Gilbride Macartan blog post:

This isn't any good, but no one listens to me.  And Dale...I don't like the look of him.  If step in, he'll shoot me down in a heartbeat.  I've seen his gun.  He thinks I haven't, but I know he's carrying a revolver.  I saw how he looked at me earlier.  Oh, sure, he acts all friendly and country protective...to the women.  Chivalrous goat.

And Eli, too.  Eli likes to take charge, but what does he actually do?  I'm the only one with ideas.  At least, ideas that will work.

No, with three beheadings, the stakes are too high.  We need to..........Dale's coming; I can hear his boots.  I have to hide my papers or they'll find them.

Vivian heard Heather gasp.


     “What is it?” she asked, standing from where she sat on the sofa.  She was glad to move for any reason.  Ava was trembling, and while Vivian felt sorry for Ava, she could feel the other woman’s nervousness spreading to her own tense nerves and making her fidgety.


     “Look,” Heather said, pointing at the shelf.
  
     Vivian studied the books.  “They’re our stories.  That director must have put them here as some sort of joke.  What about them?”


     “Gail’s is missing,” Heather hissed.


     “Maybe it was never there,” Vivian replied slowly.


     “No, it was,” Heather insisted.  “I remember picking it up on my way downstairs.”


     “What is it?” Ava asked, coming to join them.  She had her arms wrapped around herself like she was cold.  It was chilly in the house, Vivian realized.  She hadn’t paid attention to it before.


     “Gail’s book is missing,” Vivian told her.


     “What?” Ava gasped.  She peered at the shelf.  “That’s sick,” she said.  “Who would do that?  Who
would have time to do that?  We just found her!  That’s horrible,” she finished, her voice disgusted.


     Vivian was in complete agreement with the sentiment, but something Ava said stuck out in her mind.  “Who would have time,” she murmured.


     “Okay, ladies,” Jordan announced from behind them.


     The three women gasped and whirled around.  Vivian recovered first.  Scowling, she swatted lightly at Jordan’s arm.


     “Don’t do that,” she ordered.  “You scared us half to. . . well, you know.”  She bit back on a sudden, hysterical giggle.


     “Easy, honey,” Jordan murmured, putting his hands on her shoulders.


     He looked concerned, though Vivian couldn’t figure out why.  It was almost funny, the look on his face.


     “I checked the bedrooms,” he continued more loudly.  “Everything’s clear.”


     “Where’s Micah?” Heather asked suddenly.


     Jordan dropped his hands from Vivian’s shoulders.  “Snoring away in his room,” he answered.  “He has been since he went in there.  I’m right next to him,” he added.


     Vivian rubbed her forehead.  She turned back to the bookshelf.  “Gail’s book is missing,” she said.
How odd, she thought.  Somebody took Gail’s book off the shelf because she was dead.  She was dead so her book was gone.  It was all too perfect.  Something Agatha Christie would have written into a novel.  Vivian started to laugh again.  She never laughed.  She always kept herself completely composed, kept everything private.  It wasn't anybody's business what she felt inside.  But she was exhausted and frightened and there was something so funny about that book.  She noticed the others giving her odd looks, but she couldn’t stop laughing.  Gail was dead, head smashed into a marble countertop -- why had she even been awake? -- so somebody took her book off the shelf.  Who had enough time to come take the book off the shelf?  There was something hovering on the edge of her brain but she was laughing so hard that she couldn’t focus on it.


     “Ava, Heather, why don’t you go to bed, I think it’s safe enough for now,” Jordan said quietly.  “I’ll help Vivian to her room.”


     The two women nodded and left the sitting room.  Vivian gasped, trying to suck air into her lungs.  She was trembling so violently her back was starting to hurt.


     “Okay, Vivian, calm down,” Jordan told her quietly.  “Take a deep breath in through your nose, nice and slow.”


     Vivian tried to obey, but the laughter was turning into sobs and she couldn’t manage it.  Somewhere between the laughing and the crying, Jordan maneuvered her to the couch.  She put her face in her hands and cried, for once not caring that her carefully held composure was crumbling -- and in front of a practical stranger at that.  She never fell apart, but here she was, crying like some sort of lunatic.
Jordan didn’t say anything, he just sat beside her, a hand on her back, and let her cry.  Her breath started to come in ragged gasps.


     “Okay, Vivian, you have to calm down,” Jordan said softly.  “Hyperventilating isn’t going to make you feel any better, I promise.”


     She laughed a little more normally at his quip.  Leaning back against the leather sofa, she tried to settle her brain into something like working order.


     “In through your nose,” Jordan instructed.


     She appreciated his company.  Not many men would have been that patient with her hysterics.  The poppy picture on the far wall caught her eye.


     “I keep feeling like these poppies are watching me,” she said.


     Jordan glanced over at the painting.  “They match the director’s tie,” he pointed out.  “Maybe he’s the one who decorated this place.  He seemed to have a flair for all things flashy.”


     Vivian smiled, remembering the director’s fancy suit, and the luxury car she’d seen through the window.


     “Maybe so,” she replied.  “I think he’s a creep.”


     “Agreed.”


     They sat in silence for a few moments.  Eli appeared at the top of the stairs, making them both jump.
     
     "Sorry," he told them.  "Just going to check on my wife."  He left them alone again, staring at the paintings.


     “Jordan?”


     “Yeah?”


     Vivian turned to look him in the eye.  "I know we already ran through this, all the possibilities of who could have done it, but the book makes it different.  Nobody would have had time to run up here and take that book from the shelf after we found Gail.  We would have noticed if anyone left the kitchen.”


     He watched her, face sober.


     “Someone had to take the book before Gail died.  Someone who knew about the bookshelf knew she was going to die.”


     Gil came barging up the stairs.  He glanced at them, then hurried off to his room.  Jordan turned from watching the other man to look back at Vivian.


     “We don’t know that for sure,” he told her.  “Maybe Babette or Micah took it for reading material.  Neither one of them was there when we found Gail.  It could just be a coincidence.”


     She raised an eyebrow at him.  “Really?” she asked sarcastically.


     “We can hope, right?”


     “Sounds like a fool’s hope to me.”


     He blew out a breath.  “‘Hope deferred makes the heart sick,’” he answered with a rueful smile.


     “What is that, Shakespeare?”


     “The Bible.”

******

     Jordan made his way down the stairs.  He’d managed to get Vivian to her room and reasonably settled.  She had worried him with that outburst.  Snapped nerves weren’t going to help anyone at this point.  He walked back into the kitchen.


     Dale stood looking at the floor, leaning against the counter.  Gail hadn’t been moved.  Jordan folded his arms and leaned against the door frame.


     “They’re all safely in their rooms,” he told the older man.


     Dale nodded.  “That’s good.”


     “Where?”


     Dale stirred a little, like he was waking up.  “Eli went to check on his wife.  I think Gil was just done.”


     “Can’t say I blame him.”


     “Nope.”


     “Holy--”


     Jordan turned to see Micah standing in the doorway, staring at Gail.


     “What happened?” Micah demanded.


     “You slept through a murder, that’s what happened,” Jordan told him.


     “What?”


     Dale and Jordan took turns explaining the situation.


     “Did you call the cops?” Micah asked when they finished.


     “How can we?  No phones, remember?” Dale told him.


     “What about that computer Greg told us about?  Could we use that blog to get somebody’s attention?”


     Dale nodded slowly.  “Maybe.  Not likely.  Hard to get readers on a blog, sometimes.”


     Jordan could feel himself getting frustrated with the older man’s calm and it looked like Micah felt the same.  “Well, what are we going to do with the body?” he demanded.  “We can’t just leave it, her, here,” he stumbled, gesturing at the body.


     “No, we can’t.  Would put everybody off their coffee in the morning.”


     “Are you freaking kidding me?” Micah cried.


     Dale looked at him then.  Jordan realized how Gil must have felt under the man’s gaze.


     “Son, what makes you think there’s something we can do?  If we can get the police here, they’ll be mad if we’ve moved the body.  But we can’t get the police here because we have no phones.  The only contact we have with the outside world is a blog people may or may not read.  So we’re left with a dead body and nowhere to put it.”


     “What about the director, Greg?” Micah insisted.  


     “When he comes back, we can send him to get the police,” Jordan suggested.


     “Do you trust Greg?” Dale asked quietly.


     Jordan hesitated.  “No,” he finally answered, Micah echoing his response.


     The three men stared at Gail’s body for a few minutes.


     “We should at least cover her up or something,” Jordan commented.


     Micah nodded.  “Maybe there’s a blanket in the living room,” he offered, backing out of the doorway.


     He seemed happy to walk away from the body.


     Jordan glanced around the large space as they began their search.  Vivian was right, he thought.  The poppy flowers did seem to be watching everything.


     “Hey, you notice anything weird?” Micah whispered as they moved around the dark room.


     “What?” Jordan whispered back.


     Micah pointed at the windows on the back wall.  “The curtains aren’t moving.  If somebody managed to break in, there should be a draft, moving the curtains.  But nothing’s out of place, nothing moving.”


     Jordan walked over to the back door.  “It’s locked,” he told Micah.


     The other man came over to join him.  “Looks brand new.”  He opened the door.  “No keyhole on the outside.  Just a deadbolt that locks from the inside.”  He shut and locked the door again.  “See, that’s what I’m talking about.”


     “You were talking about curtains, not locks,” Jordan muttered.


     “Same thing.  Let’s check the other doors.”


     They made the rounds, checking the rest of the house together.  Dale still stood in the kitchen when they
walked back in, seemingly lost in thought.  He looked up as they entered, though.


     “Find a blanket in your search of the house?”


     He had heard them, Jordan noted.  And paid attention to what they were doing.


     “No, we didn't find a blanket.  We didn't find anything out of place,” Micah replied.


     Dale raised an eyebrow at them.


     “All the locks are fine,” Jordan said.


     “I knew they would be.”  Micah pointed at his raven tattoo.  “I know Poe, remember?  And this thing reeks of the creepy only Poe knew how to write.”


     “Oh come off it, man, don't go getting all melodramatic," Jordan protested.  "You're gonna get all those girls up there all riled up talking like that and we're not going to be able to figure anything out."


     Micah ran a hand over his short hair.  “I think whoever killed Gail had to already be in the house,” he answered seriously.


     Jordan took a deep breath.  "We already went through this while you were upstairs snoring.  Of course we know it could have been one of us."


    "I have sleep apnea," Micah snapped.  "It is not my fault.  And I'm not saying it could have been one of us, I'm saying it was one of us."
     
     "You've got a point," Dale commented.  "It's the most likely scenario."
     
     "So we're just going to keep everybody in a state of paranoia because we couldn't find a broken lock?" Jordan asked.


     “A woman is dead.  We might need to be paranoid.” Micah replied.


     "And you're sure nothing is out of place?" Dale asked them.


     “Gail’s book is missing,” Jordan answered slowly.


     “What?” the other men asked at the same time.


     “There’s a bookshelf in that upstairs landing,” Jordan told them.  “It’s got all our books on it.
Everyone’s but Gail’s.”


     “You think whoever killed her took the book off the shelf,” Dale stated.


     Jordan nodded.  “Vivian thought so, anyway.  She said nobody could have taken it after Gail died, though.  It must have been taken before she was killed.”


     The silence in the kitchen grew heavy as the implications sunk in.


     “We never did find that blanket,” Micah said nervously.


     “You know what, you guys can find it, I’m done for the night,” Jordan told them.  “I can’t sit here and stare at a dead body any more.”


     “Go get some sleep,” Dale told him.  “We’ve all got a lot to deal with.”


     Jordan walked back up the dark staircase to his room.  Once inside, he locked the door and ran both his
hands through his hair, forcing out a breath.  He flopped down on the bed, willing the tension out of his body.  He glanced at the clock on the nightstand and groaned at the early hour.  Maybe he could get some sort of sleep in before morning.  The hours he’d had before Heather woke them up had pretty much been spent.  He closed his eyes, completely weary.

******

     Everyone was already awake and moving through the house by the time the sun rose the next morning.  Sleep had been elusive for most.  The light glared through the massive windows, bright enough to send hands up to cover eyes.  When, blinking, they could see again, they found new companions for Gail.  Vivian was on the living room floor, Jordan on the dining room table, and they found Micah in the hallway bathroom.  


     They had all been beheaded.

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.

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.”

     Vivian LeMarque slammed the taxi door shut and stared at the house in front of her.  House, mansion, villa, whatever.  She studied the grounds surrounding the home.  The lot was supposed to be over one hundred acres.  The lawn was mowed into an obsessive compulsive grid, with orange trees neatly lining the stone walkway to the door.  She could see glimpses of more fruit trees and plants behind the house.  Shifting her grip on her suitcase and purse, Vivian made her way to the door.
     Even though she was five nine, Vivian’s naturally small frame gave her an appearance of grace.  Many people told her as a child that she could have been a model with her height and slender proportions.  Instead, she focused on her creative writing classes and watching as many suspense films as her parents would allow.  Now thirty-four and a bestselling author of international thrillers, Vivian traveled the world to research her books.  She kept more things in her suitcase than in her closets at her Manhattan apartment.  The only thing she refused to do overseas was have her short, pixie-cut black hair trimmed.  She blinked her large, brown eyes as she reached the front door.  There was nothing new here.  Another house, another job to do.
     The hallway walls were white, she noted.  So were the floors.  An intricate red and gold Persian rug ran the length of the white marble floor tile.  The contrast was unsettling, she thought, the red on the white.  She frowned at her own paranoia and kept walking.
     “Hello?” she called when she reached the living room.
     The ceiling was high and vaulted, at least twenty feet high.  Ceiling fans turned lazily at the very top.  The walls were still white, and the marble floor continued throughout, but the oversized furniture was upholstered in warm browns and taupes.  There was a fireplace of black marble on the wall to her left.  Another Persian rug, this time blue and gold, that covered most of the floor.  On the back wall was a set of large French doors, with huge floor to ceiling windows on either side, all with drapes of sheer blue.  The new color palette helped Vivian relax a little bit, despite the paintings of bright red poppies hanging on the walls.
     “Hey!” a voice answered her.
     A smiling young man joined her in the large living room.  He reached out a hand.
     “I’m Jordan Sutton,” he introduced himself.  “You are. . .?”
     “Vivian LeMarque,” she replied, shaking the offered hand.
     He was a good hand shaker, she noticed.  Looked her in the eye and didn’t grip like a limp fish just out of the water.  He had thick, dusty blonde hair, grey eyes, and a handsome smile.  Perhaps a runner, she thought.  He was about six one, and wasn’t very built, but appeared to keep himself in shape.  He also had a nice tan, which would have made up for much more than he lacked.  He looked about thirty, the all-American honey sort of guy, she decided.
     “Great to meet you,” Jordan replied, smile broadening.  “Hey, Micah,” he turned to call over his shoulder.  “Come meet our newest compadre.”
     Vivian followed Jordan’s gaze.  There was a kitchen next to the living room, a divider wall with an open serving window separating them.  Jordan led Vivian over just as another man met them in the doorway, a bottle of beer in hand.
     “Hi,” he said, jabbing his own hand forward.  “Micah Powers.”
     “Vivian LeMarque.”
     This handshake was quick and firm, and Vivian was again satisfied with her current company.  Micah was at eye level with her, his husky build somewhere between overweight and solid.  His light brown hair was crew cut.  There were only a few laugh lines and crow’s feet around his blue eyes, so she pegged him at a few years older than her.  Vivian noticed a tattoo on the inside of his left forearm, a raven flapping its wings, beak open, standing on a skull.  The word “Nevermore” was written on the skull’s grinning teeth.  Her eyebrows furrowed.
     “Nice tattoo,” Vivian commented.
     Micah glanced at his arm.  “Oh, yeah, thanks,” he said cheerfully.  “Gotta love Poe, right?”  He smiled at her.
     "‘The Purloined Letter?’” Jordan commented.  “Absolutely have to love Poe for that one.  Have to admit, though, most of his other stuff is pretty twisted.  I mean, ‘A Cask of Amontillado’ and ‘The Black Cat?’”  He shook his head.  “The dude had problems.”
     “All good writers do,” Micah answered, raising his bottle.
     Vivian and Jordan chuckled.  “True,” Jordan answered.
     “We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t all a little mad,” Vivian added.
     “That’s what I’m saying,” Micah’s reply came with a smile.  “Oh, hey, we’re being terrible gentleman.  Do you want something to drink?  There’s beer and coke in the fridge.”  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the industrial sized white refrigerator behind him.
     Vivian glanced around the kitchen.  The countertops were black marble, the floor still in white.  The cabinets on the left and right hand walls were ebony colored, but every appliance — the dishwasher, stovetop, microwave above the stove, refrigerator, and the double ovens were all white.  The sink was black marble like the counters, but the faucet was white.  Red hand towels were scattered about the space.  A breakfast nook sat beyond, on the other side of a short bar with cabinets above that formed the third wall of the kitchen.  The round table and four chairs were black, the dishes set out white.  More French doors, this time with sheer red curtains, offered a view of the garden courtyard out back.  There was a wide arching doorway to the right of the nook.  She looked back at Micah.
     “I’m fine, thanks.  I’d really like to see the rest of the house, though.  Get the lay of the land, so to speak.”
     “Absolutely,” Jordan said.  "Dining room's through that door if you wanted to have a look."
     Vivian walked over to glance into the room.  It was both long and wide, which added up to massive, like the living room and kitchen.  This table was rectangular, glossy black wood, with matching chairs.  The chandelier was elegant crystal, but not so bold as to be garish.  A white marble fireplace on the lefthand wall flowed into the continuing marble floor.  No Persian rug, but an intricate gold table runner with red and blue accents stretched the length of the table.  The places were already set with red and white china and red crystal wine glasses.  Poppy flower paintings covered each wall.
     "Pretty cohesive design theme," she commented to the men as she returned to the kitchen.
      They both laughed.
     "I'm so glad it bugs somebody else," Jordan replied.  "Doesn't stop there, either.  Here, let me help you with your suitcase, and I’ll give you the tour as we go.”
     Micah nodded.  “Better you lugging anything upstairs than me.  One suitcase was enough,” he chuckled.
     Jordan and Vivian walked back into the living room.  He pointed to a hallway off the left side of the living room.
     “There’s a computer room in there,” he told her.  “Toilet down past the kitchen.  That’s it for the downstairs.”
     He led her to the large staircase at the front of the house.  At least the stairs weren’t white marble, Vivian thought, as they climbed.  More pictures of  poppies lined the wall as they went up.  The stairs turned twice, so when they reached the top, they were facing the back of the house again.
     Vivian was thankful for the plush ivory carpet along the upstairs hallway.  There was a landing, also carpeted, directly in front of her.  The back wall was nothing but windows, shedding light onto two plush ivory couches, sitting chairs, a mahogany coffee table, and more poppy paintings.   To the left and right of the sitting room was a row of doors.  There didn’t seem to be anything else to the second story.
     “These are all the bedrooms,” Jordan told her.  He pointed to the first door to the right of the sitting room.  “That one’s yours.”
     There was a discreet nameplate on the white painted door identifying the room as hers.  She stepped inside.  The color scheme in the bedroom matched the sitting room — shades of cream throughout, from the fluffy bedspread to the curtains on the back wall of windows.
     “Where are the bathrooms?” she asked.
     “Oh, right there,” Jordan answered, nodding to the right as he came in behind her.
     She walked over and found a whirlpool tub, glassed in shower, and more white marble for the floors and the sink.  Apparently luxury had been the main focus for the house.  The bath towels were red, she noticed.
     When she came back out, Jordan had settled her suitcase on top of the dresser on the left hand wall of the room.  There was a flat screen television embedded into the wall above the mahogany dresser.  He turned to smile at her.
     “I’ll let you get unpacked and settled in,” he said.  “Micah and I were thinking about making an executive decision to order pizza for dinner.  You in?”
     “Sure,” she told him.  “I like veggie toppings.”
     “Veggie, got it.  I’ll let you know when it gets here.”  With a final smile, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
     Walking to the back of the large bedroom she opened the curtains to peer outside.  The bedroom reached all the way to the back of the house, she realized, as she found herself looking down at the backyard.
     The interior designer might not have had much imagination, but the landscaper was magnificent.  A stone courtyard with flower beds and small trees stretched into a neatly kept garden of walking paths, fruit trees, and both tropical and domestic flowers.  It looked like a garden that belonged in a European estate, not a California mansion.  She left the curtains open so she could enjoy the view.
     Turning from the window, Vivian opened her suitcase and began sorting clothes into the dresser drawers.  After the first few tops, though, she stopped and looked around the room again.  There was something about this place that bothered her.  She couldn’t put a name on it, but the whole house left her unsettled.  Finally deciding what was bothering her, Vivian walked around the room, pulled every poppy painting off the wall, and stacked them in the closet.
     She had felt like they were watching her.