A Murder Among Friends

“Or loved him,” Fletcher finished.

Maggie paused, then looked over her shoulder. “Do you always have to have the last word?” She repositioned the bag and tramped out, letting the door slam behind her.

Fletcher grinned. “Always.” He walked to the screen door of the cabin and watched her slender figure disappearing through the trees, wondering how much of her grief was real and how much was a calculated act. He knew she had intentionally handed him three major suspects on a silver platter, all without lying or stretching the truth, and he was aware that whomever she was protecting had probably been carefully excluded from the conversation. He sat down on his now-clean bed and took the notebook out, adding a few sharp scribbles to it, pausing only to click the pen twice. You’re playing a dangerous game, Maggie, he thought. And you’re not as good at it as you think you are.

Aaron flopped down on Fletcher’s ancient sofa, the bottle of Green Label Jack Daniel’s held loosely in his hand. “Men should stick together, me boyo,” he said, exaggerating the fake Irish brogue he always adopted when intoxicated, or when he wanted to appear intoxicated.

Fletcher noticed that the bottle was open but still full, and he wondered if it was the first bottle…or the second. He went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee anyway, hoping to distract his friend from the whiskey. “You aren’t going to try to convince me you have women problems, are you?”

Aaron wagged his finger in the air, at no one in particular.“I am not as much the ladies’ man as my publicist would have the world believe, dear Fletcher. It is far more hype than history.”

Fletcher returned to the dimly lit living room and sat opposite Aaron in the sagging leather recliner he refused to get rid of. “So those thousands of women you’ve dated…”

Aaron shook his head. “Less than a hundred, I promise.”

Fletcher laughed. “More than most men can claim. Or would want to.”

Aaron sat up and peered at the bottle, clearly wanting to take a swig. “Well, most men could claim a bit of love along the way.”

Fletcher leaned back in his recliner. “If you’re expecting sympathy from me, you’re going about it in the wrong way.”

Aaron shook his head. “Nope. No sympathy. Just want to crash on your couch tonight. Don’t feel like driving back up to the retreat.”

Fletcher frowned. “What about the apartment? Korie—”

Aaron laughed abruptly. “Korie?” He paused and finally drank from the bottle, but the swallowing seemed painful and he grimaced. “Korie is…Korie is ‘en salon’ tonight. She couldn’t care less.”

“‘En salon’?”

Aaron put the bottle on the floor, lay down on the couch and propped his feet up on one arm. “Holding court with all her ‘artistes.’ She has illusions she’s the reincarnation of Mabel Dodge. Has dreams of re-creating a salon society and influencing the art world the way Dodge did a hundred years ago. They are all over the apartment. She won’t miss me until it’s time to order something, pay for something or tip someone for carrying something she’s bought.”

Fletcher was silent. After a moment, Aaron sat up. “I’m going to be sick now. Can I still stay?”

“As long as you want.”

Aaron laughed again as he headed for the bathroom. “Judson, my dear fellow, you may regret that offer.”

Fletcher grimaced as the door shut. Judson, the one name he hated hearing, the one name Aaron teased him with the most. It was going to be a long night.

The night turned into a week, and Korie had never once called or checked up on Aaron once during those seven days. Aaron’s anger and disgust at his wife dulled to a quiet cynicism, and at the end of the week, they had returned in separate cars to New Hampshire. Now she stood to inherit everything. If—and it was a big if—Maggie was right.

Fletcher threw his notebook on the bed and opened the door. Gazing up toward the lodge, he could see Maggie on the deck, looking in his direction. After a moment, she walked down the steps and disappeared along one of the trails. But if Korie were the killer, why would Maggie protect her? They hate each other. Fletcher smiled wryly. Perhaps, Maggie, me dear, you’ve muddied the water more than you realize.

Her feet cold and her mind numb, Maggie tramped through the woods behind the lodge again. She’d tried to do her job, had called the restaurant about tonight’s dinner and the cleaning service for Fletcher’s cabin, but nothing else. Her anger and grief of the morning seemed to have faded away, but it left nothing behind except a nagging twinge of guilt. Work should be her therapy, but she felt frozen, and everything in her office reminded her of Aaron. Thinking some cool air might help, she had gone out on the deck, then realized she just wanted to walk. She’d started down one of the trails, then left it, wandering aimlessly at first over the soft ground, relishing the last of the tiny white and purple wildflowers that dotted the ground in between spots of bright orange fungus on the tree roots. This land had been farm country until about seventy-five years ago, so the trees were relatively young and sparse, allowing for a lot of undergrowth. Maggie liked spotting new plants and trying to identify them, making almost every trip a bit of an adventure. She stopped, pulling a slice of bark off a birch tree. Breaking it into tiny bits as she looked around to get her bearings, she realized she was gradually heading west toward the edge of the property and an old logging road that only had one destination: Cookie’s.

Cordelia Holokaj, but all her nieces and nephews called her Ciotka Cookie. Maggie had found the Hansel-and-Gretel cottage on one of her first escapes into the woods to get away from the flaring temperaments of the retreat’s writers. Cookie had taken her in, served her hot chocolate and fresh gingersnaps, and told her stories from the world wars that made the retreat’s resident writers sound like poor amateurs. Cookie’s had been her retreat ever since.

The cottage always smelled like wood smoke, ginger, fresh bread and cabbage, and today was no different. Maggie stepped across the threshold and inhaled, much of her tension flooding away. “It’s so good to be here,” she murmured as Cookie gave her a hug. She bent down and scratched Cookie’s ancient mutt, Pepper, behind the ears. The overweight dachshund/sheltie mix grunted her contentment with the gesture.

“I was wondering when I’d see you,” Cookie said, her voice like gravel in a blender from her almost eighty years of cigarettes and New England winters. She motioned for Maggie to sit in one of the doily-covered horsehair chairs that crowded a tiny living room clustered with pictures, icons and books. A rickety upright piano sat against one wall, its stool covered with a well-worn blanket and its ivory keys yellow from years of enthusiastic fingers.

Maggie sat, curling her long legs beneath her, in one of the chairs next to the fireplace. Pepper waddled over to a spot between the chair and the fire, turned around once, then sank to the floor with a satisfied sigh. Pepper’s low, broad body was a perfect match to Cookie’s comfortable and huggable size.

Maggie took the offered cup of chamomile tea and found herself staring blankly into the gentle blazes of Cookie’s low fire. Cookie waited, stirring her tea and munching on a gingersnap.

“I didn’t realize how much it would hurt now that he’s gone,” Maggie said, finally. Cookie merely nodded and handed the younger woman a cookie. Maggie held it, then laid it on the arm of the chair. “I mean, I hadn’t loved him—I mean, been in love with him—for a long time. But, I mean, to have Korie acting like…and Fletcher MacAllister running around as if…” Maggie’s voice trailed off. Her numbness was giving way to confusion. What had happened to the resolve she’d felt earlier, to keep Fletcher at bay?

“What are you afraid of?”

Maggie was silent, uncertain if she should even tell Cookie.

The old woman cleared her throat. “This is a small town, Maggie. Never forget that. Never. Jackson’s Retreat does not exist in a vacuum. Word gets around. We mostly know who’s sleeping with whom, married or not. Or married to someone else. We also tend to know who’s trying to make a move, and whether the proposition’s been accepted.”

Maggie stared at her. “What are you saying?”

Cookie’s gaze was steady. “I’m saying most everyone around knows who Korie was sleeping with, and I don’t mean Aaron. How long are you going to keep quiet about it?”

“As long as I have to. Enough people have already been hurt.”

Cookie nodded. “One of them even killed.”

The tears slid from Maggie’s eyes and she set her cup aside. She got up, then knelt in front of Cookie, burying her face against the old woman’s knees. “Cookie, I was so angry! But now it just hurts. And I’m so scared.”

Cordelia Holokaj’s Polish parents had been killed in the concentration camps of World War II, and her only son had disappeared into the jungles of Laos, never to return. She knew grief, and fear, like few other people. She stroked Maggie Weston’s auburn curls. “You’ve gotta keep your head clear, baby. Don’t let what you felt for Aaron get in the way here. Don’t be lying to Fletcher MacAllister. Not only is it wrong, but it’ll come back to haunt you quicker than anything else you can do.”

Maggie raised her head, her eyes pleading. “But he could destroy everything I love.”

Cookie shook her head. “Not him. What’s done is done. He’s gonna shine some light on it, but his being around doesn’t make it more or less true.” She wiped Maggie’s face with her apron, and pushed her shoulders back. “You’re stronger than this. Be who you are. And stop lying to the man.”

Maggie got up and sat back in her chair. “I haven’t lied to him.”

Cookie raised both eyebrows. “Why didn’t you call the police?”

Maggie chewed her lower lip.

Cookie nodded. “Small town. Very small town.”

Maggie picked up her cup and stared into the tea.

Cookie watched her for a few moments. “What else, baby? This isn’t just about Aaron.”

Maggie sat up a bit straighter. “Not sure. Maybe Fletcher. I tried to lie to him, but I couldn’t—”

“Good thing. You’re a lousy liar. God’s too close to your heart.”

“Mama said it was ‘God’s finger’ poking at you.”

“Good mama. She knew you. When you believe as strongly as you do, it’s hard to turn your back on what you know is right, what you know God wants you to do.”