Murder Retreat
Murder Retreat
Nora Steel 1
Nic Saint
Puss in Print Publications
Contents
Murder Retreat
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Excerpt from Purrfect Murder (The Mysteries of Max Book 1)
About Nic
Also by Nic Saint
Murder Retreat
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Three writers. Three genres. Roberta ‘Bobbi’ Boulder writes thrillers. Melody Pen writes romance. Zita Guerra writes horror. Together they write romantic suspense as Nora Steel. And inadvertently they manage to get embroiled in all kinds of mayhem while they’re at it. Solving murders and catching killers was never their intention. It just happened!
While Bobbi, Melody and Zita are holed up in a log cabin in Upswing, Georgia, hard at work on their next novel, a world-famous fantasy writer is killed three cabins over. Soon their curiosity is piqued as to who might have done such a horrible thing. And when the police start to suspect them of the terrible deed, it’s up to the intrepid trio to put their best plotting skills forward and figure out whodunit. But the killer is watching, and just might go for a twist ending…
Murder Retreat is the first book in the new Nora Steel series of humorous cozy mysteries.
Chapter 1
Bobbi tapped her pencil against the yellow pad, frowning darkly at no one in particular. When the tapping didn’t produce the desired result, and neither did the frowning, she finally threw down both pencil and pad with a groan of frustration and swiftly rose from the couch she’d been lounging on.
“I can’t do this,” she muttered, and stalked over to the kitchen.
“Can’t do what?” asked Melody, her blond head popping out from the landing.
“Plot this sucker,” Bobbi said as she yanked open the fridge and checked around for something edible. She was a voluminous woman and it took a lot of food to keep that body in the shape it was accustomed to. She saw a tub of Trader Joe’s Belgian Chocolate Pudding and grabbed it. She grunted in approval. Just what she needed right now.
Without further ado, she yanked away the cover, grabbed a spoon from the dish rack, plunged it into the chocolaty gooey goodness and stuffed it into her mouth.
Closing her eyes, she savored the delicacy.
“Leave some for the rest of us, will ya?” a voice sounded nearby.
Opening her eyes, she saw that Zita was staring at her.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she grumbled as she dug in for another spoonful.
“Do what?” asked Zita.
“Sneak up on me like that.”
“I didn’t sneak up on you.”
“Yes, you did. You sneak up on people and you scare the living bejeesus out of them.”
Zita rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
Melody, who’d come bounding down the stairs, joined them in the small kitchen. “So what’s the trouble?” she asked.
“Trouble with what?” asked Zita, now intently studying her fingernails, which were painted a glossy black, her favorite color. She was a wiry young woman with raven hair and a distinctive lip piercing, currently wearing a Lisbeth Salander T-shirt and ragged black jeans.
“Bobbi’s having trouble plotting out our next book,” said Melody.
“Oops,” said Zita.
Oops was right. In this collaboration of theirs, they’d agreed from the first that everything began with plot. Bobbi provided the plot for the books, Melody sprinkled in the romantic sizzle, and Zita added her own brand of dark suspense. But without a plot to start off with they were sunk. It was the foundation upon which the rest had to be carefully built.
“Maybe we can think up a plot together?” Melody suggested.
Zita scoffed, “Yeah, right.”
A peppy, happy blonde, Melody’s forte was romantic banter, not plotting. She was, after all, the romance author of the trio, her own novels as successful as Bobbi’s thrillers and Zita’s horror output.
Three authors working in three different genres, they’d met at a writer’s conference five years ago and had hit it off immediately. They couldn’t be more different and yet there had been an instant rapport. Hanging out after late-night karaoke the third night of the conference, they’d decided to work together, and create a joint pen name they could all contribute to. Nora Steel had been born that night, and the first novel saw the light of day soon after. A series of romantic suspense novels featuring feisty heroine Janet Lee Parker was the result, the sales of Nora Steel novels quickly surpassing their individual output.
“But if you can’t think up a plot we’re sunk,” said Melody now, her cornflower blue eyes wide. “Sunk!”
“Oh, I’ll think of something,” said Bobbi, ladling more pudding into her mouth. “Have I ever let you down before?”
“Well, there was that one time when Janet Lee broke up with Jack Black,” Zita reminded her.
“They got back together in the next novel. No harm done.”
“Readers hated us for that,” said Melody, smiling at the memory. “Hated us.”
“Readers don’t like cliffhangers,” said Bobbi. “But sales of the next book went through the roof.”
“Maybe you can kill off Jack?” Zita suggested.
Melody turned to her, her cupid’s-bow mouth forming a perfect O. “You can’t!”
“Why not? Talk about a cliffhanger. And the next book you simply bring him back.”
“Back from the dead,” Bobbi muttered, nodding. “I like it.”
“Kill Jack? You wouldn’t!” Melody cried.
“Or we could kill off Snookie,” Zita continued.
“No!” Melody cried. “Not Snookie!”
Snookie was Janet Lee and Jack’s teacup Maltese. They’d adopted him in book three and had never looked back. Now Snookie was a fan favorite. She even had her own fan club.
Bobbi grimaced. “If we kill Snookie there will be hell to pay.”
Zita grinned. “At least they won’t be able to accuse us of being predictable.”
“No,” said Melody. “I’m putting my foot down on this one. Snookie lives, and so does Jack.”
Zita sighed. That’s what you got from collaborating with a romance novelist, that sigh seemed to indicate. Always going for that happy end. In her own novels Zita liked to explore dark themes and all manner of murder and mayhem, but they’d made a pact when they first created Nora Steel: every decision had to be agreed upon by the three of them.
“Oh, all right,” said Zita. “But I think you’re being silly. A romantic suspense novel should have suspense, and what better way to create suspense than killing off a fan favorite?”
“No means no,” said Me
lody, her face a mask of determination. “As long as I have a breath in my body, Snookie will never die, and nor will Jack or Janet Lee.”
“Spoilsport,” Zita muttered.
Just then, a fist pounded the door of the cabin they were staying at, and the three friends looked up in surprise.
“Are we expecting someone?” asked Zita.
“Nope,” said Bobbi.
“Lois?” Melody suggested.
Lois was the housekeeper who kept the fridge and the larder stocked and made sure the cabin was looking spic and span at all times.
“She never comes in before lunch,” said Bobbi, frowning. She dumped the empty tub of Trader Joe’s Pudding in the trashcan and moved towards the door.
The log cabin where they were currently holed up, hard at work on the next Nora Steel novel, was located in Upswing, Georgia. Dotted with similar cabins, the North Georgian forested setting provided the requisite peace and quiet writers needed to produce their next masterpieces.
Bobbi paused in front of the door for a moment, then threw it wide. When she found herself face to face with none other than Martin SS George, the famous fantasy writer, she blinked in surprise. The bearded scribe gave her a wide grin and held up a meaty paw.
“Howdy, neighbor.”
Chapter 2
MSSG, as the fabled and much-lauded writer was affectionately called by his fans, was a bearlike presence with a Santa Claus twinkle in his eyes and signature black fisherman’s cap firmly lodged on his head. Tiny white curls peeped from beneath the cap, adding to the Santa Claus look. He pushed his wire-rim glasses up a bulbous nose and beamed at them.
Melody thought he looked exactly like the pictures she’d seen. A sweet grandpa.
“Mr. George,” said Zita, practically genuflecting before their famous colleague.
“Just call me Marty,” said the writer with a chuckle.
“I love your work,” Zita gushed. “Especially Game of Bones, of course.”
“Thanks. And I have to say I’m a big fan of your Janet Lee Parker books.”
“You know Janet Lee?” asked Melody.
“Of course I know Janet Lee. Who doesn’t? Your books have taken the writing world by storm. Three consecutive New York Times number one bestsellers? I’ve read them all and I love them. Especially Snookie. I’m a big fan of Snookie.”
“We were actually thinking about killing off Snookie,” said Zita, earning her a prod in the ribs from Melody.
Marty’s smile vanished. “Kill off Snookie? Why would you kill off Snookie?”
“Well, you kill off popular characters all the time,” said Zita with a shrug.
“That doesn’t mean you should,” said the writer, who looked visibly upset. “How can you kill off a cute, sweet, innocent little doggie like Snookie? That’s just plain cruel!”
“We won’t kill off Snookie,” said Melody. “Zita was just kidding, weren’t you, Z?”
“Actually—ouch!” Another prod in the ribs and Zita gave Melody her best glare.
“So what brings you here, Mr. George?” asked Bobbi.
“Marty, please.” He arranged his bearded visage into an expression of apology. “The thing is—I’m guessing you’re here for the same reason I am. To write a book, right?”
“That’s right. We’re hard at work on the next Janet Lee Parker,” Bobbi confirmed.
“And I’m slaving away at my next doorstopper,” said Marty, nodding. He threw a quick look over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. “See, the thing is, I got this housekeeper who keeps my fridge stocked and my cupboards overflowing. Only, somehow my wife has managed to convince her I’ve given up smoking but I haven’t.” He took off his cap, fiddled with it and gave his best impression of Puss in Boots, directing an imploring look at the three of them. “Do you happen to have a cigarette? Any brand will do. I’m not fussy.”
“I’m sorry, Marty,” said Melody. “But we don’t smoke. Do we, girls?”
As there was no reply, she turned to look at her two co-writers. Bobbi looked sheepish. “I only smoke when I finish a book,” she said. “I keep a celebratory cigar just for that occasion.”
“You smoke?” asked Melody, aghast.
“Like I said—only when I finish a book.”
“You wrote a dozen books last year.”
“So I smoked a dozen cigars last year.”
Melody turned to Zita, who was giving her a cool look. “Yeah, I smoke. So what?”
“Could you…” Marty began, and both Bobbi and Zita nodded and moved off.
Marty gave Melody a slightly embarrassed look. “You’re a lifesaver, Miss Steel.”
“My name actually isn’t Steel,” said Melody. “It’s Pen. Melody Pen. Nora Steel is the name we use when we write together.”
“Of course, of course. And a fine name it is.” He glanced beyond her at the cabin’s interior. “I see yours is slightly bigger than mine. Have you been coming here long?”
“This is our third year, actually. Do you come out here a lot?”
“Oh, yes. I do all of my writing out here. I love it. Absolutely love it. Couldn’t write anywhere else.”
He’d stepped inside and stood looking at the interior with a connoisseur’s eye. “Slightly bigger, like I thought. Then again, you are three people and I’m only me.”
“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how is the writing going?” asked Melody. Now that she was in the presence of greatness she was feeling more than a little bashful.
“Oh, fine, just fine,” he said. He was still turning over his cap in his hands and stood surveying their living quarters with a glint of amusement in his eyes. In fact from where they stood he had a great overview of the entire arrangement: the living space, with a cozy little nook in front of a large fireplace to one side and the kitchen to the other. A staircase that led to a landing and three bedrooms and a bathroom, and of course their pride and joy: a window overlooking the deck, where a large hammock greeted the weary writer.
“Pretty cool,” remarked Marty, rocking back on his heels. “How long are you here for?”
“We booked the cabin for the month. We’re hoping to finish a rough draft by then. You?”
“I’ve been here two months now—haven’t even finished two chapters. Three more to go.”
“Slow going?”
He shrugged. “It’s a labor of love. And I love the process. I’m happiest when I’m writing, actually. I dread the day the book is done.” He grinned. “Which is probably why it’s taking me so long.” He spread his arms. “What am I gonna do when it’s finished? No idea!”
“You can always write another one.”
His smile faltered. “Somehow I have a feeling this is my last one, Melody—can I call you Melody?”
She nodded. “Why would you say that? Of course this won’t be your last. You’re a writer. Writers write. There will always be a next book—and then a next one after that.”
“Sure, sure,” he said vaguely, but he was looking a little sad now. When he saw both Zita and Bobbi descend the stairs, both carrying gifts in the forms of a brightly pink e-cig courtesy of Zita and a box of fine cigars courtesy of Bobbi, he almost cried with relief.
“It’s my spare vape,” said Zita as she handed him the gadget. “I’ve never used it so it’s all yours. It’s got the cartridge inside,” she added when he opened his mouth to speak.
He held a hand over his heart. “This is more than I could ever have hoped for. My dear girl. You have saved this wretched writer’s life. And you. I love a good cigar.”
He tucked the gifts away in the pockets of his cardigan. Then he took Bobbi’s hands and pressed them warmly. “How can I ever thank you?” He reached out to Zita and repeated the procedure. “And you. I’ll be forever in your debt, Miss Steel and Miss Steel.”
“Zita,” said Zita.
“Roberta,” said Bobbi. “But my friends call me Bobbi.”
“Right. Of course.” He stood beaming for a moment. “Zita, Bobbi, and
Melody. Whenever you want to drop by my place, please do. Mi cabin es su cabin and all that.”
And with these words, he turned on his heel and strode out. And after a final kindly wave—reminding Melody of Santa Claus getting ready to mount his sleigh—he was gone.
Chapter 3
“Sweet man,” Melody said as she closed the door.
“Sweet man?” Zita gasped. “Sweet man? He’s a legend! Best writer in the world!”
“He’s a great writer, sure, but the best in the world? I don’t think so.”
Zita was aghast. “Of course he’s the best writer in the world. He’s MSSG! Have you not seen the show?”
“Actually, I haven’t,” Melody said. “Too violent for my taste.”
“Game of Bones isn’t violent. It’s real. It has blood and gore because blood and gore are part of life.”
Melody quirked an eyebrow. “Blood and gore aren’t part of my life, honey, and I hope to keep it that way.”
Zita groaned. It was hard for her to understand how anyone could be this dispassionate about the amazing Marty SS George. His oeuvre was like the bible, an inspiration to her and other writers—in fact he was the reason she wanted to become a writer in the first place. Only in her wildest dreams could she ever have hoped to meet the legendary writer in the flesh, and have him bum a vape off her! She sank down onto the tawny leather couch, her heart beating a mile a minute. This was the greatest day of her life. And she’d played it cool. She’d wanted to hug the man—to kiss that fine bearded face of his—to squeak like a fangirl—but she hadn’t. She’d restrained herself with extreme effort.