“Frankly we have no idea, Mrs. Pozdz—Lois,” said Melody.

  “But you’re dying to find out, right? I can tell.” She shook her head, her curls dangling pleasantly around her cherubic face. “You detective novelists are all the same. Amateur sleuths, each and every one of you. Just like that Jessica Fletcher. And there’s three of you and there was only one Jessica. Which tells me you’ll have this killer nabbed in no time.”

  “So Detective Mulligan told your husband Marty was killed, huh?” said Bobbi.

  “No, Mulligan told Dwight who told Hackman.” She was wagging that finger again, her expression stern. “You have to keep your facts straight if you’re gonna crack this case wide open, amateur sleuths. And let me give you another little piece of advice.”

  “What’s that?” asked Melody, excited now that their murder theory had finally been confirmed.

  “This isn’t one of your ‘romantic suspense’ novels, you hear? You have to focus on catching Marty’s killer, all right? That means no getting distracted and jumping on the first hot guy you see out there. No making whoopee until you catch Marty’s killer.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Pozdzik,” said the three women in unison.

  Chapter 18

  “I can’t believe you were right!” said Melody.

  “Of course I was right,” said Bobbi. She couldn’t help feeling a little smug about this whole business. She’d thought Marty was murdered and her theory had proved right.

  The three of them were standing in front of the entrance to the Ocean Crest Resort & Diner, Lois having dropped them off before speeding away again, probably a million errands to run and not enough time to do them in. The resort was a biggish affair, a distinct ocean motif dominating the three-story squat concrete sixties-style structure: from the fishes spray-painted on the windows to the fountain of a mermaid taking center stage in the circular drive and even, once they’d entered the lobby, the seashell-themed floor design.

  “Nice,” said Melody, glancing around the spacious entrance hall.

  There was even a fake palm tree adding to the holiday feel, even though by now it should probably have been replaced by a Christmas tree, Bobbi felt.

  “So how are we going to play this?” asked Zita.

  They’d planned to discuss ways and means in the car, but with Lois talking a mile a minute on the drive over, and her keen ears picking up every morsel of conversation from her passengers, a strategy meeting had been out of the question.

  “We’ll just play this straight,” said Bobbi. “We were friends with Teodora’s husband and now we just want to pay our respects, offer our condolences and…” She took a deep breath. “Offer our help in bringing her husband’s killer to justice.”

  Zita arched an eyebrow. “Just like that? Isn’t she going to laugh us out of the room?”

  “She’s a grieving widow, Zita,” said Melody. “She won’t be laughing.”

  “You know what I mean. We’re not exactly professional detectives, are we? What can we offer her that the police can’t?”

  Bobbi spread her arms. “We have the inside track. We’re writers—just like Marty.”

  Zita continued skeptical. “So?”

  “So most likely Marty was killed by another writer and we, also being writers, are best placed to figure out which one.”

  “Yeah, right. Like we figured out that Stanley Thurber was the one.”

  “I’m still not convinced he’s not the one,” said Bobbi stubbornly.

  Melody frowned, working that one out. Double negatives were tough for her. Then she brightened. “You still think he did it? But he was so convincing.” She looked at Zita for support. “Didn’t you think he was totally convincing?”

  “Killers can be convincing,” Bobbi interjected. “They lie to get away with murder. That’s what they do. And it’s our job to see through those lies and reveal the truth.”

  “Sounds good,” said Melody, nodding. “So let’s find Mrs. Marty and do our thing.”

  Teodora George was in a lousy mood. She’d been sitting out on the balcony, which, contrary to the name of the resort, didn’t overlook the ocean but a strip of boring old forest, and had found it way too chilly out. So she’d returned indoors and now sat sipping a cup of jasmine tea in the breakfast nook of her third-floor suite.

  She was a strikingly handsome woman in her late sixties who could easily have passed for fifty-eight. Her blond-gray tresses were tied back into a messy bun from a suspiciously wrinkle-free face, her lithe body was clad in a yin-and-yang-themed kimono and her talon-like long nails were painted a glossy ivory that matched the color of her skin.

  On the table lay a copy of USA Today, a screaming headline announcing that the ‘King of Bones’ was dead. She glanced down at the picture of her late husband, made a disgusted sound at the back of her throat and turned the paper upside down.

  She should have been happy that Marty was dead—rejoicing and singing with joy. At least now she didn’t have to go through the ordeal of filing for divorce. But now those two idiot detectives were poking around—asking all kinds of stupid questions.

  In spite of the little show she’d put on yesterday at the cabin, it was obvious they thought she’d killed Marty. Knocked him over the head and murdered him in cold blood.

  What was the name of that lead detective again? Muffin? Muppet? Something ridiculous at any rate. But no matter how ridiculous the guy was, it was obvious he was like a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t give up until he caught his guy—or woman, in this case.

  “Oh, Marty, Marty,” she muttered under her breath, then took a sip from her tea. Her lips turned down in disgust and she put the cup down. It tasted like dishwater. Then again, everything tasted like dishwater today. She unearthed a small bottle of Scotch from the recesses of her kimono, unscrewed the cap and took a quick swig. Yup. At least that still tasted like the real thing.

  Thank God for minibars and dead husbands with huge chunks of money in their account. She had half a mind to stay on here forever, far away from the baying crowds. Or maybe she could go on that Caribbean cruise she’d been wanting to go on. She could travel incognito. Meet a Latin lover and get married again.

  Her telephone rang and she strode over on a huff—picked it up from its cradle.

  “I specifically told you not to disturb me,” she snapped into the mouthpiece.

  “Three close friends of your husband are here to see you, Mrs. George,” said the deferential voice on the other end. “They say they can help you figure out who killed him.”

  Chapter 19

  Melody was staring. She knew it but couldn’t help it. There was something so essentially weird and fascinating about the woman that she couldn’t stop trying to figure out what it was. She knew from a quick Google search that Teodora was the same age as her husband, whom she met when they were both college students in Illinois, studying to be doctors. Teo had gone on to become a GP, a profession which she’d practiced for a few years, effectively supporting her husband while he dabbled in the arts.

  Once Marty had sold his first screenplay to Hollywood—a horror flick that had done surprisingly well—they’d both moved to LA and she’d given up her career in deference to his. A move that had paid off in spades and then some.

  “Excuse me,” said Teodora now, her voice slightly hoarse and smoky. “Why is this one staring at me? Do I have something on my face? Lipstick on my teeth? What?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. George,” said Melody, caught. “I guess I’m just… awed to meet you.”

  Teodora wasn’t mollified. “If you three were such close friends of my husband’s, then why is it he never mentioned you?” Her finely penciled eyebrows rose. “Or have you come here to tell me that you and he were in some kind of polyamorous relationship and he’d been cheating on me all of these years?”

  “Oh, no, nothing of the kind,” Bobbi hastened to say. “In fact I—we—have a confession to make.”

  “We only met your husband on the day he died, you see,” Melody continued.

  “The only reason we told the receptionist to tell you we were close friends is because we didn’t think you’d agree to see us if we didn’t,” Zita finished.

  Teodora was frowning, her hand groping inside her kimono until she came out with a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. She casually waved away the smoke. “I hope you don’t mind,” she murmured. “This whole… business has been very trying on my nervous system. I was going to stop smoking—in fact both of us were, Marty and I—but now I don’t see the point. And I know what you’re going to say. Smoking is strictly prohibited in here. I really wish it wasn’t. Silly laws stopping people from destroying their own health. It’s my health. I should be allowed to do with it whatever I damn well please. Fortunately I know the hotel manager well—Marty and I have been coming here for years and years and years.”

  They were seated in the salon of Teodora’s nicely appointed suite, more a large room than a suite, really. A living space with a connecting door to what Melody assumed was the bedroom, the decor was devoted to marine life, just like the rest of the resort. The carpets sported a recurring whale motif while the sconces on the wall, interspersed with ocean-themed artwork, were shaped like seashells. There was even a lifejacket framed like a piece of art—possibly in case a guest felt like taking a dip in the non-existing ocean.

  Teodora had risen from her seat and was standing at the plate-glass window with her back to them, gazing out at the vast expanse of forest below her feet. She seemed to be pondering how to handle this intrusion of three complete strangers upon her privacy.

  Finally she turned back to them, holding up her cigarette and taking a puff. “I know who you are. I’ve read your Nora Steel novels. I like them. Marty didn’t. He thought they were just a bunch of drivel. Typical male chauvinism. If a novel is written by a woman for other women it’s bound to be drivel. He had a very old-fashioned and frankly misogynist view on literature, I’m afraid. So the fact that I liked your books meant he had to dislike them.”

  This came as something of a shock to Melody, and she could see the others were equally shaken. “Marty didn’t like our books?”

  “Hated them. Called them badly written crap.” She smiled. “Which made me like them all the more, of course.” She studied them for a moment, then seemed to make a decision. “So now you want to find Marty’s killer. Why? Don’t you think the police are up to the task?”

  “Oh, we’re sure the police are doing everything they can,” said Bobbi. “But we want to help. We liked Marty, so…” She faltered.

  “I see. Now that I’ve told you what he really thought of you you’re having second thoughts. I don’t blame you. Marty the person was very different from Marty the famous writer. In reality he could be quite cruel.” She took a seat on the overstuffed chair again, across from the couch Melody, Bobbi and Zita were seated on. “That didn’t mean he deserved to be killed, though,” she said, and Melody saw that her hand was shaking.

  She must have realized it, too, for she stubbed out her cigarette and placed both hands in her lap. “All right. You have my permission to solve my husband’s murder. If you’re as good as Janet Lee Parker I don’t see why not. I met the police officer in charge and he seems to think I did this.” She lifted her chin in defiance. “So ask away. Do your worst.”

  Chapter 20

  Zita glanced at her notes. It was obvious to her that Teodora George was a tough baby and that if Mullet & Mulligan thought she killed her husband there was a very good chance that she had. “Um… so can you describe your relationship with the deceased?”

  She’d read that line in one of Bobbi’s thrillers once and it had always stayed with her.

  Teodora rolled her eyes. “Oh, God. You sound exactly like Detective Mulligan. I was his wife. You know this.” She gave Zita her best frown, which, oddly enough, didn’t cause a single wrinkle to appear on her brow. Weird. “Come on, honey. Is that the best you can do?”

  “No, of course not,” said Zita, a little defensively. Frankly she didn’t have the first clue how to conduct a murder investigation. In her own novels people simply got chewed up by the first monster that came along and the police never featured into the thing. “Um…”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” exclaimed Teodora. “I didn’t come anywhere near Marty’s cabin yesterday, or the days before. In fact the only time I went to visit him was when we arrived from Vermont, where we have a second home and like to spend our autumns…” She faltered. “Oh, God. He’s really gone, isn’t he? Marty’s gone. I’m all alone now forever.”

  Zita did not know how to deal with that outburst. She wasn’t the kind of person used to giving aid and comfort to the grieving and the recently bereaved. “I, um… I’m very sorry for your loss,” she repeated the statement they’d made when they first entered the suite. “It’s a tragedy,” she added when tears started to form in the woman’s eyes. “A real tragedy.” She threw anxious glances at her collaborators, but Melody sat sniffling quietly at this point, and Bobbi had scrunched up her face as if she needed a bathroom break.

  Teodora dabbed at her eyes with a cambric hankie. “I guess it hasn’t sunk in yet. Marty and I were college sweethearts, you know. Married forty-three years this Christmas. He was the brightest, sweetest, kindest man I knew—my best friend in all the world.”

  Zita sat staring at the widow, feeling completely out of her depth now. “That’s really sad,” she commented, and immediately kicked herself. Really sad? Was that the best she could do? She cleared her throat. “I’m sure he didn’t suffer.” Ugh. Another zinger. She was on a roll.

  Finally Teodora looked up. “Please forgive me. It’s just that it’s tough when your soulmate dies.” She made a visible effort to pull herself together. “So who do you think killed my husband?”

  “It’s too early in the investigation to formulate a definite theory,” Zita said, and when Teodora gave her a confused frown she quickly added, “Did your husband have enemies?”

  “Oh, plenty. When you’re as successful as Marty was everyone wants a piece of you. And when you don’t give the vultures and parasites what they want, they hate you for it.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “You want me to name names?”

  Zita nodded.

  Teodora threw up her hands. “How about every other fantasy writer out there? I mean, suddenly they all wanted to collaborate. Write a book together. What they really wanted was for him to put his name on the cover so they could reap the rewards.”

  “You mean people like Stanley Thurber?” she asked.

  Teodora nodded. “Stan and Marty went way back, only Marty made it big while Stan got stuck in midlist territory.”

  “Is it true that you used to be Stan’s girlfriend?” asked Melody.

  Teodora smiled. “I was—but only very briefly. We dated for a little while. And when I say date I mean we went out a couple of times. It didn’t work out so I dumped him. This was before I met Marty, of course.” Her smile dimmed. “Mullet & Mulligan asked me the same thing. Do you think Stan had something to do with Marty’s death?”

  “He’s in the cabin next to Marty’s,” Bobbi explained. “He could easily have snuck over, killed your husband and snuck back again.”

  But Teodora was shaking her head. “No way. Stan is not a violent man. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He may never have hit the big time but he would never take it out on Marty. In fact Marty helped him out a couple of times. Put in a good word with his publisher on Stan’s behalf. He even donated a story to an anthology Stan was editing a couple of years ago.”

  “We talked to Stan last night,” said Zita, wincing slightly when she remembered the embarrassing scene. “He was very drunk. Could be that he killed your husband and then felt so guilty about what he did that he hit the bottle.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “We did, yeah.”

  Teodora looked thoughtful. “I can’t believe he would do such a thing. Then again, I guess I never thought anyone would harm my beloved Marty and yet they did.” She fixed Zita with a baleful look. “The world is a very dangerous place, Miss…”

  “Guerra. Zita Guerra.”

  “Marty always warned me it was, but I wouldn’t listen, would I?” She buried her face in her hands. “And now he’s dead.”

  Zita shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, and so did Melody and Bobbi. They weren’t cut out for this stuff, were they? You had to have a heart of stone for this detective stuff.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. George,” she said therefore. “We shouldn’t have come.”

  Teodora looked up, her face teary. “You find my husband’s killer. You find my husband’s killer and you bring them to justice, you hear?”

  Teo closed the door behind the three writers and wiped at her face with the back of her hand. She heaved a sigh of relief. Not bad, she thought. As a dress rehearsal of what was yet to come she was rather pleased with herself. She hadn’t expected the tears to come this easily but they had. All in all she’d played the part of grieving widow to perfection and the main thing was that those three idiots had bought the act hook, line and sinker.

  She grinned as she streaked over to the minibar and took out another one of those small bottles of Scotch. She tipped back her head and downed half its contents in one gulp.

  Oowee. That definitely hit the spot.

  She held up the bottle in salute. “To you, my dear husband,” she said cheerfully. “May you rot in peace and may your millions bring me everlasting joy in this, the second act of a great life.” And then she proceeded to empty the rest of the bottle, relishing the liquor’s bite.

  Now if only she could convince Humpty & Dumpty that she was as innocent as a newborn babe in her husband’s untimely demise she was golden.

  Chapter 21