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“Yes. We met at a reader event, hit it off, and formed the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club.”
Joyce’s daughter came out from the kitchen bearing a handled shopping bag. “Are you sure you don’t want me to put it together for you?”
“No, I have a beautiful tray at home, and it’s easier to carry the ingredients in a bag, but it smells amazing,” said Fiona, reaching for the bag.
“Okay. I put most of it in boxes to protect it, and the fruit I put in plastic containers. You didn’t ask for fresh cranberries, but we got some beautiful ones grown locally in, so I made a cranberry/apple chutney and some cranberry/orange scones.”
“Thanks, Bette. That sounds wonderful,” said Fiona.
“Here you go, Fi. I figured you’d need a strong shot to get you going. I knew you weren’t opening the store until this afternoon. It’s so nice of your friends to be here to celebrate your new book and do a reading from the new book. I know people who have taken the day off just to be there.”
“I hope so. I hope everyone has a good time, and I really appreciate you offering to supply the snacks and coffee.”
“I figured the last thing you needed to worry about was making goodies and running your coffee machine.”
Even though Fiona offered homemade treats and operated a self-serve Keurig for free coffee, she and Joyce did not see each other as competition. Joyce ran a full-service coffee bar and small bistro, and Fiona just offered a serve yourself pod coffeemaker and homemade scones and muffins. It was done on an honorary donation system, and the proceeds went to the local animal rescue.
“You know me too well,” laughed Fiona, lifting her to-go cup to Joyce and Bette and heading back to her place.
The streets of Angel’s Rise were shrouded in fog as Fiona scurried down Coach Way. Dressed in shlumpy clothes, no makeup, and with her hair in a messy bun, nothing about her appearance suggested she had begun to write the vibrant murder scene she’d just finished in her latest wolf-shifter detective novel.
It was said that to even find the small town nestled against the rocky coastline of Maine beneath the benevolent eye of Angel Falls, one had to be already looking for Angel’s Rise, as it wasn’t on the way to anywhere.
Darting down the alleyway that ran between her bookstore and one of the myriad of antique and architectural salvage stores that lined the street, she stopped, looked up the steep stairs that led to her second story loft, and sighed. Taking a long swig of the chocolatey goodness that was her triple shot, extra chocolate with chocolate shavings espresso, she reminded herself that her characters and story were waiting, as was the inventory in the bookstore below. And she still needed to get everything set up for the girls this morning and the reading later in the day.
Trudging up the stairs, Fiona had to stop to catch her breath. She really needed to get in better shape.‘You’ll need to stop drinking me,’mocked the delicious liquid in her mug.
Shut up.These days, while the stairs were steep and long, they at least no longer seemed insurmountable. It didn’t help that she was carrying her cup of coffee as well as some of the food she would need for the gathering of the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club. The reader event in Kennebunkport might have been a disaster for some—Sandy Parkinson in particular—but for Fiona, it had introduced her to the three most important people in her life: Lori, Christie and Jessica.
Finally unlocking the door to her loft, she looked around. She had a lot of work to do. Later today, she would be hosting the second meeting of the Club. She had taken a large chunk of her savings and a week from her writing to renovate and redecorate her writer’s retreat, as she liked to call it. Neither it, nor the lakeside cottage she had her eye on, would ever rival Jessica Murdoch’s place, but she hoped in the not-too-distant future she would at least be able to afford to buy the cottage she’d always wanted—one that overlooked the falls. She would then offer her current living space to other writers who needed a place to create their first or next masterpiece.
She was just putting the final touches on the food—fruit, bagels, ham, lox, and sausage, fresh-made scones and other pastries as well as butter, jam, cream cheese, cranberry chutney, and clotted cream to serve with them. Her Keurig was set up and ready to go, her teakettle was boiling, and she had fresh apple and orange juice as well as Diet Coke.
“Knock! Knock!” called Christie Crofton, opening the door. “God, I love that about these small towns in Maine—nobody locks their doors.”
“Well, we do at night, but during the day, not so much,” rejoined Fiona with a laugh.
“Don’t let her kid you,” said Jessica Murdoch, pushing past Christie, “she doesn’t lock hers at night anymore, either. Lori’s running a little late and wants to know if you need anything. I told her one of us would let her know.”
“Help yourselves ladies, I had some munchies brought in for this morning, and we’re going to a great new restaurant for lunch—my treat.”
“You shouldn’t have,” said Jessica.
“Oh yes, she should,” said Lori, joining them. She hoisted a bottle of champagne, waving it in the air. “Have you seen your ranking this morning?Shifted Silenceis sitting at number one in several of the Zon’s mystery categories as well as some of the paranormal categories and number 121 overall.”
The fact was, Fiona hadn’t checked since the book had come out. There’d been a time when she was absolutely obsessed with rankings, but that time had long passed.
Fiona was shocked. “Are you kidding me?”
Lori opened the champagne with a distinctive pop. “Get me some glasses. Respect must be paid. Not only are the rankings great, but the reviews are glowing. Nothing but five stars.”
Fiona shook her head. “Oh my god. I could never have done this without you guys.”
“Bullshit!” said Christie. “We agreed to solve cold cases and act as each other’s critique partners. Celebrating is way more fun!”
“Lori is right. Where do you keep the champagne glasses? Respect must be paid,” laughed Jessica.
Fiona reached up and opened the cupboard above her fridge, where she kept the last four of a set of eight vintage champagne flutes. They poured champagne and spent the morning toasting and snacking without discussing any of the cold cases until Fiona’s phone reminded her of their lunch reservation.
