A Murder Among Friends. Ramona Richards

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?”

      His left eyebrow cocked. “I didn’t realize we had to.”

      Maggie’s fist clutched the soaked fabric. “No, no. You don’t have to. But could you at least have the courtesy to make a little noise so you don’t scare a person half to death?”

      He scuffed his feet.

      Maggie glared at him, fighting a smile. He stared back, amusement lighting in his eyes.

      “I’m starved! Let’s get this show on the road!” Scott Jonas’s voice rang out from the back door, and Maggie blinked first, turning to look at him. Lily, his wife, followed, tripping a bit as she stepped through the door. She grabbed the door frame with her right hand, since her right tightly gripped an open bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. Maggie winced, and glanced at Fletcher, whose eyes narrowed as he looked over Scott and Lily, head to toe. His focus lingered on the bottle, and Maggie felt a chill move through her. She started forward, forgetting about the wet spot on her skirt.

      “Here, Scott, help me take the foil off the trays. Everything just got here, so it’s still hot.” Maggie opened up one tray after another, putting tongs or large spoons into each of the dishes.

      “I’m not really all that hungry,” Lily announced. “I just came because we have to.” She plucked a glass off the bar and poured the last drops of champagne into it, frowning. Then she smiled sweetly at Maggie. “Sorry, hon, looks like I’ll have to go get another one.”

      Maggie’s stomach cramped. She went to Lily and took the shorter, darker woman by the arm, speaking softly. “Don’t you think you should wait?”

      Lily flipped her long hair over her shoulder. “No,” she said, in a loud stage whisper. “Why should I?”

      Maggie closed her eyes. “Out of respect. And we have company,” she said, nodding at Fletcher.

      Lily glared at her. “Respect? Give me one good—”

      Maggie grabbed Lily’s wrists suddenly, locking eyes with her and startling the young actress. “Just because,” Maggie said firmly.

      Lily froze, then slowly relaxed under Maggie’s gaze. Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Mitten. I know he was special to you.”

      Maggie let go of her and pulled the empty bottle away. “Thank you. Please promise me that you’ll eat.” Lily nodded, looking suddenly very small and young as she sank down into a chair at the table.

      Maggie went into the kitchen and paused, staring at the bottle in her hand. Most people would look at the expensive drink with affection. It was a symbol of so many celebrations. But Maggie despised it, despised what it had done to one of the most talented actresses she’d ever seen perform. And when Maggie refused to stock it for her, Lily had it shipped in, two cases a month, storing it in the cabin. It was an image that everyone at the retreat knew well: Lily and her bottle, wandering through the morning mist, like Catherine searching for Heathcliff on the moor.

      Lily had promised she would try to cut down, but Maggie knew, all too well, that Lily used it to cope with her marriage recently—as well as other things. Maggie also knew that Lily sometimes appeared drunk when she wasn’t, just to keep Scott at bay. He hated it when she drank, and these days, Lily preferred him to be angry instead of affectionate.

      Scowling, Maggie flung the bottle into the trash, where it landed with a leaden thud. She grimaced at the sound, and she felt flushed, as if her blood were racing. Please let her be acting. She promised to lay off it tonight.

      Maggie returned to the great room, then realized that the room was much noisier. The rest of the residents had arrived and were gossiping and filling their plates. Maggie stopped, looking around.

      They sat and started eating, talking about the day’s work. No one seemed to notice Aaron’s absence. Only a day had passed, and it was as if nothing had changed, and that any minute, the tall blond man who had so captivated her a few years ago would open the door and stroll into the room with that casual lanky way he had about him.

      Maggie felt like screaming. How can you all be so callous? She stared out over the room, feeling numb again. Lily came to her, distracting her. The younger woman leaned close, whispering, “You didn’t tell me he was a cop.”

      “He’s not anymore.”

      Lily’s lips pursed. “Very funny, Mitten. Why is he here?”

      “Korie wants him to be.”

      “Korie!” Lily’s suddenly loud voice echoed, and several people stopped talking. Over her shoulder, Maggie could see Fletcher watching them.

      Maggie nodded. “Yes—Korie,” she said, in her normal voice. Stepping away, she announced generally, “Korie won’t be here tonight. She called this afternoon, and she’s going to a show opening in Boston. She’ll be back tomorrow night, and will stay until—”

      “Yeah, right.” Scott’s cynicism was undisguised. “I doubt we’ll see much of her ever again. She’s finally free.”

      Fletcher had finished filling his plate and sat down on the opposite side of the table from Scott. “Why do you say that?”

      “Who are you?” Scott asked, as he broke open the cap on a bottle of spring water.

      “Fletcher MacAllister. I’m—”

      “Judson MacLean,” Scott finished.

      Fletcher