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“Is that why you’re doing this?” she asked. “Because he was your friend?”
Fletcher looked directly at her, locking her in his gaze. “Partially. Are you grieving only because he was your friend?”
Maggie’s eyes widened, and she felt her anger building again. “Am I a suspect?”
“So you don’t really think it was an accident.”
Anger flashed through her, a raw combination of grief and the denial she so desperately wanted to hang on to. She stood up, tossing the handkerchief into the woods. “Aaron fell! And you will not try and convict me in my own home!” Turning on her heels, she started back toward the lodge.
He called lightly after her. “Yes, Maggie, I will.” She stopped but did not turn. “If you’re guilty.”
Fletcher watched her stomp away, unaffected by her anger. She was fighting against the truth too hard, as if she knew someone had killed Aaron, yet she didn’t want to believe it. He released a deep breath. It wasn’t an uncommon reaction to the murder of someone you love, but there were more facts that bothered him than just her behavior. According to the police report, she’d found Aaron, but she had not called the police. The groundskeeper, Tim, had called them after he’d found Maggie next to the body. Fletcher wanted to know why Tyler Madison, the local police chief, had blithely overlooked that. The amount of blood indicated Aaron had died on the steps, but the body had been moved, rearranged to make it look like a fall. Taking a deep breath, he stood up and pulled a small brown paper bag from his coat pocket. He stepped over a few broken branches and lifted his handkerchief by one corner, bagging it carefully. DNA, he thought casually, can be handy to have around.
As he turned to go back to the lodge, he could still hear Maggie crashing in the leaves. “Maggie Weston, you are most definitely a suspect,” he muttered, as he followed her wide swath through the trees. “Right now, everyone who was here last night is.”
Maggie slammed into her office at the south end of the lodge. She paced, her anger seething but with no outlet. How dare he! How dare he accuse me of killing Aaron? He has no right here! None! Tyler has ruled it an accident, and Aaron is gone. Why couldn’t Korie just have accepted that? She didn’t love him—Maggie stopped abruptly, her mind caught on a thought.
Love.
When she’d first met Fletcher five years ago, she and Aaron had been in the blush of love. They hadn’t seen each other since. Does Fletcher think I killed Aaron because he didn’t love me anymore? Maggie sank down in her office chair, her manager’s brain kicking into gear. It was a motive. And not a bad one. And it might keep Fletcher off guard long enough—
That’s illegal, girlfriend. It’s called obstruction of justice. And immoral. And against your beliefs. Maggie sighed at the nagging inner voice. God’s finger. But it’s not evidence, she insisted to herself. Not really. “And aren’t some risks worth it?” she asked aloud.
A knock on her door brought her attention back around, and she called out for her visitor to enter. Fletcher opened the door and was followed into the office by Korie. They sat in the chairs on the front side of the desk.
“I want Fletcher to stay here, in one of the cabins,” Korie announced, expertly swinging her blond hair back over her shoulder. “Surely you have one that’s empty. It doesn’t look right for him to keep staying with me, and I want him to get to the bottom of this. And I want you to call Chief Madison and tell him you’re behind it as well. He cooperated with Fletcher about the reports, but he’s acting like you’re queen of the estate and he’s deferring to you.”
Silence.
Maggie looked from one to the other, and she knew they were waiting for her to protest. After a moment, she opened her center desk drawer and pulled out a key with a numbered key chain on it. She tossed it lightly at Fletcher, who caught it with no effort. “Number four,” she said, handing him a map and a brochure. “You might have to clean it. The previous occupant left this weekend after a fight with Aaron, and I haven’t had a chance to get the cleaning service down there yet. The map will help you get around the estate, and the brochure will familiarize you with our routine.”
She paused and looked at Korie. “I’ll call Tyler as soon as you two are out of the office. I’m sure he’ll be more deferential to you, Korie, when he realizes how much you’ll inherit.”
Korie froze and Fletcher’s eyebrows arched. Maggie started her mental list. A mad writer who left in a huff and a wife who will inherit. No lies, but a bit of mud on the picture. Maggie felt a tightening in her gut, and she glanced briefly at the Bible on the corner of her desk. It’s worth it, she thought insistently, her faith at war with her loyalty.
Korie stood, muttering under her breath, and turned to leave. “Come on, Fletcher, I’ll help you get settled.”
Fletcher got to his feet, watching Maggie. He said quietly, “You go ahead, Korie. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Korie slammed the door behind her, but neither of them jumped. Fletcher turned and went to the window near her desk, staring out. Maggie turned in her chair to watch him. There was mud on his pants that he had not bothered to brush off and a leaf stuck to the back of his coat. But there was nothing sloppy about his movements or his intentions.
Maggie blinked first. “What do you want?”
“What risk is worth it?”
Maggie stood and went to his side. “Is eavesdropping part of your job?”
He was still looking out the window. “When necessary.”
“So do you just expect me to blithely confess that I know something about Aaron’s accident that I’m not telling you?”
Fletcher turned to face her, and Maggie was surprised by the intensity in his eyes. He stepped closer, and Maggie wanted to look away but didn’t dare. He loomed over her, his height and closeness overwhelming her. She took a deep breath in an effort to remain calm and only succeeded in inhaling a scent that was purely masculine, acrid and intense, like freshly tanned leather. She trembled as he leaned forward and whispered at the side of her face.
“Don’t do this, Maggie. We both know he was killed. We both know that someone moved his body so it would look like an accident. And I promise you I will find out who and why. Whatever—or whoever—you’re hiding is not worth it. Understand?”
Maggie let out her breath, her voice shaking. “Perfectly,” she whispered back.
He stepped back and smiled. “Fine,” he said, his voice light. “Then we’ll get along famously.” He turned and went to the door.
“Dinner’s at six,” Maggie said firmly. He stopped and looked at her, puzzled. She tilted her head back, regaining as much pride as she could. “Since you’ve been staying with Korie, I thought you might not know. Everyone at the retreat eats dinner in the lodge. Every night. It’s required. One of Aaron’s little dictates. Everyone who’s on the property, no matter who, eats at the lodge at six. He thought it reflected small-town life. You can meet everyone then. But I hope you’ll be gracious enough to talk to them about Aaron in private.”
He looked her over, nodding in agreement. “I will,” he said, and he shut the door behind him.
Maggie let all the air out of her lungs and sat back down in her chair, her legs unable to hold her any longer. She reached out and stroked the edge of her Bible. Is deception always wrong? Isn’t it allowed, she thought, to protect your own family? She wanted to believe she was right, but every fiber of her body seemed to twitch. Leaning her head on her desk, she let the tears flow one more time.
Fletcher ignored Korie’s protests and went out the back door to stand on the deck. He needed to be alone and he needed fresh air. He inhaled deeply, relishing the late-afternoon chill that stung his nostrils.
She had smelled like sandalwood, all spicy and sweet. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the way her auburn hair had clung in small curls to her shoulders and the gentle curve of her neck. He was also struck by her almost unnoticeable glances at the Bible on her desk. Clearly, her morals, her faith, were playing hard on her heart, which tugged at something deep in the back of Fletcher’s mind, a sensation he had ignored for a very long time.
Fletcher opened his eyes and leaned heavily against the deck rail, gazing out over the November landscape, wondering if he should bow out now. His gut still ached from knowing his best friend lay on a morgue slab, and he had never expected the impact Maggie’s emotion would have on him. Her strength, her grief, drew his attention right away, and now he fought the idea that she was involved in Aaron’s murder. But her anger hid something that ran deep, and all of his experience, all of his instincts, told him that she knew who the murderer was. Or she thought she did. Fletcher knew he had to get his own grief back under control if he was going to find any answers at all.
Because Maggie Weston was grieving not just for Aaron but for the person who had killed him. Fletcher just hoped that it wasn’t her.
TWO
Judson was meticulous, insisting especially on a spotless kitchen in which to cook the gourmet meals he cherished. Three maids in the last year had quit, unable to live up to his requirements.
Fletcher dumped the clothes out of his hastily packed bag onto the rumpled bed and sorted them into piles of clean, dirty and suits. He hung the suits in the tiny cabin closet, then dumped the clean pile into one drawer of the dresser, the dirty into another. He sat on the squeaky bed, trying to ignore the smell of sour food and stale sweat in the cabin, and pulled a small notebook and a pen out of his jacket to look over the notes he’d taken so far. As he went through the list, his left heel bounced nervously against the floor, and the pen clicked as his thumb snapped up and down on its release.
Aaron Jackson’s body showed that he had apparently died from a severe blow to the right side of his head, crushing his temple. He had been discovered by the estate manager, Maggie Weston, around midnight Monday, lying facedown on the back steps of the lodge house deck. His head was on the last step, his feet near the top. She was found about half an hour later by the groundskeeper, Tim Miller, sitting on the steps beside the body in total shock. He and another resident, Scott Jonas, had to carry her inside.
The pen clicks picked up speed as he went down the list, and he paused, taking a deep breath, looking at his left hand. This is harder than I thought it would be. Even the pen brought back sharp memories that threatened to break through Fletcher’s tightly restrained emotions. Aaron had hated the clicking pen, recognizing it as one of Fletcher’s control mechanisms. The older man’s voice echoed in his head.
“Why don’t you go ahead and just lose that Scottish temper, me boyo? Emotions are good! They make life more intriguing.”
“I’m a cop. I can’t get emotionally involved with my cases.”
Aaron clucked his tongue. “So you’re made of steel, are you?”
Hardly, Fletcher thought, forcing his heel to stay flat on the floor and his feelings for Aaron to the far reaches of his mind. He took a deep breath. “Focus,” he murmured, looking down at the notebook again.
Fletcher’s brief examination of the body at the coroner’s showed that the wound to Aaron’s head was rounded—not flat or sharp—which was the impression a step, or the edge of a step, would have left. His body position was also odd and not that of a man who had fallen down steps. Bits of blood had been found approximately six feet out from the deck, with a few smears between that had been hastily covered. The wound was dotted with tiny bits of some material the ME couldn’t identify and contained almost no sign of wooden slivers. The coroner’s preliminary findings had confirmed this. They were still waiting on a final report.
Fletcher underlined his next note. So he was murdered and the body moved. No accident. Now, why would anyone want him dead? Fletcher took a deep breath and stood up, stretching, an odd weariness in his bones. He hadn’t slept well while he was at Korie and Aaron’s. Aaron was a midnight prowler, and Korie never seemed to shut up. No wonder Aaron spent dinnertime at the retreat with his writers and Maggie.
He frowned. Korie and Maggie. Both had been involved with Aaron, and the contrast between the two women was so stark that it was ludicrous. Korie, the flamboyant flirt, was the wild party child in New York and a restless, wandering artist here in New Hampshire. Maggie was stronger, more reserved. He remembered meeting her five years ago, when she and Aaron had been lovers….
Fletcher stood very still, a memory reaching through. An argument. Maggie and Aaron. About their relationship. Well, what else do couples fight about? But this had been different. How? Had Maggie still loved him? Was she jealous of Korie? Maybe. But Fletcher couldn’t remember anything else, and he shook his head to clear it.
He sat back down, turned the page in his notebook, clicked the pen twice and started another list. “Who would hate him enough to kill him?” he asked aloud.
“The list is endless,” Maggie said from the doorway.
Fletcher stood, his eyebrows raised. “Is eavesdropping part of your job?” he asked.
She smiled wryly. “When necessary.” She carried a large paper sack. “I brought you some things I thought you might need, since you aren’t one of our regular guests. They usually come prepared.” She set the bag on the desk and looked around at the small room, which had a tiny kitchenette in one end. The furnishings were simple: a desk with phone and computer ports, two comfy, overstuffed chairs, a bed, a dresser, a small eating table with two chairs. Maggie frowned at the bed.
“I brought clean sheets, for starters.” She began emptying the bag. “Jamie left in something of a hurry, and he was notorious for being a slob. I found an extra phone in one of our guest rooms, so you won’t always have to use your cell. Some of them won’t pick up a signal here, anyway. And I’ve got towels and soap.”
Fletcher stood back as she started stripping the sheets, wrinkling her nose. “Jamie was also notorious with the local girls. I just hope I don’t find one tied up in the bathroom.”
“No, it’s clean,” Fletcher replied. She paused and looked up at him, doubtful. He shrugged. “Well, not clean exactly.”
She laughed and tossed the dirty sheets into a pile. “I called the cleaning service and they should be here this afternoon. I’m sure Korie made promises to help, but she wouldn’t know which end of a broom to hold.” She grabbed the clean sheets and shook them out. Fletcher tucked his notebook back in his coat and reached to help her. “Thanks,” she said. “There’s a washer and dryer at the lodge if you need it. Have you looked over the brochure?”
Fletcher shook his head, watching Maggie peripherally as he shoved the corners of the sheets under the mattress. Pleasant, but too efficient. Too cooperative. What are you up to, Maggie?
“There aren’t a lot of rules around here,” she said, her voice taking on a routine note. He could tell she’d given this speech before. “But the ones we do have are enforced without fail.” She tucked a pillow under her chin and slid on a case. “One, everyone eats dinner in the lodge. Nights out have to be prearranged. You are on your own for breakfast and lunch. There are several restaurants in town, or you can keep groceries here, as long as you keep the place clean. No personal visitors except at the lodge, and no overnight guests who are not spouses. Aaron’s library, as well as the local public library, is available for research, and we ask that you make any long-distance calls from the lodge. There’s also an Internet connection, if your service doesn’t have a local number. There’s no long-distance service available in the cabins. We also keep up with the ones that are business and the ones that are personal. You won’t be charged for business calls. Cell phones, of course, are permitted, but they are not allowed at the dinner table.” The pillow landed on the bed with a fluff of scented air, and she went to the closet for blankets, her voice maintaining its monotone. “Please keep the thermostat at seventy-two degrees. You can come and go as you please, as long as you maintain the required production quota for the week. Aaron reviews everything on Saturday, so make sure you—”
Maggie froze and her eyelids fluttered. “You’re not a writer. Sorry.” Fletcher watched as she blinked away the glassiness from her eyes and took a deep breath. She crossed her arms over her stomach and bit her lower lip. Fletcher thought again about the two women who had loved Aaron Jackson so passionately. Korie, told of Aaron’s death, had wailed and flailed for an hour or so, with nothing but polite tears since. Maggie’s grief ran deeper, more consuming, and it looked as if it was going to last for a long time.
He gave her a moment, then spoke softly. “Tell me about the production requirements. Were they harsh?”
Maggie took a deep breath and seemed grateful. She nodded, sniffed and spoke evenly. “Yes. The application to get in here discourages most writers from even trying. They must have at least one mainstream novel published, with more than five thousand copies sold, with good reviews. They have to produce at least two short stories or a hundred pages of a novel a week, with a rough draft of a book, play or script per quarter. Flighty temperaments—and that covers a lot of writers—aren’t allowed. Aaron’s philosophy was that you were here to work, not be trendy. He also encouraged them to form critique groups, which meet in the lodge. He didn’t expect everything produced to be perfect—or even good—but you had to show you were serious about the work.”
“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.
