A Murder Among Friends. Ramona Richards

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      “How long did most people stay?”

      Maggie laughed. “Most leave within a couple of weeks. Aaron could be nasty about it. Aaron the Arrogant. That’s what a lot of them call him. And worse.”

      “And the ones who stay?”

      Maggie sat down on the bed. “They do some amazing work in the long run,” she said quietly. “It may look casual around here, but this isn’t a weekend conference of workshops. The cabins are only allotted out in three-month increments. They remain empty if someone leaves early. I’ve helped a lot of these folks write grants so they can stay here and still pay their mortgages, feed the kids. It’s hard work, very solitary and driving, and one reason Aaron requires everyone eat together is to force some type of community on them, so they won’t hole up in their cabins. It pays off. We’ve already produced two Pulitzer nominees, three Edgar winners, and two National Book Awards nominations. Aaron really is tough on them, but the ones who stay respond to his…” Her voice trailed off again, and she cleared her throat. “I guess I’m not used to the past tense yet.”

      “Why did Jamie leave?”

      Maggie sat up straighter. “Aaron. Jamie kept going out at night, bringing home the girls. Not allowed.” She smiled. “James Henry. Young and talented, but too immature. As arrogant as Aaron. Thought he was Henry James and that it would be easy. He chafed under Aaron’s rules. Told him to stay out of his personal life. They had a fight over the weekend, and Aaron tossed him out on his gifted behind.”

      “This is not in the police report. Did you see the fight?”

      Maggie shook her head. “All I told them was what I knew about Monday night. It was an accident, remember? As to the fight, I was at church with a couple of the others.” Fletcher raised an eyebrow, and Maggie scowled at him. “Don’t look so surprised, Fletcher. Not everyone who comes out of New York is decadent.”

      Fletcher wiped his mouth, her words triggering a memory of a morose Aaron after his breakup with Maggie.

      “She even got me going to church again.”

      “What? And the roof stayed up? No lightning strikes?”

      “Humph.” Aaron shook a smoldering cigar at Fletcher, scattering a few ashes. “You’re not the decadent you’d like people to think. It wouldn’t hurt you to darken the door of a church again.”

      Fletcher brushed the ashes off the table to the floor. “What makes you think I don’t go?”

      Aaron smirked. “’Cause I know you, and I know why you don’t go. And that hasn’t changed.”

      Fletcher looked away. He didn’t want to talk about it.

      Or think about it now. He cleared his throat. “Did anyone see the fight?”

      “I doubt it, unless Tim overheard something. You could ask him. There are times I think he overhears everything. The fight did happen up at the lodge. Jamie, as you can see, left in a bit of a hurry. You’ll probably find leftover pizza in the fridge.”

      Fletcher frowned. This was too easy; she was leading him somewhere, and it wasn’t where he wanted to go. “Who’s been here the longest?”

      Maggie got up and peered into the bathroom, then winced. “I’ll see if the cleaning folks can’t get here sooner. And the microwave will probably be safer than the stove. We didn’t expect to move anyone in here for a week or two.”

      “Maggie…” Fletcher nudged.

      “Scott and Lily,” she said.

      “A couple?”

      Maggie nodded. “Scott Jonas is the writer. He’s been here several years now, almost from the beginning. Lily came and went for a while, then started staying here steadily about six months ago. Scott and Aaron fought a lot, but they seemed to understand each other.”

      Fletcher stood a bit straighter. “Lily Dunne?”

      Maggie stared at him. “Please don’t tell me you’re a fan.”

      He shook his head. “No. I know Scott’s novels. Aaron had me read them. His bio said he was married to Lily Dunne. I know who she is, of course.”

      Maggie nodded, chewing a bit on her lower lip. “Lily stays here, too. It’s a bit unusual, but Scott’s almost a permanent resident. They have the largest cabin, which is closest to the lodge.”

      “Must be quiet here for her, after the lights of Broadway and L.A.”

      Maggie responded by gathering up the dirty sheets and dumping them into a bag. “You’ll get to meet them tonight. Don’t forget—dinner’s at six.”

      “Anyone else here who isn’t a writer?”

      Maggie paused. “Me. And Tim, of course.”

      Fletcher paused. Tim Miller was the retreat’s groundskeeper and the one who had found Maggie on the steps. Tyler had mentioned to him that Aaron had confidence in Tim, even though a background check had turned up a misdemeanor trespassing charge in Tennessee. Tim had said it was a political protest, something about taxes. The charge had been dismissed, and Aaron had never reported any problems. “He must help you a lot.”

      Maggie’s eyes glistened with tears. “Yes.”

      “Who else would hate Aaron?”

      Maggie looked at him. “He’s alienated dozens of writers who thought this was paradise on earth. Aaron has—had—a temper that could shatter steel, but you know that, Fletcher. You knew him. You were one of his best friends. Who do you think would kill him?”

      Fletcher looked her up and down, taking in every inch of her anger. His voice was quiet. “Anyone who despised or feared him.”

      Maggie looked disgusted. “You have a gift for the obvious.” She stuffed the bag under her arm and started out the door.

      “Or loved him,” Fletcher finished.

      Maggie paused, then looked over her shoulder. “Do you always have to have the last word?” She repositioned the bag and tramped out, letting the door slam behind her.

      Fletcher grinned. “Always.” He walked to the screen door of the cabin and watched her slender figure disappearing through the trees, wondering how much of her grief was real and how much was a calculated act. He knew she had intentionally handed him three major suspects on a silver platter, all without lying or stretching the truth, and he was aware that whomever she was protecting had probably been carefully excluded from the conversation. He sat down on his now-clean bed and took the notebook out, adding a few sharp scribbles to it, pausing only to click the pen twice. You’re playing a dangerous game, Maggie, he thought. And you’re not as good at it as you think you are.

      Aaron flopped down on Fletcher’s ancient sofa, the bottle of Green Label Jack Daniel’s held loosely in his hand. “Men should stick together, me boyo,” he said, exaggerating the fake Irish brogue he always adopted when intoxicated, or when he wanted to appear intoxicated.

      Fletcher noticed that the СКАЧАТЬ