The Corpse in the Cabana

by Shéa MacLeod

  “Yeah, he waited until after we had four kids and a mortgage to play the jackass,” Maggie snapped.

  Lu giggled. “It’s true! He made a right fool of himself mooning over That Woman.” She said it as if “That Woman” was a long-standing term for Veronica. No doubt it was.

  “So, what happened?” I begged, watching Veronica sashay across the terrace toward a group of reps who seemed rather stunned at her appearance.

  “I can’t believe Cat invited That Woman,” Maggie hissed.

  “You know how Veronica is,” Lu reminded her.

  “Well, Cat should have warned me.”

  We all made sympathetic noises, but Lucas and I were more interested in the story. “Come on, Lu,” Lucas said, dropping his author persona and returning to the more interesting man I was familiar with, “spill...more.”

  “All right!” she laughed. “Maggie and Bill had been married for ten years, and Maggie had just finished her first novel when Veronica came back into our lives. She acted like nothing ever happened. She was always bringing people expensive gifts, taking us out to lunch, throwing parties. You see, turns out she’d gone off and married some man thirty years her senior. A very rich man. When he died, he left her everything. Believe me, it was a lot.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Why did she come back if she was so rich? She could have gone anywhere. Done anything.”

  “True,” Lu said, “but some people get stuck at some point in their lives, and they can’t move on. I suspect that Veronica was stuck on besting Maggie. But she covered it up well.”

  “Boy, did she ever,” Maggie muttered.

  “What’d she do?” I asked, trying to hurry the story along. I wanted the juicy bits.

  “She acted interested in my writing,” Maggie said. “So I showed her the manuscript.” Her expression darkened. “The only copy.”

  I could see where this was going. And it wasn’t good. That would have been years before the advent of soft copies and emails. Likely, the single hard copy would have been Maggie’s only proof she’d written the thing.

  “I’m guessing she monkeyed with it. Made it look like she wrote it,” I said.

  Maggie nodded. “You’d be right.” “Veronica took it to a publishing friend in New York and got it into print under her own name before Maggie even knew what happened,” Lu said.

  “Lesson learned,” Maggie bit out. “Should have kicked her narrow backside when I had the chance.”

  “You should have sued her,” Lucas said.

  Maggie shrugged. “I had no proof. I was out of luck.”

  “And your husband?” I asked.

  “Darn fool fell head over heels.” She shook her head. “Was gone before I knew what happened.” Then she grinned evilly. “Veronica made him miserable. Tried to come back. Turned him down flat.”

  “Where is he now?” Lucas asked.

  “Heart attack. Five years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, feeling awful for Maggie.

  “Don’t be. Got what he deserved. Me? I made more money writing mysteries than I ever would have romances.” She seemed fine with it, but I wondered if she really was. That was a hard thing, having a friend steal your work...and your man.

  Something clicked. If Greta were to be believed, Natasha stole someone’s work. And I doubted it was a stranger. I had a feeling whoever it was had been close to Natasha. But whom? Boy, did I want to see that manuscript.

  Chapter 18

  To Catch a Thief

  THE PARTY WENT LATE, but I begged off around eleven. This whole adventure was making me tired, what with the jet lag and the murders and whatnot. Cheryl happily stayed behind to hang out with Max. I wondered wearily if I was seeing a romance in the making. Maggie and Lu stayed at the party, too. Maggie wanted to see what her archenemy was up to, and Lu was keeping an eye on Maggie “in case she goes postal.” Lucas was nowhere to be seen. Schmoozing in his author persona, no doubt.

  It was nice to get my pajamas on, take off my makeup, and curl up in bed with a good book. For once I needed the quiet. I was feeling a little overwhelmed by everything.

  I hadn’t been in bed long when there was a knock on the door. “Do you know what time it is?” I snarled without getting up.

  “Yes. But I think you’ll find it worth your while.”

  Lucas Salvatore. With a growl, I tossed back the duvet, climbed out of bed, and jerked open the door. “This had better be good.”

  Gone were the khakis and Hawaiian shirt. He was in a pair of worn jeans that fit him like a glove and a soft, gray t-shirt. Frankly, he looked good enough to eat.

  “Believe me, it is.” He held up a thumb drive.

  I frowned. “What’s that?”

  “Natasha’s last book.”

  “How the heck did you get that?” I asked, dragging him inside.

  He laughed. “Hey, I have my ways. I just had a nice chat with Greta, and she agreed to let me see the manuscript, but only if it couldn’t be traced back to her. Hence the drive.”

  “Gimme.” I snatched it from him and padded down the hall to the living area. Turning on the light, I flipped open my laptop and inserted the thumb drive. I quickly opened the files. The only thing on the drive was a single manuscript titled Lovers Lost.

  “Doesn’t sound terribly exciting,” I said with a frown.

  “Greta assures me it is.”

  I started reading the first chapter, Lucas leaning over my shoulder to read along. I was keenly aware of his presence. The way he smelled, the heat coming off his skin. If I wasn’t careful, I could easily fall for Lucas Salvatore. And wouldn’t that be silly? I didn’t have time for romance. Especially what would no doubt be a long-distance one. Besides which, I was still a murder suspect.

  After a few pages, I knew what I was reading. “There is no way Natasha wrote this,” I said. “I’ve read her drivel.” I considered it a good policy to stay on top of the best-sellers in my genre. “This isn’t even close to her style. The phrasing. The words the author uses. It isn’t Natasha.”

  “Do you recognize it?”

  “No,” I admitted, “but I think I know who will.”

  “Who?”

  “The one person who knows Natasha’s writing better than anyone.”

  “Piper Ross,” he said.

  I nodded. “Do you think maybe this is what I saw Yvonne and Greta arguing about? Surely Yvonne knew this was a plagiarized book. She worked with Natasha too long to be fooled. Perhaps Greta was uncomfortable with it or something.”

  He shrugged. “Makes as much sense as anything. Maybe you’ll know more once you talk to Piper.”

  I cleared my throat and folded my hands primly on the table, suddenly nervous. “It’s a little late to go banging on her door. How about a glass of wine?”

  His grin widened. “Sounds like a great idea.”

  I pulled a bottle of cabernet sauvignon from the cupboard. I’d picked it up at the local grocery store the day I arrived. Not my favorite label, but then I preferred Pacific Northwest wines, snob that I was. I made short work of the cork and, after pouring out two glasses, joined Lucas in front of the Juliette balcony overlooking the sea. It was a perfect night: warm, but not overly humid for once, with a nice breeze coming off the ocean.

  “Are you always this determined?” he asked, eyes dark pools in the moonlight. He leaned against the wrought-iron railing, the wind teasing his dark hair. Man, I wanted to run my fingers through that hair. I bet it was soft as silk.

  I gave myself a mental shake. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this murder thing. You seem almost obsessed with it.”

  I shrugged. “Wouldn’t you be if someone accused you of being the killer?”

  “I suppose I would be, but I admit I’d probably leave it to the professionals. They’d figure it out eventually.”

  I snorted. “Maybe, but I’m not going to count on it.”

  “So are you this determined in other aspects of life?”

  I t
hought about that a moment. “I suppose. I mean, my writing certainly. I always wanted to be a writer ever since I was a kid, but I never did much about it. Not for years. Once I decided to go for it, I did. Full out, no holds barred. I figured if I was going to try it, I was giving it everything or nothing. So I gave it everything.”

  He nodded. “That I can understand. What about...relationships?”

  I gave him a sideways glance. What was he getting at? “Depends on the relationship, I guess. Some are easy. Like Cheryl and me. We’ve been friends for years. Get on like a house afire. It’s easy. Others, not so much. Some really aren’t worth the effort.”

  “Sounds like you speak from experience.”

  “I do,” I said, but my tone put an end to that part of the conversation. He obviously got it because he changed the subject.

  “How’d you two meet? You and Cheryl.”

  I grinned. “Writers’ conference in Vegas. Oh, we’d talked online for a couple years before that. One of those writers’ groups where people try to encourage each other and exchange information and whatnot. But Las Vegas was the first time we met in person.”

  “Sounds like a story.”

  I laughed. “Oh, it is.” The shenanigans of that week were legendary in our small circle of writerly friends. “But it’s a story for another time, I think,” I said, glancing at my watch.

  “Sorry.” He set down the empty wine glass. “I didn’t mean to keep you up so late.”

  “No worries,” I said with a smile. “I just want to attend the first class of the morning. It’s on what’s hot in historical romance. Eight o’clock comes rather early.”

  “Sounds right up your alley,” he said with a smile.

  I walked him to the door feeling suddenly fidgety and awkward. My heart was pounding in my throat, and I felt overly warm for the chill of the air-conditioned room.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Viola,” Lucas said, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. I shivered as his fingertips skimmed the side of my neck. He leaned down to brush his lips across my cheek, only I started and his mouth landed on mine instead. I could have melted right there on the spot. “Sorry,” he murmured, pulling back. Was it my imagination or was his move on the reluctant side?

  “Uh, don’t be,” I said, trying to get my brain back in gear. His kiss had left me...breathless. Fuzzy headed. And a little dizzy. And it had only been the merest brush of lips. What if he kissed me properly? Talk about nuclear meltdown.

  He gave me a lopsided grin. “Tomorrow.”

  I nodded, and he was gone. Out the door and melting into the night.

  I SPENT THE REST OF the night tossing and turning, unable to think of anything but the sort-of kiss between Lucas and me. It had been a long time since a man had affected me like that. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I was used to being alone. Used to making my own decisions. I wasn’t sure I wanted a man mucking up my life.

  I told myself not to be ridiculous. After all, Lucas hadn’t even meant to kiss me on the mouth. He’d meant to kiss my cheek, and cheek kisses didn’t mean anything. I was getting way ahead of myself.

  By five a.m., I finally gave up and took a quick shower, downed a cup of coffee and a carton of yogurt, and threw on another maxi dress. This one in more demure shades of brown and teal. Then I made my way to the resort business center. It was a matter of minutes to plug in the thumb drive and print off a few pages of the manuscript.

  By the time I finished that, it was only seven o’clock. The class started at eight. Would it be considered rude to visit Piper this early in the morning? Probably, but frankly, I didn’t care. I was on a mission!

  Fortunately, I needn’t have worried about waking Piper. I found her at the lobby bar, working on a massive mug of steaming hot coffee. She looked as sleep deprived as I felt.

  “No Jason today?” I asked cheerfully as I slid on the stool next to her. I indicated to the bartender that I’d have what Piper was having.

  “It’s not like we’re attached at the hip,” she growled, not looking at me. There were tight brackets around her mouth which I hadn’t noticed before. I could see dark circles under her eyes and the clench of jaw muscles.

  Okay. Not a morning person, then. Or maybe something else was going on.

  “You going to the eight o’clock?” I asked.

  She grimaced. “I’m not here for the conference. Or didn’t you realize that?” Her tone was snippy. I resisted the urge to snipe back.

  “Ah. Jason brought you as a...ah...companion. Maybe to make Natasha jealous?”

  “Idiot. Why are men always such idiots?”

  I didn’t answer that. For one, I figured she wasn’t looking for an answer. For another, I didn’t think she’d much like what I had to say on the subject.

  “Piper, I have a favor to ask you.”

  She gave me a glower. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” I slid the pages I’d printed across the bar. “I was given a copy of Natasha’s last book. Here are a few pages. You know her work better than anyone. Tell me what you think.”

  Piper heaved a long-suffering sigh, but curiosity must have gotten the better of her. She picked up the pages and began to read. She wasn’t even halfway through the first page when her face went first white, then red.

  “Why, that—”

  ”Bitch?” I offered helpfully.

  Piper nodded emphatically, her nostrils flaring with hatred.

  “So, it is stolen,” I said. “I’m guessing you’re the one who wrote it.”

  She turned toward me, eyes wide. “How’d you guess?”

  “Your reaction. I mean it was clear Natasha didn’t write this. I’ve read her work. No way she came up with this. It’s too beautiful. Too emotional.”

  Piper perked up, looking almost chipper for the first time since I met her. “You really think so?”

  “I know so. Why didn’t you try to get it published? Or publish it yourself? It’s clear you have the talent.”

  The anger was back. She shoved the papers at me. “Natasha. I thought she’d give me good feedback, you know. She is, was, a best seller, after all. And it was before me and Jason.”

  I nodded in encouragement, carefully sipping from my own mug.

  “Instead, she told me it was a piece of garbage, and I should give up the ludicrous dream of writing.” Piper’s jaw tightened. “I might have known she’d steal my work. This is pretty much word for word.”

  “You didn’t know about it, then?” I found it hard to believe, but then again Piper wasn’t Natasha’s PA anymore. Plus Natasha could be sneaky.

  “Of course not, or I’d have sued the—”

  “Bitch,” I finished.

  She sighed. “Natasha would have probably gotten away with it. I don’t read her drivel anymore since it’s not my job. She knows it, too. Knew it. She could have published this, and I would have never found out. But why? She makes millions. Why would she steal my book?”

  “Because it’s good. No, scratch that, it’s amazing.” I had a feeling Piper was telling the truth. She really didn’t know Natasha had stolen her work.

  She flushed. “Thanks. But I guess good only gets so far.” She sighed again.

  “Natasha’s publisher was going to publish this under Natasha’s name,” I said. “They clearly want the book.”

  “Yeah. Because they think Natasha wrote it. Natasha’s name would sell a takeout menu.”

  I pondered that. “True. But they have to know how good it is. I know some people. Let me talk to them. Perhaps something can be worked out. Or, if you prefer, you could always self-publish. That’s how I make my living.”

  “You’d do that for me?” She seemed a bit suspicious. Couldn’t say I blamed her.

  “Of course,” I assured her. “I’m not one of those writers who believes other writers are my competition. There’s plenty enough to go around, believe me.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a small smile, sipping her massive mug of coffee.
<
br />   I nodded and returned to my own coffee. I didn’t let her see my disappointment. Because if Piper hadn’t killed Natasha for stealing her story—which she didn’t because she didn’t even know it had happened—then I was back to square one.

  Chapter 19

  Something Wicked this Way Slithers

  THE TALK ON TRENDS in historical romance—yes, I know how ironic that sounds—was as interesting and informative as I hoped it would be. I even got to meet some of my fellow historical romance writers, whom I’d only talked to online or whose books I’d read and admired. I was feeling particularly star struck as I met Maisie Williams, basically historical’s version of Natasha Winters. Except Maisie was gracious, humble, and totally hilarious with her broad New Jersey accent and layers of silk shawls and jet beads. I wasn’t sure if her hair was real or a wig, but it was big and blond and tightly curled in a way that hadn’t been “in” since the eighties. She wore another silk scarf tied artfully in a band around her forehead. She looked like an old carnival fortune teller. I half expected her to whip out a tarot deck and offer to read my fortune.

  I told her I’d enjoyed her latest book and how big a fan I was. She squealed in excitement and, in a loud, nasal voice to rival Maggie’s, said, “Sweetheart, I love it. You made my day.” Only “sweetheart” came out more like “sweethaht” and “day” had at least one extra syllable.

  Maisie patted me on the back and launched into a story about the time she met her own author heroine, Dame Barbara Cartland. “You wouldn’t believe it,” she said, slapping me on the shoulder, “but she was a lovely woman. Lovely. No airs or graces at all. So genuine and down to earth, you couldn’t help but just love her. Of course, she had her opinions, let me tell you, and she wasn’t exactly the pillar of feminism, but really, such a character.”

  I finally extracted myself from Maisie and headed back to my room for a nap. I had two hours before the next class I wanted to attend, so I’d decided to catch up on some much-needed sleep. All this investigating really took it out of a person.