They both stared down at the famous writer. And that’s when Zita saw the spot of crimson that covered the entire crown of his head. She pointed at it. “He hurt himself.”

  “Probably when he fell from the chair.”

  She nodded. “Poor guy. He was so full of life when he came over and now…” The sobs now came and she couldn’t fight them down. Melody placed an arm on her shoulder and pulled her close.

  Her eyes blurry from unshed tears, Zita glanced around. The vape she’d lent the writer was on the desk, next to Bobbi’s pack of cigars. Another sob wracked her chest.

  “Do you think my vape killed him?”

  “How could it? It’s just a harmless e-cig, right?”

  She nodded, thinking back to when she handed Marty the gadget. “Yeah, nothing special. No special flavors or anything.”

  In the distance, a siren was wailing, the sound approaching fast. “That was quick,” said Melody. She took Zita’s arm and gently led her away. “We better wait outside.”

  Zita allowed herself to be led out and when they stepped through the door, an ambulance pulled up outside and when the EMTs walked up to them they pointed inside.

  Right behind the ambulance, a police car came zooming up, lights flashing and siren wailing, and screeched to a stop, a cop jumping out even before the car stopped moving.

  “Which one of you is Melody Pen?” the tall cop asked, his expression stern.

  “That’s me,” said Melody, stepping off the porch. “Marty’s inside.”

  The cop nodded. “Stay right here, Miss Pen. Don’t move.”

  A second cop brushed past them and disappeared inside the cabin.

  The sirens had drawn a small crowd, amongst them Stanley Thurber, looking annoyed. Probably not happy he’d been disturbed while writing. Then Bobbi came walking up, her hair a mess from where she’d been pulling at it.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “I heard the sirens.”

  “It’s Marty,” said Melody. “He’s dead.” She cast a quick glance sideways, as if looking for confirmation.

  Zita nodded. “I checked his pulse. He’s definitely dead.”

  “Dead?” Bobbi looked as shocked as Zita was feeling. “But how?” Then her expression hardened. “What did you put in that vape?”

  “Nothing, I swear! Just nicotine, for crying out loud.”

  “He must have had a heart attack,” said Melody. “He fell out of his chair.”

  “Poor guy,” said Zita, numb. “He hit his head, too. I just hope he didn’t hurt himself.”

  Bobbi placed a soothing hand on Zita’s arm. “Are you all right? You look pale.”

  She nodded, biting her lower lip. “I’ll be fine. It’s just the shock of seeing him like that, you know. Especially after we saw him just before… he looked so alive and happy.”

  “He did look happy,” said Melody, a frown marring her brow. “And healthy, too.”

  “Heart attack, probably,” said Zita, feeling chilled to the bone all of a sudden.

  The medical team came walking out of the house and nodded a greeting to Zita and Melody, then one of them shook his head to indicate there was nothing they could do for Marty. They stepped back into the ambulance and rode off, this time without the siren.

  “So what happens now?” asked Melody.

  “I guess you’ll both have to give statements,” said Bobbi.

  The tall cop came walking out of the cabin. “Miss Pen? My name is Dwight Woolsack and I’m the local sheriff. Are you the one who found him?”

  “Yes, sheriff, sir,” said Melody. “Yes, I did. Me and Zita—we found him together.”

  “I’m Zita, sheriff,” said Zita. “Zita Guerra.”

  The sheriff crooked his index finger and beckoned them inside. They dutifully followed.

  “Can you take me through what happened, exactly?” he asked once he’d closed the door, leaving Bobbi and the others outside. They were in the living space, a flatscreen TV bolted against the wood-paneled wall, a comfy-looking sofa in front of it. The sheriff took a seat at a small dinner table, and gestured for Zita and Melody to follow his lead.

  They both pulled up chairs and sat down. In a few brief words Zita told Sheriff Woolsack how they came to be there, and how they found Marty unresponsive on the floor.

  He nodded as he jotted down a few notes. In spite of his dour demeanor, he was friendly enough. His face was tan, his hair sandy with touches of gray at the temples, and he was sporting an impressive mustard-colored mustache. “Thanks, ladies,” he said finally as he tucked away his notebook. “So you’re staying right next door? Is that correct?”

  “Three cabins over,” said Melody helpfully.

  “Great. I’ll need you to make a formal statement and I’ll get in touch with you for that. Apart from that…” He glanced at his colleague, who’d emerged from Marty’s office, a grim look on his face. He was young, red-haired and freckled, and looked a little greenish around the nostrils. The sheriff patted the table and got up. “Thanks for your time, Miss Guerra—Miss Pen.” He directed a solicitous look at Zita. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Zita, suddenly anxious to get out of there.

  She practically quick-walked out of the cabin and drew in big gulps of air once she was outside. Bobbi was there, talking to one of the neighbors. Another cop car had arrived, and a large and bulky vehicle from the coroner’s office. Suddenly tears stung Zita’s eyes, and then she was hurrying away from the small crowd of lookie-loos that had gathered.

  “Zita. Wait up,” Melody was saying.

  But she didn’t wait. She needed to get away from there.

  She normally wasn’t a cryer but soon tears were flowing freely.

  A man watched her pass by—the same gaunt-faced man from before.

  She frowned, and remembered passing him when she and Melody were in search of Marty’s cabin. She discarded the thought and hurried along. She reached her own cabin and walked in, slamming the door behind her. She walked straight through to the kitchen, yanked some paper towels from the dispenser and blew her nose—loudly.

  Then she sank onto a kitchen stool and sagged a little.

  She was a horror writer, true, and a writer of romantic suspense. But today was the first time she’d seen an actual dead person. And it wasn’t like on TV or in the movies.

  She then slumped down on the chair and had a good cry.

  Chapter 7

  Bobbi watched all the police activity with avid interest. Unlike some thriller or crime writers she didn’t have a background in law enforcement and she found the whole process vastly fascinating. She probably should have felt bad for the dead man but since she hardly knew him, her interest was more professional than personal.

  Melody, who stood by her side, didn’t share this detached view. “We should probably go and see how Zita is doing,” she said, casting nervous glances in the direction their friend and co-writer had disappeared.

  “You know, of all the people affected by this tragedy Zita is the last one I’d imagined would break down in tears. She always strikes me as this tough kick-ass babe.”

  “She is a tough kick-ass babe but these things tend to take you by surprise, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, I guess they do,” said Bobbi. “What are they doing in there? They’ve been at it for ages.”

  “Probably all standard procedure when someone dies.”

  “Probably,” Bobbi said as she glanced around at the other people who’d come out. Nothing to drive writers out of their self-chosen isolation than a death in the community. “Who’s the guy who keeps glowering at me as if I personally went in and killed Marty?”

  Melody looked in the direction indicated. “Oh, that’s Stanley Thurber. At least that’s what Zita told me. He’s supposed to be a fantasy writer, only not as famous as Marty.”

  “He looks as if he’s ready to take an ax to my skull,” said Bobbi with a shiver.

  Melody looked thoughtful. “Have you ever noticed that the people who write the most gruesome books, full of death and decay, usually are the most jovial human beings and vice versa?”

  “Vice versa how?”

  “Writers of children’s books often look like ghouls. You would expect them to look like your favorite uncle but usually they don’t—more like your favorite serial killer.”

  Bobbi quirked an eyebrow. “So what do I look like? I write pretty gruesome thrillers.”

  Melody smiled. “You look like a sweetheart.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “What I meant to say was that Mr. Thurber defies that theory. He probably writes tormented and demented gruesome stories and he looks like the serial killer next door.”

  “He does look a little like a serial killer,” Bobbi agreed. “Though don’t let him hear you say it. He might take that ax to your head, too, after he’s finished with mine.”

  “Could be that his fantasy novels are full of sweetness and light, of course,” said Melody. “In which case the theory still holds true.”

  “I doubt it,” said Bobbi, casting another quick glance at the budding ax murderer. “He looks like he writes about death and decay all day long and straight into the night.”

  More cop cars had arrived, this time belonging to the state police. “Huh,” said Melody. “Why are more and more cops arriving? Marty simply had a heart attack.”

  “Probably because he was a famous person,” said Bobbi. “The death of a celebrity always gets more attention from law enforcement than the death of Joe Blow or Jane Doe.”

  Suddenly a woman came tearing out one of the cop cars, running a straight line to the cabin even as a cop tried to hold her back.

  “Where is he?” she was screaming. “Where’s my Marty? What did you do to him?!”

  She was a woman in her sixties, dressed in a burgundy pantsuit and with a wild mane of blond-gray hair. She ran right past Bobbi and Melody, the cop still in hot pursuit.

  “I want to see him!” she was yelling. “You can’t keep him from me! Marty! MARTY!”

  And then she was inside, still wailing up a storm.

  “Probably the wife,” said Melody reverently, a hand to her heart. “Poor, poor thing.”

  “Tough,” Bobbi agreed.

  The familiar figure of Lois Pozdzik then walked up, a hand to her face, an expression of shock contorting her pleasant features. “What happened?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Mr. George, Lois,” said Melody softly. She placed a hand on the woman’s arm. “Prepare yourself for a terrible shock.”

  Lois gasped, her eyes widening. “Did… did something happen? Is he all right?”

  Melody shook her head. “He must have had a stroke or something. We found him—Zita and I found him on the floor of his office.”

  Lois stifled a sob. “No. Not Mr. George.”

  “I’m afraid he’s dead,” said Melody, nodding.

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear,” said the housekeeper. She was dressed in a canary-yellow down jacket, the collar up against the wind that had taken on a biting quality. The sun had been out before, but dark clouds had drifted out in front of it, plunging the world into an icy gloom. Tears had formed in Lois’s eyes and she wiped them away. “Such a nice man. The sweetest man possible. Always a kind word and a smile on his face.” She looked around. “Has anyone told his wife? She’s staying in town. At the Ocean Crest Resort & Diner. Always stays at the Ocean Crest when Marty comes up here to write one of his books.”

  “I think she just went in,” said Bobbi. “Does she have the big hair?”

  “She does.”

  “Dresses like Hilary Clinton?”

  Lois nodded, her eyes fixed on the cabin entrance.

  “Yeah, that was her, all right.”

  “So you found him?”

  Melody nodded. “Me and Zita. We wanted to ask him about plot, so…”

  Bobbi jerked her head up. “Plot? What are you talking about?”

  Melody looked sheepish. “We figured that since your well had run dry we might as well ask Marty to give us a hand. According to Zita he was a master plotter.”

  “My well hasn’t run dry,” Bobbi snapped. “It just takes me a little longer than usual is all.” She muttered to herself for a moment, fixing Melody with a dark look. The worst remark any writer can get is that her well has run dry. And as a cop led Marty’s wife out of the house, Bobbi added, “For your information I’ve just figured out the plot for our next novel.”

  “You have?” asked Melody, suddenly radiant. “That’s wonderful! What is it?”

  Bobbi pursed her lips. “A famous writer is murdered at a writer’s retreat, only the killer has very cleverly managed to make it look like a heart attack. And now it’s up to Janet Lee Parker and her billionaire fiancé Jack Black to figure out who killed the writer and why.” She gave her friend a pointed look. “And now it’s up to you to figure out some romancy bits and bobs inside the cabin. I’m thinking fireplace scenes. I’ve always liked fireplace scenes.”

  And with these words, she abruptly turned on her heel and strode off.

  Chapter 8

  “You shouldn’t have said that, Bobbi,” Melody whispered as they both sat out on the deck.

  “Said what? And why are you whispering?”

  “That Marty was murdered. He wasn’t! And I’m whispering because I don’t want to upset Zita.”

  “It’s just a possible plot,” said Bobbi. “I’m not saying he was murdered—just that if he were murdered, it would make a great story for our own fictional character, wouldn’t it?”

  Melody had to admit Bobbi had a point. It would make for a great story. And these cabins were a super way to create some intimate romantic moments for their hero and heroine. She could already see Janet Lee and Jack lying on one of those bearskin rugs, buck-naked in front of a crackling fire, hugging and kissing and sharing one of those moments that make any romance novel worth reading. And then someone could storm in—maybe the killer—in from a storm raging outside—and they could be locked in there with the killer!

  Great suspense. And great romance.

  “Besides, why would anyone kill Marty? He was such a sweet man.”

  “You never know what’s in the heart of a killer, honey,” said Bobbi mysteriously.

  Melody shivered. This was exactly the reason why she preferred sweet romance, and why she sprinkled in her romance before Zita had a chance to add her darker suspense scenes—the blood and the gore that were a hallmark of her horror stories. And that’s why she never read the books after they were published. Too scary!

  “Anyway, I’m sure by now the police will have taken care of Marty and tomorrow life will return to normal,” Melody said, absentmindedly flicking a fallen leaf from her lap.

  In her room upstairs, Zita was surfing the web, flicking from news article to news article about the late Martin SS George. So far no stories had emerged about the writer’s untimely death, but there were plenty of articles predicting a sticky end, especially from fans who were fearful he would never finish the Game of Bones series he had started some twenty years before. There was still one massive book to be completed, and at the pace Marty had been going, it would have taken him into his eighties before he’d manage.

  There were speculations about the man’s health and all kinds of nasty comments from so-called fans, full of barbs and recriminations, inspired by the kind of entitlement mentality that made Zita sick to the stomach. She leaned back. Well, the trolls got their wish. The man was dead, and with an unfinished final manuscript sitting on his desk no less.

  She closed her eyes and rubbed them tiredly. She couldn’t get the image of Marty out of her mind, nor the sensation of her fingers on his skin, searching in vain for a pulse.

  What a sad way to go—or was it?

  She imagined the scene. Marty puffing away at his vape, idly gazing through his office window at the scene outside, his typewriter on his desk, his notes in his hands…

  She frowned. What was wrong with this picture? She blinked a few times, thinking back. His typewriter had been on his desk—check. The vape on the desk where he’d dropped it—check. But what about the manuscript he’d been working on? Or his notes?

  She shrugged it off. Probably tucked away inside his desk, like a careful writer would.

  She shook her head. She was used to dreaming up dark plots for her horror novels, but this was one dark plot she wasn’t going to allow to ferment in her mind any longer.

  She got up and grabbed her own vape from the desk. Time for a smoke.

  And this time she’d puff one in Marty’s honor.

  Three writers were sitting on the bench on the deck. Bobbi, Melody and Zita. Zita sending big clouds of smoke wafting up the cabin gable, Bobbi chewing her lip as she tried to expand on her freshly conceived plotline, and Melody wondering what Rover was doing. Finally she couldn’t take it anymore so she took out her phone and hopped off the wooden bench and walked off the deck. Then she put some distance between herself and the others.

  “Hey, Rove,” she said when her boyfriend picked up on the first ring. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing special. Finishing up the Morton place. How are things in lovely Georgia?”

  “Oh, you know. Working on the book, trying to calm down Bobbi who’s freaking out over her plot…” She hesitated. “Finding a neighbor’s dead body in a nearby cabin.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “You found a dead body?”

  “Uh-huh.” She kicked at a pile of fallen leaves. “Have you ever heard about a guy called Martin SS George?”

  “The dude who wrote Game of Bones?”

  “Yup. That’s the one. He came over this morning to borrow Zita’s vape and now he’s dead.”

  “Dude. What did y’all put in that vape?”

  “Nothing special. He died of heart failure. Well, he was old, of course.”

  “Not that old, babe. So you met the guy, huh? That’s pretty cool.”

  “Yeah, it was cool. Until we stumbled upon his dead body.”