by Marian Exall
(2584 words)

“Is this it?” Lucy peered through the rain-smeared window.

“Yep,” her Uber driver replied, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel with impatience. “Pine Tree Lodge.”

When her husband had gifted her a weekend writing retreat led by best-selling mystery author Jasper St. John, Lucy had imagined Pine Tree Lodge as one of the classic National Park hotels—massive beams and rock walls, maybe a wrap-around porch, although that wouldn’t be enticing in November. Instead, she was looking at a seedy motel—two concrete block wings converging on the main building. The light seeping from the glass doors of the lobby and a flickering neon “OFFICE” sign were the only indications of human occupation. The pine trees were authentic, at least. They rose in a serrated phalanx against the sky, looming over the building, their tops whipping from side to side in the wind.

The gift had surprised her. She had avoided any complaints about lacking the time or energy to write. Of course, she loved being a mother, and she knew how important these early years were for Eleanor’s development. She kept to herself the fear that her own brain was turning to mush, and her raging jealousy of erstwhile colleagues whose literary careers were taking flight. When she’d been pregnant two years ago, she and Paul had planned to share parental duties. She would take six months’ leave after Eleanor’s birth and then return to her editorial assistant job. Next, Paul would take six months off “Swedish style.” However, Paul’s promotion made him indispensable to the company and foreclosed paternal leave. Anyway, he earned a lot more than Lucy. Her attempt to work from home two days a week fizzled before Eleanor’s first birthday—she was just too exhausted to concentrate, even when the baby finally settled into sleep. Sometimes Lucy was asleep herself before Paul arrived home from a late client meeting.  He worked so hard in the week that she felt guilty about leaving him to look after Eleanor on the weekend.

“Eleanor and I will be fine,” Paul had insisted. “It’s only Friday to Sunday. You go enjoy yourself.”

She hadn’t heard of Jasper St. John, and she wasn’t interested in writing mysteries, but the thought of two nights of uninterrupted sleep and two days away from the clinging demands and sticky fingers of a toddler was alluring. She looked forward to meeting other writers, to hearing about their works in progress—to adult conversation.

The driver turned to look at her. “Well, do you want to get out, or shall I take you somewhere else?”

Grabbing her weekend bag and laptop satchel, she edged out of the back seat into the downpour. She was soaked before she made it to through the double glass doors. The lobby was furnished with a couple of sofas and a tired-looking house plant. No roaring fire in a rough stone fireplace—no fireplace at all.  At the far end, a trestle table laden with books, behind which stood a statuesque woman in her fifties wearing a brightly colored kaftan-like garment.

“Welcome to the Jasper St. John Writers’ Retreat!” The woman sang out, lifting her arms to the heavens like a TV evangelist. “You’re the first to arrive! Your name?”

Lucy approached the table. “Lucy Whitaker. I’m not too early, am I? I thought the event started at six.” She could now read the badge pinned to a generous bosom: Margaux Peale.

“No, No, you’re perfect! It’s this horrendous weather—must be holding people up.” Margaux checked off Lucy’s name on her clip board and proffered a folder. “Here’s the agenda, a list of participants, and your room assignment. Perhaps you’d like to peruse it while we wait for the others….and you dry off. We’ll serve wine and hors d’oeuvres when everyone’s here. You’ll meet Mr. St. John then.”

Lucy retreated to one of the sofas, removed her rain-jacket, and shook off the drops. Seeing nowhere to hang it, she draped it over the arm of the sofa and sat down. The list of participants was only ten names long, including Margaux and Jasper St. John himself. She was about to delve deeper into the folder’s contents when the door opened, letting in a gust of wind and a small figure in a hooded anorak. As Margaux called her greeting, the figure took off the oversized anorak and revealed itself to be an elderly woman. She hauled a large and evidently heavy canvas bag up to the reception table.

“Bunny Beecham. Such a big fan! Is he here yet?” She scanned the room as if the great man might be hiding behind a piece of furniture, then returned her gaze to the table-top. “I think I have all of these books.” She indicated her bag. “I’m going to ask Jasper to sign them.”

 At Margaux’s suggestion, Bunny joined Lucy in the sitting area. Lucy introduced herself, and searched for a writerly conversation starter. “What genre do you write?” Bunny stared at her like a frightened deer…or rabbit. “Your work in progress? Mystery? Memoir?”

“Oh, I’m not an author!” She giggled. “I’m here for Jasper. I’ve read everything he’s written. I can’t wait for the next one. I hope we get a preview.” Then she added coyly, “Actually I do have an idea for a sequel. Perhaps I’ll get a chance to mention it to him.”

Lucy struggled to find conversational common ground, but Bunny was content to chatter on about her favorites in the St. John catalog. All Lucy had to do was nod and smile. She wondered if it would be rude to go and find her room, but the thought of wine and snacks, as well as meeting the famous author, kept her in her seat.

At 6:45, the doors opened again and a couple entered. They appeared to be in the middle of a quarrel, and their overlapping accusations drowned out even the operatic Margaux.

“You never take responsibility for—” The woman was forty-ish, tall, slim and would be attractive except for a sour expression and thin lips.

“That’s because you always have to have it your—” The man was the same age, stocky, red-faced, and balding.

Margaux waved her clipboard over her head to get their attention. “Names, please.”

“J.P. Deverall,” the couple said in unison.

Margaux made a mark on her clipboard and raised enquiring eyes. “And?”

“J.P. Deverall! We told you!” the female said in a waspish tone.

“We co-write,” added the male with a shrug.

“But there’s only one person registered—and paid for. Each person has to register and pay separately.”

“Why? We are one writer, and this is a writer’s retreat, not a person’s retreat!” the woman responded triumphantly.

“We share a room, surely that counts for something.” The man was more conciliatory. “Anyway, it doesn’t look like you’re oversubscribed.” He glanced around the room, his eyes resting for a few seconds on Lucy.

“God, I’d kill for a drink! Isn’t there supposed to be a welcome cocktail?” asked the female J.P.

By Lucy’s calculation, there were still four more guests to arrive: Ed Tremayne, Mavis Kelly, Charles Kowalski, and a fourth identified only by an email address:  sicfic@memail.net. No further background was provided about any of the attendees. Lucy could only hope they were more sympathetic than the elderly fan and the angry couple. A drink might smooth things out, but she worried that Margaux would wait to serve wine and hors d’oeuvres until everyone was here. However, their hostess took the hint and flounced out of the lobby, returning a few minutes later with a tray on which stood a bottle of red wine, a bottle of white, a tower of plastic cups, and a bowl of nuts.

“There!” she declared, placing the tray on a side table. “I’ll go and fetch Mr. St. John.” She left before either J.P. could complain.

With an apologetic smile at Bunny, Lucy joined the J.P.s as they poured themselves hefty slugs of wine.

“Do you write mystery?” she asked, helping herself to a plastic cup of white.

“More psycho-thriller romantasy noir,” the man answered before burying his nose in his cup.

“Oh, wow,” was all Lucy could summon as she tried to grasp the blend of genres. “A series?”

“We’ve written three. We’re waiting to publish until we get the right deal. You know, the merch, the Netflix series—no point in launching without a complete platform. I’m Peter, by the way. This is Jane. We’re here to get a blurb from St. John. Where the hell is he, by the way?”

***

Margaux Peale scurried along the corridor to the room at the far end of one wing, the room Jasper had chosen for himself. Using her keycard, she slipped inside and leaned back against the door. Jasper was at the window, staring out into the night, shoulders hunched, glass in hand. Margaux inhaled, fixed a bright smile on her face, and advanced.

“Jasper, darling, they’re all waiting for you!” She mentally crossed her fingers against the lie: only three guests had arrived, of which only two were paying customers.

“I don’t think I can do this, Margie,” he said without turning. Margaux recoiled at the use of her old name, flinging her back to the time when they were Jimmy and Marjory Johnson, a couple of unhappy kids dragged from one military base to another by a distant father and an alcoholic mother. Jasper continued, “They’re expecting inspiration, excitement, craft tips, publishing connections—I haven’t written a word in years! I’m a fraud!” He downed the contents of his glass and went for a refill from the whisky bottle on the nightstand.

“Oh, sweetheart! You’re a great writer. You just hit a dry patch, that’s all. This is a new start where you get inspiration and excitement from bright young talent.” Was she over-doing it? The J.P.s were poisonous, and Bunny seemed more likely to inspire a knitting pattern than a new novel.

Margaux had taken on her brother’s representation when his last agent dropped him two years ago, but she had been his protective big sister all his life. The writers’ retreat was a last throw of the dice. She had imagined a group of aspiring novelists exchanging plot ideas and character sketches into the night, Jasper in their midst, molding their concepts into a storyline of his own. No, not plagiarism—inspiration! There were no original stories left. Every writer borrowed from here and there. A nod in the Acknowledgments should be enough reward for an unpublished scribbler. But lacking the funds to secure a more attractive venue, the retreat had not attracted quite the clientele she had hoped.

She took the glass from his hand. “Come on, time to meet your fans.” After helping him into his velvet smoking jacket and making sure he had his glasses, she led him back to the lobby.

She was pleased to see the space had filled up somewhat. Bunny, Lucy and the J.P.s were turned toward three figures at the door who were taking off their raingear and shaking out umbrellas. Consulting her clipboard, Margaux assumed these must be Mavis Kelly, Charles Kowalski, and Ed Tremayne. Or the anonymous email attendee.

She approached, hands outstretched. “Welcome to the Jasper St. John Writers’ Retreat!”

One of the men—Charles? Ed?—spoke first. “There’s a tree down across the road about a half mile down the hill. We had to leave our cars there and hike the rest of the way.”

“Oh, dear! Well, you made it!” Margaux gushed. “Let me offer you a welcoming glass of vino! Red or white?” She picked up the bottles, discovering they were both empty. “Jasper, why don’t you get things started while I find some more wine.” Glaring at the J.Ps., she left the lobby.

Bunny was the first to reach the famous author who stood looking miserable behind the table displaying his works. “I’m a huge fan, Mr. St. John. I’ve read everything you’ve written!”

Lucy turned to the newcomers and introduced herself. In turn, the two men extended their hands. The taller one who had explained about the downed tree said he was Ed Tremayne. “I’m newly retired from the U.S. Navy and an absolute beginner at this writing thing. I plan to try my hand at historical fiction.” Ed was a fit-looking sixty with silver hair and a pleasant smile. Lucy warmed up to him at once.

“I’m Chuck Kowalski.” The other man was a contrast—short and solid, with a New York accent and a pugnacious stance. “I write true crime. Used to be a cop, so I have all the inside info.”

The woman said nothing. She was younger than either man, perhaps Lucy’s age. Her dark eyes moved from one face to another as if learning them off by heart. An observer, Lucy thought. Perhaps she’s making mental notes for characters in her next novel. She suppressed a giggle at the thought and turned gratefully to Margaux who had returned with new supplies and was brandishing her clipboard again.

“I’m guessing you are Mavis Kelly? Am I right?” The woman nodded, and Margaux checked her off. “Here are your folders. We’re running a little behind schedule—this dreadful weather!— but let’s take twenty minutes to get to know one another before dinner. The caterers have it all set up for us to serve ourselves in the, er…” she gestured vaguely behind her, “the Grand Salon.” She took Jasper’s arm to steer him away from Bunny and toward the others. “Jasper, why don’t you find out what everyone’s working on?”

Margaux left the lobby before she allowed her smile to slip and worry to crease her forehead again. She had expected the catering firm to stay on to replenish the buffet and clear up after dinner, but they had departed before the storm set in.

“We’ll be back in the morning with continental breakfast and we’ll take the dirties away then. With a small party like this, you won’t need more food tonight,” the lead caterer assured her. “I need to get my people home before the bad weather hits. They say there could be flooding.”

She entered what she had referred to as the Grand Salon, a barn-like room at the rear of the property. A trestle table covered in a white cloth bore a selection of salads and covered platters of hot dishes. Margaux checked that the Sterno burners under the hot food were still alight, then looked around the room, trying to think of other details she should take care of. A few smaller tables set with four places each would provide more than enough dining space. A bar occupied the far corner of the cavernous space. She hoped it was stocked with extra bottles of wine. She had not anticipated they would get through so many bottles before the event even started, and she walked over to calculate how many more bottles the caterer should bring the following day.

            “Four more of each,” she murmured to herself as she moved behind the bar to check whether there were any spares hiding out of sight.

The overhead lighting did not reach into this corner of the room. Margaux made out a dark hump against the wall which looked like a rolled-up rug. She crouched down to look under the bar. Nothing. As she made to rise, she put out a hand for balance. There was something wet and sticky on the floor. She jumped back in disgust to examine her palm.

“Blood!” she gasped.