but kept on walking, not even bothering to say hi.

  “Unpleasant man,” said Melody as she watched him stalk off.

  “Probably a writer of literary fiction,” said Zita. “They’re a prickly bunch.”

  They finally arrived at a cabin that resembled their own. It had a dragon painted over the front door.

  “This must be it,” said Zita happily, pointing at the dragon.

  “Marty likes dragons?”

  Zita stared at her as if she were a visitor from outer space. “You must be the only person on the planet who hasn’t read or watched Game of Bones.”

  Melody shrugged. “I guess I’m not into fantasy.”

  “But you’ve seen The Lord of the Rings.”

  “Was Colin Firth in it?”

  Zita’s mouth worked. “No, Colin Firth was not in it.”

  “Then I haven’t seen it.”

  They’d stepped up onto the porch and Zita had raised her hand to knock when they saw that the door was slightly ajar.

  “Huh. Very hospitable,” said Melody.

  “Or careless,” said Zita, giving the door a good knock.

  When no sound came from inside, she pushed the door open further.

  “What are you doing?” hissed Melody.

  “Just checking.”

  “You can’t go in there. Maybe he’s taking a shower.”

  “With the door open?”

  “Let’s go around the back,” she suggested, tugging Zita by the sleeve. She didn’t care how much of a celebrity Marty was. She didn’t want to intrude on his privacy like this.

  They circled the cabin and arrived at the deck, which was an exact replica of theirs, only minus the hammock. Fantasy writers probably favored a nice dungeon to relax in, complete with a rack to stretch the limbs. And that’s when Melody saw it: through the window she looked into Marty’s office, where the fabled writer lay face down on the floor.

  Chapter 6

  “He must have had a stroke!” cried Zita as she desperately pulled on the glass door. It didn’t budge. The damn thing was locked, of course. She broke into a run back to where they came from: the front of the cabin. “Call an ambulance!” she yelled.

  Melody already had her phone out and pressed to her ear as they hurried around.

  Stepping inside, they wasted no time moving through the small space to the back. And as Melody spoke into her phone, Zita quickly knelt down next to the stricken writer.

  Pressing her index finger between flabs of bearded skin, she couldn’t find a pulse. Taking his wrist, she desperately hoped for a miracle. She found none. The man was dead.

  Swallowing down a sob, she rose to her feet, and when Melody lowered the phone, shook her head.