Fletcher stood very still, a memory reaching through. An argument. Maggie and Aaron. About their relationship. Well, what else do couples fight about? But this had been different. How? Had Maggie still loved him? Was she jealous of Korie? Maybe. But Fletcher couldn’t remember anything else, and he shook his head to clear it.
He sat back down, turned the page in his notebook, clicked the pen twice and started another list. “Who would hate him enough to kill him?” he asked aloud.
“The list is endless,” Maggie said from the doorway.
Fletcher stood, his eyebrows raised. “Is eavesdropping part of your job?” he asked.
She smiled wryly. “When necessary.” She carried a large paper sack. “I brought you some things I thought you might need, since you aren’t one of our regular guests. They usually come prepared.” She set the bag on the desk and looked around at the small room, which had a tiny kitchenette in one end. The furnishings were simple: a desk with phone and computer ports, two comfy, overstuffed chairs, a bed, a dresser, a small eating table with two chairs. Maggie frowned at the bed.
“I brought clean sheets, for starters.” She began emptying the bag. “Jamie left in something of a hurry, and he was notorious for being a slob. I found an extra phone in one of our guest rooms, so you won’t always have to use your cell. Some of them won’t pick up a signal here, anyway. And I’ve got towels and soap.”
Fletcher stood back as she started stripping the sheets, wrinkling her nose. “Jamie was also notorious with the local girls. I just hope I don’t find one tied up in the bathroom.”
“No, it’s clean,” Fletcher replied. She paused and looked up at him, doubtful. He shrugged. “Well, not clean exactly.”
She laughed and tossed the dirty sheets into a pile. “I called the cleaning service and they should be here this afternoon. I’m sure Korie made promises to help, but she wouldn’t know which end of a broom to hold.” She grabbed the clean sheets and shook them out. Fletcher tucked his notebook back in his coat and reached to help her. “Thanks,” she said. “There’s a washer and dryer at the lodge if you need it. Have you looked over the brochure?”
Fletcher shook his head, watching Maggie peripherally as he shoved the corners of the sheets under the mattress. Pleasant, but too efficient. Too cooperative. What are you up to, Maggie?
“There aren’t a lot of rules around here,” she said, her voice taking on a routine note. He could tell she’d given this speech before. “But the ones we do have are enforced without fail.” She tucked a pillow under her chin and slid on a case. “One, everyone eats dinner in the lodge. Nights out have to be prearranged. You are on your own for breakfast and lunch. There are several restaurants in town, or you can keep groceries here, as long as you keep the place clean. No personal visitors except at the lodge, and no overnight guests who are not spouses. Aaron’s library, as well as the local public library, is available for research, and we ask that you make any long-distance calls from the lodge. There’s also an Internet connection, if your service doesn’t have a local number. There’s no long-distance service available in the cabins. We also keep up with the ones that are business and the ones that are personal. You won’t be charged for business calls. Cell phones, of course, are permitted, but they are not allowed at the dinner table.” The pillow landed on the bed with a fluff of scented air, and she went to the closet for blankets, her voice maintaining its monotone. “Please keep the thermostat at seventy-two degrees. You can come and go as you please, as long as you maintain the required production quota for the week. Aaron reviews everything on Saturday, so make sure you—”
Maggie froze and her eyelids fluttered. “You’re not a writer. Sorry.” Fletcher watched as she blinked away the glassiness from her eyes and took a deep breath. She crossed her arms over her stomach and bit her lower lip. Fletcher thought again about the two women who had loved Aaron Jackson so passionately. Korie, told of Aaron’s death, had wailed and flailed for an hour or so, with nothing but polite tears since. Maggie’s grief ran deeper, more consuming, and it looked as if it was going to last for a long time.
He gave her a moment, then spoke softly. “Tell me about the production requirements. Were they harsh?”
Maggie took a deep breath and seemed grateful. She nodded, sniffed and spoke evenly. “Yes. The application to get in here discourages most writers from even trying. They must have at least one mainstream novel published, with more than five thousand copies sold, with good reviews. They have to produce at least two short stories or a hundred pages of a novel a week, with a rough draft of a book, play or script per quarter. Flighty temperaments—and that covers a lot of writers—aren’t allowed. Aaron’s philosophy was that you were here to work, not be trendy. He also encouraged them to form critique groups, which meet in the lodge. He didn’t expect everything produced to be perfect—or even good—but you had to show you were serious about the work.”
“How long did most people stay?”
Maggie laughed. “Most leave within a couple of weeks. Aaron could be nasty about it. Aaron the Arrogant. That’s what a lot of them call him. And worse.”
“And the ones who stay?”
Maggie sat down on the bed. “They do some amazing work in the long run,” she said quietly. “It may look casual around here, but this isn’t a weekend conference of workshops. The cabins are only allotted out in three-month increments. They remain empty if someone leaves early. I’ve helped a lot of these folks write grants so they can stay here and still pay their mortgages, feed the kids. It’s hard work, very solitary and driving, and one reason Aaron requires everyone eat together is to force some type of community on them, so they won’t hole up in their cabins. It pays off. We’ve already produced two Pulitzer nominees, three Edgar winners, and two National Book Awards nominations. Aaron really is tough on them, but the ones who stay respond to his…” Her voice trailed off again, and she cleared her throat. “I guess I’m not used to the past tense yet.”
“Why did Jamie leave?”
Maggie sat up straighter. “Aaron. Jamie kept going out at night, bringing home the girls. Not allowed.” She smiled. “James Henry. Young and talented, but too immature. As arrogant as Aaron. Thought he was Henry James and that it would be easy. He chafed under Aaron’s rules. Told him to stay out of his personal life. They had a fight over the weekend, and Aaron tossed him out on his gifted behind.”
“This is not in the police report. Did you see the fight?”
Maggie shook her head. “All I told them was what I knew about Monday night. It was an accident, remember? As to the fight, I was at church with a couple of the others.” Fletcher raised an eyebrow, and Maggie scowled at him. “Don’t look so surprised, Fletcher. Not everyone who comes out of New York is decadent.”
Fletcher wiped his mouth, her words triggering a memory of a morose Aaron after his breakup with Maggie.
“She even got me going to church again.”
“What? And the roof stayed up? No lightning strikes?”
“Humph.” Aaron shook a smoldering cigar at Fletcher, scattering a few ashes. “You’re not the decadent you’d like people to think. It wouldn’t hurt you to darken the door of a church again.”
Fletcher brushed the ashes off the table to the floor. “What makes you think I don’t go?”
Aaron smirked. “’Cause I know you, and I know why you don’t go. And that hasn’t changed.”
Fletcher looked away. He didn’t want to talk about it.
Or think about it now. He cleared his throat. “Did anyone see the fight?”
“I doubt it, unless Tim overheard something. You could ask him. There are times I think he overhears everything. The fight did happen up at the lodge. Jamie, as you can see, left in a bit of a hurry. You’ll probably find leftover pizza in the fridge.”
Fletcher