Ava clutched the tiny locket around her neck. There seemed to be a million, huge moths, flapping their wings around her stomach.


She glanced down at her watch; she was so late. Everyone was probably already there and she would be the last straggler, walking in on all the established inside jokes and claimed territory.


“Why am I even here?” she asked, looking from the towering mansion to her duffle bag laying on the ground where her driver had left it.


“I’m guessing you are here for the same reason we are,” a voice said from behind her. “To write a darn good murder mystery.”


Slightly startled, Ava turned to find a man and woman walking up a path that seemed to lead to a large garden.


“Oh…Hi,” Ava said, as she watched the couple move closer. The woman was very short and very thin and she held onto the man’s arm as if she needed his support to walk. The man, on the other hand, was tall with hard biceps that easily bore the weight of the woman.


“Hello,” the woman said, her voice carrying a wisp of a French accent muddled with her ragged breathing. She smiled. “We didn’t mean to startle you.”


“We thought we’d go for a walk. Before everyone got here,” the man said, his voice void of both ragged breathing and accent


The couple made it up the path and stood in front of Ava; still the woman clung to the man’s arm.


“I’m Babette and this is my husband, Eli,” she said, reaching for Ava with her left hand.


“Ava, Ava Long,” she said, feeling more nervous clatter in her middle. Ava reached out and took the woman’s hand. “You must be the Flynns. Eli and Babs. The Detective’s Mistress is a big favorite of mine.”


Ava reached to shake Eli’s hand next.


“So you’ve read our work?” Eli asked, sounding a bit too surprised for a man who had co-written five best sellers.


“Yes,” Ava said, giving his hand one last shake before letting it go. She felt like she was meeting the president and first lady, not just a pair of mystery writers. “I’ve read most of them. I’m a big reader.”


“We’ve read your work as well,” Babette said, straightening up and letting go of her husband. He glanced down at her with a worried look but Babs didn’t seem to notice. “We read, Arabian Summer awhile back. Very sweet.”


Ava flinched, they had read her cotton candy, romance-fluff…no wonder Eli had been surprise she had read one of their novels. Why would she have read anything remotely close to their caliber of writing?


After all, she was just the silly little romance writer who couldn’t even bring herself to kill off one character, let alone write a whole murder mystery.


Once again she wondered what on earth she was doing there, but this time she kept her thoughts to herself.


“What else-” Eli was going to say but stopped when the sound of an engine cut him off.

A small white Lamborghini roared to a stop just beside them and a tall man hopped out before slamming the driver’s door shut.

His shaven head glistened a little in the sun as he flicked off his sunglasses and smiled at them.


“Welcome,” he said, his eyes glancing at Eli and Babette then came to rest on Ava. He cocked an eyebrow and gave a half smile. “Let’s get this party started.”

****


Everyone was in the living room. There hadn’t been time for any more introductions, because ‘Greg,’ had told everyone to gather.


“There is a lot to tell and not much time,” he had said.


Ava thought that if Greg would stop staring at her and move on with whatever it was he had come to tell them, there would be time for introductions. Not that she didn’t already have a pretty good guess as to who everyone was.

Sitting (or standing) around the room were the top mystery, thriller and suspense authors of her time. She had read most, if not all of their books and the excitement was mingling with her inferiority complex in a strange way. It made her feel giddy and ready to get sick at the same time.

The group was in a semi circle with Greg standing in front of them. Everyone waited patiently as Greg’s eyes dragged away from Ava and looked to the group in general.


Feeling the weight of his stare, Ava crossed her arms over her chest. She knew that she was fairly good looking, with her full figure and long blond hair but this man’s open gawking was worse than what she was used to.


“Welcome everyone,” he said, with dramatic vibrato. “As I told some of you outside, my name is Greg.” He glanced back to Ava and she thought that maybe getting sick would win out in the end.


“As you all know, you have been asked to come here by the Lionel movie studio, to create, write, and murder.” Greg laughed and most of the group joined. All but the woman leaning against the wall, Ava was pretty sure she was Vivian LeMarque. Vivian had seemed to stiffen a little at the word. A funny response for an author of blood drizzled thrillers.


Greg straightened his bright red tie, a stunning contrast to his black shirt and suit, and continued. “The Lionel studio wants you to endeavor to do something that has never been attempted before: ten novelists collaborating to write, perhaps, what will be the most thrilling script for a murder mystery movie that has ever been produced.” His voice became very high as he finished his sentence giving it a strange sound. The words sounded stilted and awkward coming form his mouth.


“I know most of you have already introduced yourselves to each other but let’s go around the circle so that you can give your names, what you write and what sort of conditionals you have. In other words, why do you think you were invited?” With a little flare of the hand Greg passed an imaginary baton to the first person to his left.


The woman was sitting in a chair, holding a plate with a half eaten piece of pizza on it. Her cheeks turned rosy in a blush, as she tried to chew and swallow quickly.

“Um… I guess I’m first,” she said, as she tired to sit up straighter and suck in her rather plump figure. “I’m Gail Marlow. I write period, gothic mysteries, always with a ghostly twist.” She rubbed at her nose as if it itched and then went on. “I guess I was asked here because I won the Pulitzer last year for my novel, Whispers of the Raven.” Gail shrugged her shoulders as if people won the Pulitzer every day, and then glanced at the man sitting next to her; ‘tossing the baton,’ before getting back to her pizza.


“I’m Gilbride, but just call me, Gil. I write many mystery genres, but stick mostly to military and law. I also won the Pulitzer,” he said, crossing his arms and sitting up, as if to make himself look taller, though as short as he was it did little to help.


The man to his left was Micah Powers, a noir writer, who made a joke about the pizza they were eating and then mentioned a few of his novels. He acted as if they were nothing too spectacular, though they were prize winners as well.


In fact everyone in the room was a prize winning mystery writer of some fashion or another; everyone but Ava, who was neither a mystery writer nor a prize winning author.


The other list of names and genres included such giants as Heather Bliss, whose sci-fi mysteries were as imaginative as her wardrobe choices (at that moment she had a sparkly bandana tight around her head) and Jordan Sutton, a spoof-mystery writer, (and in Ava’s eyes perhaps the best looking guy in the room).


Of course Babette and Eli Flynn sat on a couch with the others. The co-authors of a world renowned detective series, looked almost like the perfect couple, with her exotic features and his strong jaw. Only the early sprinkle of gray in Eli’s hair and the circles under Babs’ eyes gave away her dark secret.


Vivain LeMarque was the woman leaning against the wall. “I guess I was invited because I am good at what I do,” Vivian said, after answering the other questions.


Dale Washington stood next to Ava. He was probably the oldest in the group, (funny since Ava was probably the youngest) and he wrote western and historical mysteries.


That left Ava. She cleared her throat. Dale smiled down at her as if to say “We won’t bite.”

“I’m Ava Long. I write romance novels and I haven’t won any awards…” She trailed off wishing to goodness she had left off that last bit.


Babette smiled at her but the rest of the room either look confused or bored. Jordan, Ava noticed, looked neither. He seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.


“And that’s everyone,” Greg said, pulling Ava’s thoughts away from the man that might end up in her next novel.


“Here are the rules of the game. There are only three. Rule 1: you can not leave the property unless given permission by me.”


Everyone in the group asked “What?”


“Yes,” Greg said. “We do not want you getting distracted. Not that there is much in the nearby vicinity anyway, but if you should get the urge to leave… Don’t.


“Rule 2: no matter what happens, keep writing. I cannot stress this enough. And rule 3: there is to be no contact with the outside world, without permission. Once again, we don’t want you to get distracted. So I am going to have to confiscate all of your cell phones right now.”


There was a lot of loud grumbling as each writer pulled his or her phone out and laid it on the large coffee table.


Greg scooped them all up and put them in a velvet bag. “You’ll get these back when you are finished with the script.”


“What about the computer?” Gail asked, “Can we use it?”


Ava watched as Gail was shot many dirty looks from various authors for reminding Greg of the computer.


“The computer is on a complex ‘parent security’ system which will block you out of all websites except one.”


“Which one is that?” Ava asked.


Greg gave her a wicked smile, obviously happy to answer her question. Ava wanted to kick herself.


“The website is a blog set up for you to use. You are allowed to write about your experience here but nothing else. The studio thought that you might like to blog about it. Remember you may answer questions from your readers, but you can not use it to contact family or friends. It will be monitored.”


“Finally, the good news. If all the rules are kept and the script is fully written before two weeks are up, then each person in this room will receive one million dollars. If the rules are broken… Well I cannot be responsible for the outcome.” Greg’s voice ended on a deep, almost threatening note.


“What do you mean?” Babette asked, gripping Eli’s hand until her knuckles were white.


“I mean, my dear writers, that you won’t be getting your money if you do not comply.”