Heather Bliss shut her laptop on her latest chapter, smiled, and stretched her hands to the dark ceiling with a soft, satisfied groan.

Johnson had just had his last, first kiss. Heather had finally figured out what kind of woman would complement his knack for finding and getting out of trouble. Yes, Hayley would be the woman at his side without hindering or distracting. And, she would keep Johnson’s series interesting by adding new elements to the story.

Now, Heather was expanding her writing. For too long she thought she wouldn’t grow as a writer, but this was her chance.

Her stomach rumbled and she looked at the clock. Two thirty-seven in the morning. She nodded and pursed her lips. She always stayed up late writing. A late night snack would be a good way to celebrate this milestone for both her and Johnson. Maybe she would get some ice cream. Strawberry with chocolate syrup drizzled on, if there was any to be had.

She shrugged into her tie-dye robe and slid her purple painted toes into her fuzzy pink slippers. Fluffing her red bangs, she opened her bedroom door and tip-toed out, creeping by the furniture on her way to the stairs. The moon was out, indirectly illuminating the sitting room through the windows on the far side.

Behind the cream-colored leather sofa closest to the landing, a writing table, which matched the coffee table in the middle of the room, stood with several books resting on top, held up on either side by sturdy black vases containing poppies.

Heather paused to look at the books. She hadn’t noticed any others in the rest of the house earlier. But then, as Greg had said, maybe he just didn’t want them to lose focus. They only had two weeks to cooperate to write the screenplay, and it would be distracting if books were everywhere. It would simply be too tempting to a house full of writers.

Leaning closer, she counted nine books of varying size and thickness. She picked up the hardback on the far left, noted that the front and back cover were plain, and tilted the book to look at the spine.

“Gail Marlow,” Heather whispered. “Huh.” She set Gail’s book back and picked up the rest. Each one had a plain cover with nothing except the authors' names and titles on the spine. Each of the books were written by one of the writers now sleeping in their rooms on this floor, with one book coauthored by Eli and Babette.

Heather smiled and set the last book down. If Greg was trying to stroke her ego, it was working. He had picked her favorite published novel from Johnson’s series, “Johnson Clifton: Black Tea Letter.” She shook her head and continued on to the stairs, wondering if he had known all of their favorite books.

On the stairs, she fingered the frame of one of the poppy paintings, thinking how nicely one or two would look in her small apartment. Of course, it was probably too big for her living space; the bold red would draw the walls together. Now that she thought about it, the flowers did make the house seem claustrophobic.

But it didn’t make much difference. Once the script was written, Heather would return to her tiny home where none of her neighbors knew her name. Most of them shied away from her in the hallways.

She shrugged. Who cared when a million dollars was within reach? That would be more than enough for her to move to a nicer apartment, maybe even her own house. And, when strawberry ice cream was involved, Heather could ignore the stares of almost anyone.

In the living room, a cool, eerie light filtered through the blue curtains over the French doors and bounced on the white walls. The poppies, dark in their frames, seemed to attack the light, sending an involuntary shiver up Heather’s back.

The air conditioner must be set too low, she thought. She just needed some ice cream. Then she could sleep soundly.

She turned to the kitchen. The round hole in the wall taunted Heather’s imagination. It was like a portal to a sterile, lifeless land, hinting at but without showing what was on the other side.

She shrugged, chiding herself. There was nothing to get all silly about. It was just a new environment.

She reached around the doorway. Her fingers touched hard plastic sticking out of the wall and flicked the light switch on.

The bright lights blinded Heather momentarily, confusing her. She thought she saw a form on the white kitchen floor. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, trying to make them adjust faster.

On the floor, with a finger-wide, horizontal bruise on her forehead was Gail Marlow.

Heather opened her mouth, wanting to move, wanting to scream, anything. But her feet were stuck to the floor, her knees stiff. She stared at Gail who looked limp and lifeless.

Managing to gasp air in her lungs, Heather sprang to Gail, dropping to her knees and landing in some melted water. She didn’t know what she was doing. She’d never learned CPR, but she’d read about it some. She jammed her fingers against Gail’s neck and waited.

No pulse.

Heather pulled at Gail’s lips, but her mouth wouldn’t part.

Heather’s heart raced and her neck throbbed with it. Gail was dead, Gail was dead, Gail was dead. What could she do? Gail was dead. “Help!”

***

Kneeling beside Gail, Eli’s shoulders drooped. He pulled his hand away from her neck and turned mournful, ice blue eyes to Heather.

She wrapped her arms around her middle.

Eli sighed. “She’s dead.”

Heather shivered and looked around, hoping for comfort from someone.

Vivian reached a hand to the black counter, her face pale and her eyes seeming unfocused. Gilbride stepped twice, turned around, and stepped again, back and forth, rubbing his short ginger curls. Jordan’s expression was hard to read. He seemed pained, perhaps frightened and agitated. Absent-mindely, Dale wiped his glasses next to his round stomach with a paisley handkerchief. Ava searched face after face, fiddling with her heart pendant.

Heather stared at the blinding floor, willing her eyes to look anywhere but at the body. She hadn’t known Gail for long, but her humility was genuine.

Eli spoke again. “It looks like she hit her head on the edge of the marble counter.” He nodded to a glass on the counter with ice in it. “Maybe while getting something to drink.”

Jordan walked over to the counter and picked up the glass. “You mean,” he looked down at the wet floor, “she slipped and hit her head because she bent down to pick up some fallen ice?”

Heather looked at him, meeting his gaze and saw his gray eyes were watering.

He looked like he was in shock mixed with disbelief.

It tore at her heart. How could this happen? A life ended so quickly and for so little.

Dale cleared his throat.

Heather turned to him.

His eyes had focused and his expression was serious, though his glasses were still in his hand. “It wasn’t an accident.”

Six pair of eyes turned to the old man. Silence begged the question that no one wanted to voice.

Dale placed his glasses on his nose and stuffed his handkerchief in the pocket of his pajama pants. “If she had slipped, she would have fallen forward. But Heather said she found her just like this, sprawled on her back.” His Texan drawl boomed in the quiet room, even though he was speaking softly. “She’s wearing grippy slippers. It’s true those can be slippery when they wear out, but look. They’re brand new. And that’s not enough water for most people to slip on.”

Eli stood up. “That’s a lot of supposing, Dale.”

“I know it. But most convincing is her head.”

“But,” Heather said, “didn’t she slip?”

Dale shook his head. “She couldn’t have hit the counter hard enough to cause a welt like that.”

“What are you saying?” Ava asked quietly.

Dale flicked his nose and cleared his throat. “I think Gail was murdered.”

Gilbride stepped up, his short frame dwarfed by Dale’s height. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

Dale’s eyes were stern. “I write historical western mysteries. More of my characters die from brawls or the elements than by gunslingers or poison. I’ve researched enough ways to kill a man with bare hands, blunt objects, and farming equipment that would straighten your hair, Gilbride Macartan.”

Gil stepped back, shrinking just a little.

“Our Miss Gail was likely grabbed from behind and rammed into the edge of the marble counter.”

***

Heather was the last up the stairs behind Ava. Everyone had argued about how and by whom Gail could have been murdered until Heather’s head spun when she looked at the swirling colors in her robe. She, Ava, and Vivian had left the men to take care of the body for the remaining few hours of the night.

Gilbride had wanted everyone to stay downstairs, but Heather couldn’t stand it any longer. She needed to escape; she needed the safety of sleep. When Jordan offered to escort the ladies to their rooms just to make sure the murderer wasn’t hiding somewhere there, her throat relaxed and she could breathe again.

Heather didn’t know what Dale, Eli, and Gilbride were going to do with the body, or how they would contact the police. She didn’t want to know. She just wanted to know that her room was safe and that the door had a strong lock.

Vivian, Ava, and Heather waited in the sitting room for Jordan to check all the rooms, which had been left unlocked. They took turns staring at each other and the furniture in the room.

Red poppies that weren’t on the walls caught Heather’s eyes. They were the ones in the bookend vases, with a gap between a vase and the books. Heather counted; there were eight books. She blinked, sure her tired eyes had seen wrong. She saw two groups of four books. No, that couldn’t be right.

She marched over to the writing desk and touched each one to count them. There were eight books.

And Gail Marlow’s was missing.