A Murder Among Friends. Ramona Richards

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      A local restaurant catered the retreat’s evening meals. Every day Maggie would help them set the trays of food on the counter separating the kitchen from the open and airy main room of the lodge, and the writers would go down the buffet line. Today was no different. As the restaurant workers left, Maggie started the coffeemaker, set out plates, napkins and glasses, then pulled assorted soft drinks, carafes of tea and Scott’s requested spring water out of the refrigerator.

      She looked over the spread once more, then frowned. Three of the coffee cups were missing. She found one in the dishwasher, and she washed it and put it on the counter. She crossed the lodge to Tim’s room, knocking softly. He occasionally took coffee to his room after breakfast.

      There was no answer, and she pushed the door open slowly. She hated invading his privacy; this was his home, too. Tim had only been here a few months, but he was as much a part of Aaron’s “extended family” as she was. She, for one, was grateful for Tim’s patience. They’d lost two groundskeepers before due to Aaron’s temper.

      Tim’s room smelled faintly of machine oil and freshly mowed grass, but it was relatively neat. A computer that she had given him took up most of his desk, surrounded by printouts from landscaping sites and veterans groups. I didn’t know he was a veteran, Maggie thought. She tried not to look at the other papers, already feeling like a spy.

      The two missing cups were on the nightstand, and Maggie grabbed them quickly and hurried back to the main room. She washed them, put them on the counter then checked over the table one more time. Sighing, she poured herself a cup of coffee and plopped down on an overstuffed couch in front of the fire, grateful for a few minutes of peace.

      She looked around the room, feeling a melancholy sense of pride in what she saw. The A-frame lodge had been Aaron’s idea, as had many of the rules for the retreat. But the rest had been hers. She’d moved into the house when it was newly finished, still smelling of fresh wood and paint. She’d decorated it, shipping in some items from New York. Others were from local artisans. In addition to the main room, there were five bedrooms and a game room with a big-screen television in the basement. An extensive library and computer had been set up in the main room’s loft. A laundry and kitchen, which were open for anyone’s use, were at the beginning of the north wing, with her office on the other side of the main room from the kitchen at the end of the south hallway. One of the bedrooms was for visitors, with one each reserved for her, Tim and Aaron. The fifth one was reserved for one of the writers, and was a perk that was assigned on a first-come, first-deserved (in Aaron’s opinion, of course) basis. Currently, Tonya Marino, who had been at the retreat for almost two years, lived there, but she was so quiet and reserved, Maggie often forgot the young writer was even in the house.

      Maggie had done it all, but the main room was her true source of pride. The room was perfectly square, with floor-to-ceiling panes of glass on the front and back walls and heavy oak paneling on the others. A fireplace interrupted the glass on the back wall, as did a door that led out onto the wooden deck. The sitting area Maggie had arranged in front of the fireplace was cozy and filled with fat pillows and thick throws to hold off the chill of the New Hampshire winters. The dining table, which could seat fifteen, was near the front, where the sloping front lawn could be seen during meals. That wall also let in the best sun of the day and gave the residents a view of gorgeous sunsets in good weather.

      The colors throughout the house were rich and dark, more masculine than feminine, and the art of both sculptors and painters from the nearby town of Mercer dotted the walls, adding a dramatic brightness to the atmosphere. This was Maggie’s home as well as her workplace, and she cherished each piece. And she was terrified she was about to lose it all.

      When Korie inherits…The thought was a weight in her head that both hurt and angered her as well as adding to her confusion. What would I do? New York was no longer home. She loved this place more than she’d believed she could. She loved Mercer, with its conservative yet artsy ways. The reserved but loving people there. And Cookie. She’d made a lot of friends here, far more than Aaron, who had stayed to himself, and Korie, who was seldom around except on the occasional weekends. Maggie swirled the coffee around in her cup, watching the brown liquid lap up the sides. A few drops spilled over. She watched them hit the hardwood floor, but she didn’t care. Why should I care about anything?

      “Should I get you a mop?”

      Maggie leaped to her feet, sloshing the coffee down the front of her skirt. “Fletcher MacAllister! Don’t you ever knock?”