A Murder Among Friends

by Ramona Richards

  After cleanup, Lily had brought her dessert, wanting to chat. She said that Fletcher had eaten with them, but didn’t say much and had left right afterward. Maggie wasn’t in the mood to talk and had gently asked her sister to leave. Lily insisted on sleeping on the couch, and now Maggie could hear her gentle snore, something she’d done since she was a child.

  Maggie was disappointed, and she didn’t like that she was. She’d actually hoped to see Fletcher that evening, to find out if he’d discovered anything else about Aaron. She fidgeted with the sheet, running the edge of it back and forth through her fingers, as she told herself that’s all it was. A desire for information.

  She let go of the sheet and pressed her hands flat against the mattress. She pushed down, her breath coming a bit more rapidly as she thought about waking up earlier that day, realizing he was in the room. He’d been watching her. Lily had said he had sat in the chair in the corner almost from the time the ambulance had brought her home.

  Why? Why wasn’t he out trying to catch the bad guys? Maggie closed her eyes.

  Because he feels it just like you do.

  Maggie opened her eyes and sat up. Impossible. Absolutely impossible.

  All things are possible….

  Maggie laughed softly, as her memory was jogged by one of her favorite Bible verses. She glanced at her nightstand, then frowned. Where was her Bible? She looked around the room, but it wasn’t in sight. Focusing a bit, she remembered that she’d left it in her office. She stood up, fighting only a touch of dizziness, and reached for a robe.

  The office was at the end of the hall on the same wing, so she padded quietly down, then shut the door before turning on the light. She sat at her desk and pulled the Bible close, folding her hands on top of it, closing her eyes. Lord, she prayed, give me peace about this, no matter what happens now. Help me with my feelings about Aaron. And Fletcher. And show me the wisest thing to do.

  There was a twinge in her gut as she realized that what was wisest might not be what was best for Lily or the retreat. A wave of stubbornness went through her, her desire for what was right in torment with the behavior of her sister and her longings to keep the retreat safe and intact.

  “Trust God.”

  Maggie’s eyes opened slowly, one of her mother’s most repeated phrases echoing in her head. She’d heard it all her life, so often that when she and Lily had taken a detour through another faith in their teens, this one phrase stuck with them, eventually bringing Maggie back to the church. Maggie crossed her arms and tucked her hands in tight, trying to stop their trembling.

  Trust Him.

  A warmth flowed over her, and Maggie began to relax. A peace. She looked up at the ceiling. “I will,” she said aloud, “but this may take more guts than I’ve got.”

  Trust Him.

  She nodded and looked down at her Bible. Unfolding her arms, she reached for the cover, then stopped, her attention suddenly caught by the light beige filing cabinet in one corner of her office.

  It was Aaron’s, a storage spot for whenever he decided to work here at the retreat. He kept it locked, but the spare keys were taped to the back of the cabinet. He kept one set on his key ring, and she’d asked him about the other set. He’d told her to do whatever she wanted with them.

  “You’re the only one who knows, and I trust you. I know you’re not going to open that without my permission. It’s one reason I hired you.”

  Maggie could still hear his voice in her head. At the time, she’d felt flattered. Now she wondered if it wasn’t just his way of telling her what a dupe she was. She got up and went to the cabinet. She pushed on it a couple of times to rock it away from the wall, then slid her arm behind it, pulling the tape and keys off the back. She inserted one into the lock and popped it out.

  The first drawer held submissions from the retreat’s writers. Each file was labeled with the writer’s name, a date and a title. She flipped through them idly; everything looked normal. The second drawer held more of the same. The third drawer held mostly office supplies, which she had insisted on after one of his raids on her desk.

  “It all comes out of the same pot, Mitten,” he said, using Lily’s nickname for her derisively.

  “It’s not about money. It’s about respect. And expectations. When I leave a binder clip in my desk, I have a right to expect it to be there when I need it.”

  “All right, all right,” he said, clearly humoring her. “I’ll keep a stash of my own.”

  Aaron had once been so open with her, so sweet to her, that she’d worried if he was being wise. Over the past few months, however, he’d become withdrawn, angry, often ridiculing her for things he’d once found charming, like her attention to detail, her closeness with Lily. What had been going on with him?

  Maggie closed the drawer, a scowl tightening her lips. Why hadn’t I seen the changes in his behavior more clearly?

  A flash of light caught her attention and she turned, her breath caught in her throat. A man stood outside her window, glaring at her.

  SEVEN

  That the man was Fletcher MacAllister was the only thing that kept Maggie from screaming. Relief flooded over her as she recognized that scowl, and she slumped in the closest chair, grasping her throat. Relief…followed by anger.

  She got up and went to the window. Unlocking it, she lowered the upper sash, which put her at eye level with the tall detective. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Are you seriously trying to scare me to death?”

  He spoke at almost the same time. “Are you insane? What are you doing sitting here with the lights on and the blinds up?”

  They stared at each other, anger radiating between them.

  Maggie blinked first. “I always have my blinds up. Who would see?”

  Fletcher’s shoulders slumped a bit. “Maggie, you’ve got to get over the idea that this place is safe. It’s not. You have no alarms, no secure locks. And just over twenty-four hours ago, someone tried to kill you. Most women wouldn’t even be venturing out of their bedrooms.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “If you’re not Judson,” she said evenly, “then I’m not most women.”

  He stared at her, his voice softening. “Just be careful. All right?”

  She nodded, and he glanced over her shoulder. “Find anything interesting?” he asked.

  How long had he been watching me?

  She crossed her arms over the tight feeling in her stomach. “It’s mostly just the writers’ stuff. Aaron kept all the weekly submissions here.”

  Fletcher’s eyes locked onto hers, his face smooth, blank. “Are you sure? Sometimes something that looks innocent—”

  “I’m sure,” she insisted.

  “Will you keep looking? Let me know if you find anything?”

  She nodded, and he stepped away from the window.

  “Close the blinds,” he said softly. “And go back to bed.” He turned and slipped into the dark.

  Maggie closed the blinds but didn’t go back to bed. There was no way she could sleep. Her nerves were raw from Fletcher’s unexpected visit. Instead, she turned back to the filing cabinet. Sitting on the floor next to it, she reached for the handle on the fourth drawer, her mind still on the man at the window. Her mind kept turning over and over one thought: She’d never lied to Aaron, but he still had not truly trusted her. Fletcher did, and it was a trust he had purposely, intentionally, extended.

  Why?

  Understanding hit her with a sharp blow, and her body sagged, her hand dropping away from the drawer handle. Fletcher wanted her to be innocent. She leaned against the cabinet and closed her eyes. “Lord,” she said aloud, “show me how to honor that trust. How do I do what’s right by him? By Lily?” Her breath eased out of her in a long sigh. “And Aaron?”

  She was innocent. So was Lily. It would come out. She had to trust in the truth.

  With a new resolve, Maggie inhaled deeply and pulled open the fourth drawer. It held only a file, a white business envelope and a bulky nine-by-twelve-
inch envelope. She lifted out the file, which held notes in Aaron’s own peculiar shorthand, what looked like a list of dates and times, and an airline ticket to Aruba. The ticket was in the name of someone she’d never heard of: Chris Taylor. Does Korie have a brother? Or a sister? She put the file back and grabbed the white envelope. The return addressed was from the U.S. Department of State and it was addressed to Chris Taylor at a post office box in New York.

  It was a passport. With her picture.

  Maggie’s hands were shaking as she replaced it and pulled out the bulky envelope. Somewhere down deep, she already knew what it held. Pinching open the clasp, she peered in.

  Cash. And a lot of it. Six bundles of hundreds. A quick count showed it was sixty thousand dollars, an airline ticket out of the country…and a passport. With my picture. In my office.

  A hysterical rasp of laughter escaped from Maggie as her eyes stung from fresh tears. The truth? “What’s the truth in this?” She felt lost all over again. Surely, surely there was some way to prove that it wasn’t hers. That she was not the one preparing to flee the country. Why would Aaron have those things? She turned to look at the Bible on the corner of her desk, knowing she’d have to tell Fletcher about the passport and the money. “You got any ideas, Lord? Help!”

  Fear and anger still clutched Fletcher’s gut as he walked away from Maggie’s window. It wired him, and he clenched and unclenched his fists as he headed back to his cabin. How could she be so stupid?

  A night owl by nature, Fletcher had been walking the woods, going over in his mind all he had learned, when he’d seen the light snap on in her office. Thinking her attacker might be responsible, he’d crossed through the woods at a trot until he was close enough to see that it was Maggie. Furious, he’d planned to rap hard on the window, intending to scare her as much as possible. She had to understand her danger.

  Then he’d seen her sit, her eyes closed, hands folded over what was clearly a Bible. Was she praying?

  “And she prays, too.”

  Fletcher looked at Aaron over the top of his coffee mug. Aaron always insisted on a morning after at the local coffee shop, at a time when most men would have been in bed, nursing the remnants of a hangover. “Come again?”

  Aaron stirred his latte, grinning. “A new one on me, huh? All the lovelies in the world want to crawl up in my bed, and I fall for one who prays.”

  “Yeah, that could explain it.”

  Aaron cut his eyes toward his old friend. “Explain what?”

  Fletcher couldn’t help but smirk. “Why this one is under your skin when the others barely manage to get under your covers.”

  “Bah!” Aaron took a swig, grimacing at the burn. “If they dress like tarts, they’d better get used to being treated like tarts.”

  “The feminists must love that one.”

  Aaron sipped this time, then shook his head. “They don’t know. I could say it out loud and they’d think I was just parroting something from the books. These women, they all think they know me. They have this image of me they’ve made up based on the stuff I’ve written, as if my fiction were me.” He shifted in his chair and leaned closer to Fletcher. “Do you remember when I had Judson investigating Buddhism to help him with the murder of the girl over on East 42nd?”

  Fletcher didn’t.

  “Mandala Mayhem? Number fiv—” Aaron stopped and waved his hand. “Never mind. The point is that after it came out, I found out I had an entire cadre of fans who thought I had become some kind of tree-hugging Buddhist.”

  “I guess they haven’t seen you sneaking into the back of that church in Tribeca.”

  Aaron leaned forward conspiratorially. “Shh…you want me to lose my card-carrying liberal status?”

  Fletcher almost snorted his coffee. “They just don’t know how you vote.”

  Aaron sat up straight. “Which is a good thing, but that’s not the point. These women…they make it up as they go along. They have this image of me…all I do is go along sometimes. They get what they want.

  “And you get…”

  “All I can handle,” Aaron said.

  “I hope you’re not expecting sympathy.”

  Aaron laughed. “Hardly. But maybe a few prayers.”

  Fletcher set his coffee aside. “For you or Maggie?”

  Aaron saluted Fletcher. “Both. Maggie…no tart, that one. But she also trusts me, and we both know that’s not always a good thing.”

  Fletcher stopped, and looked around at the darkened woods as if coming out of a trance. He’d been so lost in the memory that he’d passed by the cabin, and he glanced up at the moon through the splotched canopy of leaves. At the time, he’d thought Aaron was talking about fidelity. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “Mr. MacAllister?”

  Fletcher whirled, his knees bent, his gun drawn in an instant.

  Tim, the young groundskeeper, threw up his hands. “Whoa! Sir, it’s just me.”

  Fletcher let out a long breath and straightened. “Tim. What are you doing out here?”

  “My rounds.”

  Fletcher frowned. “What?”

  “You know. For security. Every night about this time, I make a round of the property, make sure everything is okay.”

  “I’m glad you told me. I’d hate to hear you for the first time outside my window.”

  Tim laughed. “No, sir. I’m pretty quiet. Comes from hunting a lot as a kid, I guess. You learn to step so you don’t let them know you’re around.”

  Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “A handy skill.”

  “Yep. And it’s good to know you have that gun. Didn’t know if you had one.”

  Fletcher straightened. “The gun was mine, not department-issued. I also still carry my handcuffs along with my PI license, and some pepper spray. Never know when you’ll need them.”

  The younger man nodded. “I can understand. In your line of work, I guess you have to be prepared.” He gestured to the east. “Did you get lost? Your cabin is that way.”

  “Thank you,” Fletcher said, his eyes still on Tim. “I appreciate the help.”

  Tim shrugged. “No problem, sir. But I need to move on. Miss Maggie likes me back in the house before midnight.”

  “I can understand,” Fletcher murmured as the young man saluted him, then loped off.

  Fletcher looked at his watch—11:45 p.m. Tim had interrupted his train of thought, but he still knew what he needed to do. He pulled out his cell phone. Yes, it was late, but someone should be at the police station. He needed Aaron’s keys.

  Maggie fell asleep at her desk, her head resting on the Bible, on the side of her face not hit by flying splinters. A white-gold ray of sun through a crack in the blinds awoke her, and she rubbed her neck as she straightened up. Standing brought an involuntary groan as stiffened muscles tingled and clenched. She shuffled toward her room, toward her ibuprofen. She could hear Lily in the kitchen, humming and banging pots. She got the drug, then stood and watched her sister a few moments.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you would make a great mom?”

  Lily jumped and almost dropped the butter. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  Maggie frowned. “Why do people keep asking me that? I’m not an invalid. What are you doing up?”

  Lily grabbed a skillet and gestured toward the other wing of the lodge. “Since we have a guest, I thought I’d make breakfast. How are you feeling?”

  Maggie shuffled over and sat down on one of the bar stools. “Rough. But there.” Lily poured her a glass of juice, and Maggie drank it quickly. The sugar boost began to brighten her almost immediately.

  “Coffee?”

  Lily slid her a cup and pointed at the coffeemaker. “So what brings you out if you feel that bad?”

  Maggie poured the coffee, then stared at the dark brown liquid. “Can I ask you a strange question?”

  Lily broke several eggs into a bowl, then picked it up and started scrambling with a whisk. “Sure.”

  “Do you know a Chris T
aylor?”

  Lily set down the bowl and stared at her sister. “Where did you hear that name?”

  “So you know her?”

  “Aaron, right? You got it from him.”

  Maggie cleared her throat and drank. “More or less.”

  Lily shook her head. “I knew that old man couldn’t keep a secret.”

  Maggie raised her eyebrows, waiting, and Lily let out a deep breath. “Chris Taylor is a part I’m considering.” She shrugged. “You know, maybe to get back on my feet a bit. Small part, big film. My agent sent it over a few weeks ago.”

  Maggie grinned, wincing slightly from the effort. “Lily, that’s great! When will you know?”

  Lily resumed breakfast prep. “I called him, you know, just after…” She gestured toward the back deck. “All of this has sort of woken me up, I guess. Anyway, he’s going to set up a meeting, and we’ll see.”

  “So tell me about the part.”

  “Small, keep that in mind. She’s a socialite, pretty well-known, but in a horrid marriage.”

  “Art reflecting life?”

  “Hush. Anyway, she plots to get away, fake passport, all that, and disappears to some Caribbean island. It’s a key element in a mystery, and I’ll be seen mostly in flashbacks.” Lily bounced as she slid a pan of biscuits into the oven. “I told Aaron about it, but swore him to secrecy, since I hadn’t decided. I didn’t want anyone to know, especially Scott. I can’t believe he told you.” She stopped, then sighed. “Or maybe I can. You guys were close.”

  “I won’t tell anyone. Promise. It’ll be our secret.”

  Lily grinned, then turned to the stove, sending up a sizzle and column of steam as she poured the eggs into the hot skillet.

  Our secret, Maggie thought, and Aaron’s twisted sense of humor. Maggie took a deep breath, a new resolve settling over her. Maybe Aaron hadn’t been killed because he was disliked. Maybe he’d been killed because he’d been hiding far too many secrets. Time to find out exactly what those secrets were.