by Marian Exall (2478 words)

The emergency call came in to dispatch at 4:34 a.m. The caller, who identified himself as Butchie McCartney, was distraught. “My girlfriend Jen’s stuck up there with a bunch of crazy writers. The road’s blocked, and the storm cut off cell service. Hurry!”

Following protocols, the dispatcher assured the caller that help was on the way. Good luck, she thought. Pre-dawn, post-storm, Sunday, rural county, volunteer fire service—it would take hours to assemble the crews and machinery needed. “Caller, stay on the line, while I get further details.”

***

Jasper St. John was still comatose when the EMTs loaded him onto a gurney for transport to hospital.

“Can you identify the patient?” the EMT asked the woman in charge. At least, he thought she was the one in charge: who else would wear make-up and stilettos at this hour of the morning?

After throwing a warning glance at Mavis, Margaux replied. “Er, no. I don’t know who he is. He must have snuck into a vacant room. He’s not one of us. Perhaps he’s homeless?”

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, free at last! Margaux saw her opportunity in a flash of inspiration. She had already completed an outline and the first chapter of the next Maniacal Murders mystery. Under her management, the Jasper St. John brand would rise from the ashes, while Jimmy Johnson (if he ever recovered) would languish in some state rehab facility—as long as none of the other retreat participants gave her away. They all had their own plot problems to solve, so she thought she’d be safe.

Once the gurney had been successfully maneuvered out through the lobby doors, the fire captain entered, trailed by two of his officers and a motley crew, only some of whom Margaux recognized. Accompanying the group was a foul smell that combined vomit, shit, and cordite.

“So, are these your writers?” The fire captain had backed up to avoid the stench.

“This is Lucy Whitaker, Peter Deverall, and Ed Tremayne,” Margaux said, indicating the three she knew were legitimately present at the retreat. “I don’t know these other people”

“Hi, I’m Paul Whitaker, attorney, and husband and father to these lovely young ladies.” Stepping forward, Paul extended one hand to the captain and gestured behind him with the other to where Lucy stood with Eleanor on her hip. The captain recoiled; Lucy scowled.

“And I’m Lucy’s mother, also confusingly named Lucy.” The captain judged that Lucy’s mother Lucy’s smile was the only genuine thing in the room. Something smelled bad, and not just figuratively.

“Who’s missing?” The captain turned to Margaux. Pleased to have her authority recognized, Margaux picked up her clipboard.

“Let me see. We saw Jane Deverall and Bunny Peters here in the lobby just a chapter ago. I think they went to find a quiet place to write. I haven’t seen Charles Kowalski for ages. Do any of you…?” her inquiring glance at the others was returned with a blank stare. “Anyway, he’s a former policeman so I’m sure he can look after himself. Then there’s Sicard—”

“We don’t even know if Sicard made it to the retreat in the first place,” Mavis jumped in. “You haven’t seen Sicard, have you?” she asked Lucy, the emphasis on the name signaling to Lucy to shake her head.

The captain sighed and turned to his men. “We’ll have to do a thorough search of the whole property. Anyone else?”

“Well, there’s Jen, she helps out at the lodge—”

Mavis interrupted again. “She’s out in the parking lot rounding up the pigs.”

“And the innkeeper, but I told her to keep a low profile so as not to distract the writers, so she’s probably at her place up the hill. That’s everyone. Can we all leave now?” There was a muttered chorus of support for Margaux’s request.

“Not until I understand exactly what’s going on here. The fire’s out. It was started with an old rug in one of the outbuildings. Everything’s so wet, the fire never got beyond a smolder anyway. But I still have to complete my investigation and file a report. Stay here in the lobby until I get back.”

***

The atmosphere in the lobby was thick with mistrust. Lucy, her mother, and Mavis had commandeered one sofa; Jane and Bunny, who had wandered in from Bunny’s room where they were catching up on their journaling, sat on the other. The men hovered around, Peter trying unsuccessfully to engage Jane’s attention, Paul casting pleading glances at Lucy who was whispering to her mother. Ed seemed to be planning something, sketching elaborate diagrams onto a scrap of paper. Margaux had disappeared to make coffee. The only individual unaffected by the tension was Eleanor who charged around on her chubby legs, blowing raspberries and giggling.

Ed broke the adults’ silence. “We need to agree on a story—I mean, on what happened in the barn.”

“Can’t we just play dumb?” Lucy pleaded. “We hid the—evidence.” She glanced nervously at Jane and Bunny. She was confident Margaux and Mavis would go along with anything the others decided, Margaux because she had also recently disposed of a body, although one still breathing, and Mavis because she hated the man variously known as Sicard Ficini, Gianni Ficinelli, or Dante Ficknelly.

Eleanor chose that moment to point her finger at Bunny. “Bangbangbangbang!” She grabbed Bunny’s skirt, trying to pull her down to the ground. “Bangbangbangbang!” she repeated, angry now that Bunny was not complying. Lucy leaped to her feet and swept her daughter into her arms, chattering to distract Eleanor from re-enacting the recent past.

“She doesn’t seem traumatized by her experience,” commented Peter. “She’ll probably have forgotten all about it by lunchtime.”

“Who made you the expert on child psychology?” Lucy snapped. 

Jane chortled at her husband’s humiliation, then turned a serious face to Lucy. “What happened up there?”

“Nothing!” Lucy was close to tears, the stress of the night compounded with exhaustion.

Ed raised a hand to get everyone’s attention. “I’ve been doing some calculations, bullet trajectories, possible lines of sight, our positions relative to each other—”

“Ed, for God’s sake get to the point!” When Mavis spoke, she did so with weight.

“Well, assuming they find the gun, but don’t find the, er, other thing—you know, pigs being pigs and all that—” Everyone groaned—“I think we should explain that I was giving a demonstration with my service weapon for the benefit of those wishing to write police procedurals. And foolishly I left it with safety off on a low surface” He was speeding up now. “When Lucy’s mother put the diaper bag down, it knocked the gun, the gun fired, the bullet went through the open door into the forest which explains why the police will never find it!” he finished triumphantly.

“Why does my mother have to be to blame?” protested Lucy.

“No blame will attach to anyone but me,” Ed said. “It was dark in the shed, she didn’t see the gun, she was in a hurry to change the little girl’s diaper. I’ll get into trouble for mishandling a weapon, but I’m retired, and no one was hurt, right?”

Lucy nodded. “Right. No one was hurt. Agreed, everyone?” Jane and Bunny still looked puzzled, but the others smiled their accord. The main thing in Lucy’s mind was that Eleanor should not have to grow up with any shadow hanging over her; she would forget the events of the night as Peter predicted. 

Although she did not fully understand the discussion, Margaux sighed in relief: the group appeared to be coming together at last.  She congratulated herself that the writing retreat could be counted a success despite Jasper’s non-participation, the dreadful weather, the awful food, the drab accommodations, and the failure to hold any formal sessions. Everyone had written something, but perhaps more importantly, they had experienced in real time how plot develops from character, how character transforms, the use of subplots, that the weather itself can be a character, and the importance of a narrative arc both within each chapter, as well as within the story as a whole. If she had planned for the retreat to unfold this way, it could not have been more satisfying. Yes, they had mislaid a couple of participants—three, if you count Jasper—but if she could get away from the lodge before this tenuous peace dissolved, all was good. Where was that fire captain?

***

“Have they all cleared out, Ma?” Jen asked.

“Yes, thank goodness. We need to get moving and re-make all the rooms. The next group comes in tomorrow. God, I hope they’re better behaved. I thought the Scouts were a handful, but those writers—!” The innkeeper shook her head in disgust.

“I’ll just put the pigs away. They had a lovely time anyway.”

“I’ll start on the rooms in the west wing. You can do the east wing. There weren’t supposed to be any guests there, it being scheduled for demolition and all, but I bet, with all the shenanigans going on, there’ll be a few rumpled beds!”

“So you’re going ahead with the ballroom then?”

“Yeah, we don’t have enough space for large group meetings.” The innkeeper seized the handles of the housekeeping cart. “Let’s get started!”

Jen and the innkeeper met back in the lobby for a break two hours later, each hauling large black trash bags.

“Five empty scotch bottles under the bed in Room 2! In just one weekend! No wonder he left here in an ambulance. Did you find anything interesting?”

“I found a bunch of stage make-up and costumes in Room 28. Were they supposed to put on a play? Oh, and there’s a rug missing from that room, and the luggage cart that should be in the lobby is in pieces outside the emergency exit. Besides that, just a couple of notebooks with some scribbling inside. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Should I trash them with the rest?”

“Let me have a look.” The innkeeper attempted to read a few pages, then gave up. “It’s probably rubbish but we’d better hang on to them. What if one of those writers becomes famous one day? We might have an early manuscript that’s worth thousands of dollars.”

“Fat chance!” Jen laughed at the ridiculous idea. “Well, better get on with it.”

***

(Three Weeks Later)

Lucy put Eleanor down for a nap and went into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. As usual, the kitchen was a mess, and she had to search for a mug to wash. The disorder didn’t worry her the way it used to, now that she didn’t stress over tidying up before Paul came home. Anyway, Ed would be babysitting tonight and he always cleaned the house from top to bottom while she was out. She protested that he shouldn’t do it, but he said he liked things ship-shape and it was no trouble. She was going to a movie with Mavis. This would be their third “date.” Mavis was easy company. She didn’t talk much, and not at all about the traumatic weekend at Pine Tree Lodge, for which Lucy was grateful. The article Mavis was commissioned to write had been rejected. The magazine expected something light and amusing—a wry takedown of wanna-be novelists gathered at the feet of a fading celebrity. Instead, the editor slammed Mavis’s piece as “salacious, libelous, and frankly unbelievable.” Mavis got to keep the advance, however.

Lucy wondered whether Paul would call today. He did most days, the calls all following the same pattern. He would start with timid inquiries about Eleanor but quickly descend into tearful pleas to move back into the house. The excitement and glamour of three-way sex with Peter and Jane had quickly palled.

“I just don’t understand those two. They hate each other but they can’t seem to stay away from each other. Peter used me to hurt Jane, then Jane used me to hurt Peter, but I’m the one who ended up being hurt. All I ever wanted was to get your attention. You’ve been so distant since Eleanor was born.”

“Paul, I’ve told you, I don’t want to hear it. And until you understand exactly who you hurt, please don’t call.” But Lucy was softhearted. She couldn’t cut Paul off from his daughter, and until she decided what she wanted to do with her life, she kept accepting her wayward husband’s phone calls.

What was she going to do? Eleanor had a spot in a local playgroup starting soon. Two mornings a week: time for Lucy to do some writing. Mavis had invited her to join the online writing group—continuing without Sicard Ficini’s participation—but she’d put her off, not having anything to submit for critique. Maybe she could work on the memoir she’d been thinking about: how motherhood had transformed her view of her own mother. Trite? Perhaps, but she had to start somewhere. 

Lucy picked up the latest Publishers Weekly and thumbed through it. A column on “Recent Deals” snagged her attention:

“Margaux Peale has signed a six-figure, three-book deal with Bantam, Random House’s mystery imprint, to resurrect the Maniacal Murders series. Ms. Peale, who represents herself, was quoted as “very excited to bring this iconic series into the Twenty-first Century.” Her brother Jasper St. John, who originated the series in the Nineties, remains in treatment for a longstanding debilitating disease at an undisclosed location.”

***

Toni and Ciccio were the last through-hikers to finish the Pacific Crest Trail that season. They collapsed onto a bench outside the Mazama Country Store to wait for their ride to Seatac and the flight home to Italy.

“We would have been here a week earlier if we hadn’t got tangled up with that bunch of pazzi.” Toni complained.

“But if we hadn’t stumbled into the writers, we’d never have met this little tesoro,” responded Ciccio, undoing the flap on the top of his backpack and extracting a small bundle of feathers and fur. “Mowly, I’m so sorry but we can’t take you home with us. The Customs and Border Patrol people would object.”

Mowly turned her head through one hundred eighty degrees, surveying the surrounding mountains, now cloaked in snow, and the pines that crowded the lower slopes. She took a few steps across the picnic table to nibble at some scone crumbs. “Right here will do me fine, boys.”

“Do you have any words of poetry to leave us with?” 

Mowly shook her wings, marched her little feet up and down a few times, and cleared her throat.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Addio, ragazzi!”

“Ciao, Mowly!”