Ramona Richards - A Murder Among Friends

Reaching up, Fletcher let one finger stroke gently under the two stitches near her left eye. “The M.E. has released the body. There’s this memorial service planned. Do you want to go?”

Maggie pressed his hand against her cheek. Fletcher’s gut tightened as she held it there briefly, then let go. “No. Not yet. I need to stay here.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and Fletcher wanted to say something, anything to explain how he felt. And what he couldn’t let himself feel. Not until he cleared Maggie as a suspect.

“Ramona Richards has ingeniously woven together two stories and given it to her readers as fiction inside fiction. A Murder Among Friends is filled with human emotion and woven with faith’s struggles. From the first chapter till the last, you won’t stop wondering and you won’t want to stop reading, even if you put the book down long enough to grab a fresh cup of coffee.”

–Eva Marie Everson, CBA bestselling author

of The Potluck Club series

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RAMONA RICHARDS

A writer and editor since 1975, Ramona Richards has worked on staff with a number of publishers. Ramona has also freelanced with more than twenty magazine and book publishers and has won awards for both her fiction and nonfiction. She’s written everything from sales training video scripts to book reviews, and her latest articles have appeared in Today’s Christian Woman, College Bound, and Special Ed Today. She sold a story about her daughter to Chicken Soup for the Caregiver’s Soul, and Secrets of Confidence, a book of devotionals, is available from Barbour Publishing.

In 2004 the God Allows U-Turns Foundation, in conjunction with the Advanced Writers and Speakers Association (AWSA), chose Ramona for their Strength of Choice award, and in 2003 AWSA nominated Ramona for Best Fiction Editor of the Year. The Evangelical Press Association presented her with an award for reporting in 2003, and in 1989 she won the Bronze Award for Best Original Dramatic Screenplay at the Houston International Film Festival. A member of the American Christian Fiction Writers and the Romance Writers of America, she has five other novels complete or in development.

Ramona and her daughter live in a suburb of Nashville, Tennessee. She can be reached through her Web site at www.ramonarichards.com.

I’ve told you these things for a purpose: that my joy might be your joy, and your joy wholly mature. This is my command: Love one another the way I loved you. This is the very best way to love. Put your life on the line for your friends.

—John 15: 11–14

To Nancy Zottos, who opened up New Hampshire to me.

To all my friends who made it possible for me to go out on my own, especially Sunny, Phyllis, Jeff, Marcheta, Jamie, Teri, Marilee—and Pat, who introduced me to the real Ciotka Cookie.

To Carol Lynn Stewart, Corbette Doyle and Terra Manasco, my fellow struggling writers and critique partners. Thanks for pushing me ever harder.

To K, the one who—from the first “A” to the latest “Z”—has offered me the most hope-filled inspiration and encouragement.

Finally, to my mom, Jimmie Lou Pope, who has read every word, amazed, thrilled and sometimes puzzled that her daughter could write like that.

Special praise:

To God and His astonishingly glorious Son. I took it to heart when someone once told me, “Your talent is your gift from God. What you do with it is your gift to Him.”

I couldn’t do it without You.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THE MAN WHO COUNTS

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Autumn looks like death, sometimes, with the bloodred leaves fading to burgundy and finally to rust and brown. Maggie Weston thought about such death as she stared steadfastly out the window at the swirl of leaves, despite the rumble of a male voice that sounded behind her.

“Maggie.”

Go away. Maggie crossed her arms tightly as she continued to focus on the bright colors of the New Hampshire fall landscape. The back wall of the A-frame lodge house was almost entirely glass, spreading the scene before her in a cheery panorama. The trees were brilliantly dappled in the rich sunlight, but all Maggie could see was death. Death in the trees. In her heart. On her back steps. Help us, Lord, she prayed silently. Help me.

“Maggie.” The voice tugged at her.

It’s over and done with, she thought, anger and grief curling into a tight knot in her stomach. Just go away and leave us alone.

The staccato clicks of feminine heels tapped into the room. “I’m very grateful you’ve decided to stay, Fletcher,” said a quivering voice. Without turning, Maggie knew that newly widowed Korie Taylor Jackson would be touching the tall man’s arm, stroking it and preening in a slight flirt, as if she couldn’t stop herself.

Yeah, right. Maggie’s thoughts were cold. Just wait until he starts asking you questions.

“Thank you, Korie.” The man’s voice was deep and as mellow as the darkest mahogany, and Maggie’s throat tightened as he spoke. “But I really don’t think I should be doing this—”

“Nonsense!” Korie interrupted him. “You were Aaron’s friend. What better way to start your new business than with solving Aaron Jackson’s—” She stopped and cleared her throat. Maggie heard the tears being forced back into Korie’s voice as it dropped to a whisper. “Solving your best friend’s murder. Everyone in the world knows what a good detective you are.”

Maggie couldn’t quite believe Korie saw her husband’s death as a marketing opportunity. An involuntary growl escaped her throat.

Korie snapped. “Maggie! If you have something to add, just say it!”

Maggie turned and looked slowly over the couple before her. Even in her widowhood of one day, Korie couldn’t resist the affectations of her flowing, oversize skirts and bohemian blouses, which swooped as her slender arms darted through a conversation, making her look like a colorful, earth-bound parrot. Korie had probably been born an incorrigible coquette. At twenty-four, Korie had had two successful shows of her art in New York City and had snagged Aaron Jackson, reveling in his popularity as a bestselling novelist.

Part of the reason for Aaron’s success stood next to Korie. Fletcher MacAllister, who until two months ago had been a detective with New York’s finest, was the model for Aaron’s series hero, Judson MacLean. The charming and meticulous Judson, who had carried his author to the top of the New York Times fiction list on a regular basis, had paid for most of Aaron’s worst habits, including his booze, his cigars and his wife of three years. Of course, the books had also paid for all of them to be here, in this writers’ colony that Aaron had so modestly called Jackson’s Retreat. His dream. His life.