Chapter 1
Heather Redding started to climb down from the ladder that her friend and colleague, Sylvie, was holding onto to keep it from slipping on the shiny wood floor. Sylvie moved aside as Heather stepped off the ladder.
Taking a few steps back, Heather looked up at the banner she’d just hung announcing Peachtree Point’s Romance Writers Group first ever writers’ convention. She pushed a strand of hair back into her dark brown, messy bun, then stood with her hands on her hips, gazing upward at her handiwork.
Sylvie joined her, also looking up at the large banner draped above the library’s circulation counter.
“The banner looks great,” Heather said with a nod.
Booker let out an approving meow. Heather’s cat, a black and white shorthair whose stripes made him look like a little tiger, was a fixture at the library and a favorite with the patrons both young and old and everyone in between.
“Yeah,” Sylvie agreed. “I think it’s going to be a fun time.”
Giving her friend the side-eye, Heather asked, “Is it? I’ve had bad feelings about this conference for weeks and now that it starts tomorrow, I feel even worse.”
“Well, maybe you’re wrong,” Sylvie hoped. “Everything’s been well-planned and there are plenty of attendees. There’s really only one thing that could cause issues, and maybe we’re concerned over nothing.”
“Maybe,” Heather sighed. She’d always had a strong ability to notice things about people and situations, and her feelings weren’t often wrong.
The two women were both natives of the small town of Peachtree Point on the coast of New Hampshire and had known each other all their lives having grown up across the street from one another. They’d attended kindergarten through high school together, separating only when they each chose a different college to continue their education obtaining degrees in library science.
Heather and Sylvie had kept in touch during the four years apart. Sylvie had returned home with her undergraduate degree while her friend stayed on at school long enough to earn a master’s in library science.
When the director of the Peachtree Public Library retired, Sylvie wasted no time in calling Heather to tell her of the vacancy and to encourage her to apply for the position. For the past four years, the two had worked side-by-side in the historic, brick former train depot that housed the library.
Under Heather’s direction, the library had grown to four times its original size, with a recent large addition being added to house the library association’s growing collection. Two large meeting rooms and an enlarged children’s department were also housed in the new addition.
“Have you met the convention’s guest of honor yet?” Sylvie asked, turning to look at her friend.
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure, but I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.” Heather raised an eyebrow. Satisfied with the placement of the banner, she began closing up the ladder.
Sylvie helped by lifting the bottom of it and the two young women carried it to the large closet that held cleaning supplies, the vacuum cleaner, and other necessities.
“We’ve all been hearing the same things about our illustrious guest,” Sylvie said as she closed the closet door and followed Heather back to the circulation desk.
“Let’s just say Fiona Fulbright isn’t winning any friends,” Heather said. “Pretentious and self-absorbed is how I’ve heard her described. I read that she’s been difficult to get along with for years. Her fame must have gone to her head.”
“I heard the words rude and ill-mannered to describe her,” Sylvie added with a chuckle. “Since the success of this first conference is going to hinge on the guest author, I would have thought they’d have chosen someone less controversial.”
“Or at least someone with a better personality,” Heather smiled. “The writer’s group couldn’t afford their first choice of author. It just wasn’t in the budget, and their second choice had scheduling issues. They got sort of desperate when they couldn’t find anyone available for the money and the date so they had to take Fiona. And she only lives forty-five minutes away in Newburyport.”
Sylvie nodded her understanding. “Liza Collins, the president of the writers group, told me that there was no hope of having a big turnout without a guest speaker and it had to be someone who was successfully published.”
“Well, Fiona’s published a lot of romances, but how successful they’ve been is up for debate. She hasn’t managed to break out of the pack and is stuck squarely in midlist … which is fine, of course, but from what I hear, she acts like a pompous know-it-all.”
“According to Sara Baker, Fiona caused quite a commotion this morning when she arrived in town,” Sylvie said, referring to the owner of the Seaside Bed and Breakfast Inn and Resort. The Seaside was an old mansion overlooking the ocean that had been restored to its former glory by Sara and her husband, Archie.
“She had one of Sara’s housekeepers in tears, complaining about everything from her breakfast being cold to not having enough towels. I don’t envy Sara and Archie hosting the event tomorrow night.”
“Oh gosh. Sara is such a sweet person and the best hostess, but she can be tough when she needs to be. She’ll be fine. It’s us I don’t envy having to host a book signing and then the manuscript critiques,” Heather said with a sigh. “There are bound to be hurt feelings.”
“I wouldn’t want Fiona to critique my book,” Sylvie said emphatically.
“Mine either,” Heather said. “Somehow she doesn’t sound like the kind of person who would give much encouragement to aspiring writers.”
Sylvie gave a stifled snort. “More likely she would steal their work if it was better than hers,” she said.
Heather frowned. “I’ve heard some grumblings through the grapevine that Fiona has been accused of that very thing.”
Sylvie’s eyes went wide. “You’re kidding me. Oh, boy, this is going to be a very interesting conference.”
* * *
While Heather and Sylvie were discussing the conference and Fiona Fulbright, Liza Collins was looking around the ballroom of the Seaside Inn. Sara had done a wonderful job with the decorations for the cocktail party, and the smells that wafted from the kitchen made Liza’s mouth water.
In their fifties, Sara and Archie were both in the kitchen working on the hors d’oeuvres for the evening. When Sara’s father passed away, he left her the bulk of his estate, and since she and her husband had dreamed of opening a bed and breakfast inn, they decided to take the plunge. They found the old mansion, quit their jobs, and went to work on the renovations. They’d been open for two years now and although things were going well, money could be tight.
Smiling with satisfaction at how beautiful the ballroom looked, Liza was pleased that everything for the conference was shaping up so nicely. Then just as quickly, her smile turned into a frown. Everything was shaping up nicely except the guest of honor for tonight’s cocktail party.
Fiona Fulbright had made her grand entrance that morning with enough luggage for a month-long stay rather than for a weekend conference. To say fifty-year-old Fiona was stocky was a kind understatement. Her size was as imposing as her dictatorial air. She was dressed in a bright purple pantsuit accented with gold lace and rhinestones that warred with the costume jewelry visible around her neck, on her fingers, and her ear lobes. Her bleached platinum hair had been frozen into place with enough hair product to survive an F3 tornado.
The luxurious guest suite Fiona was given had a king-sized bed, beautiful linens, high-end lighting, a desk, two sofas placed near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea, and a wet bar with complimentary snacks and beverages. As it turned out, the suite wasn’t up to Fiona’s standards despite Sara’s assurances that it was the best room in the inn. After Sara had wasted the better part of an hour showing Fiona various other guest rooms, Fiona had said she supposed the original room would have to do.
“It certainly isn’t what I’m used to,” she’d said with a huff, “but the other rooms just simply won’t do at all. I’ll just have to make the best of it.”
Both Sara and Liza had taken an immediate dislike to the author and Liza secretly worried about the success of the conference. What if Fiona was as rude to the writers who had paid to attend the conference as she was to Sara? If that happened, the Peachtree Romance Writers first annual writers’ conference would probably be their last.
Chapter 2
In the evening, Heather and Sylvie arrived at the cocktail party accompanied by Heather’s boyfriend, Paul Albright, a lawyer and bookstore owner, and Sylvie’s fiancé Frank Short, a teacher.
Heather looked stunning in a plain black cocktail dress accented with a long necklace of silver and pearls and matching earrings, and the dress showed her well toned legs to advantage. She had twisted her hair into a sleek updo. Heather was a little taller than average, slim and athletic, thanks to her daily workouts at the local gym and her enjoyment of running.
Sylvie was tiny and petite, giving her an almost fairy-like appearance. She wore her dark auburn hair in a short, curly style that always looked tousled no matter how much she sprayed, gelled it or waxed it. She’d chosen a dress with a short, full skirt and a fitted satin bodice. Her necklace was art nouveau, as were her matching dangling earrings.
“Sara and Archie really did a great job,” Paul glanced around the ballroom at the ice sculpture, floral arrangements, circular tables set with linen cloths, tiny white lanterns with flickering candles, silverware, crystal goblets, and white plates. “I’m impressed.”
Twenty-eight years old, the man was tall and muscular, and like Heather, worked out daily at the gym. His hair was dark and he wore it short and heavily layered, flattering his chiseled features. Paul, a lawyer by training, had moved to Peachtree Point several years earlier, deciding to leave Boston and move to the coast. He owned a small chain of bookstores scattered around in Massachusetts and New Hampshire cities and their outlying suburbs. When he was considering opening another Book Depot in Peachtree, he’d fallen in love with the town and decided to buy a home and settle there. He and Heather had been dating for two years.
Also twenty-eight years old, Frank Short was another story. Born and raised in Peachtree Point, he’d left only long enough to earn his degrees. He taught English at the regional high school, the same school he, Heather, and Sylvie had attended. He was two inches shorter than Paul’s six feet two inches. His dark blond hair was naturally wavy and always looked as if he was in need of a haircut, since he tended to wear it a little long. He had classic features, looking more like one of the romantic poets than a school teacher. He and Sylvie had dated on and off since high school, and had gotten engaged six months ago.
The four of them entered the ballroom of the Seaside Inn together, each accepting a glass of sparkling wine from one of the catering staff who approached them with a silver serving tray.
Heather saw lots of people she knew either as patrons of the library, members of the writers’ group, or townspeople, and she and Sylvie went over to chat with some of them while Frank and Paul walked over to talk to a couple of friends they’d spotted in the crowd.
The guest of honor was nowhere to be seen. Liza Collins was standing near one of the tables laden with food, wringing her hands and looking nervously toward the door.
“Where do you suppose Fiona Fulbright is?” Sylvie asked Heather.
“From the look on her face, I’d say Liza is wondering the very same thing,” Heather replied. “My guess is that Fiona is planning a grand entrance.”
No sooner had Heather said the words than Fiona swept into the ballroom like a grand duchess, followed by a young woman with a notebook and a slender, fox faced man in his early sixties, who glanced about the room nervously.
Fiona’s ample figure was swathed in a cloud of black silk and chiffon in what could only be described as a cross between a caftan and a medieval robe. Her platinum hair fell in long ringlets around her round face.
Liza visibly relaxed as Fiona made her way to the center of the room and was immediately swallowed up by a crowd of aspiring writers. As the swarm obscured Heather’s view, she was happy not to have to see the look of smug self-satisfaction on Fiona’s face.
“Let’s go talk to Liza.” Heather had a look of disgust on her face.
“Might as well,” Sylvie replied with a smile. “I don’t think I can stomach watching Fiona holding court. Just seeing her for a few seconds makes me want to get away from her. ”
“Speaking of stomachs,” Heather said. “Let’s check out all that delicious-looking food on the table near Liza. I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
“Good idea,” Sylvie agreed. “I heard that Sara and Archie spent days baking and cooking for tonight. We sure don’t want to miss out on that.”
Everyone in Peachtree Point knew that Sara and Archie were two of the best chefs in New Hampshire, perhaps in all of New England. The Bakers had owned a very successful catering business outside of Boston before buying the old Seaside mansion and turning it into an inn known both for its genuine hospitality, as well as for its excellent food. People came from all over the country and from Europe to enjoy their pastries, cakes, dinners, and hors d’oeuvres and the Bakers received almost daily calls from people wanting them to cater one event or another.
After filling their plates with goodies, Heather and Sylvie approached Liza who was talking to the man with the vulture-like features. With an unfriendly expression, he eyed the two women warily as they approached.
“I’m so glad to see you,” Liza said to Heather and Sylvie. “This is Avis Morrey, Fiona’s literary agent,” she said, turning toward the man and placing her hand near his shoulder.
Avis Morrey twitched slightly as Liza’s hand came to rest on his arm. Clearly, he resented the familiarity and was struggling with himself not to shrug off her hand.
Morrey nodded curtly to the two women, then excused himself and scurried off in Fiona’s direction.
Apparently thinking nothing of the agent’s abrupt exit, Liza went on. “There’s someone else you should meet.” She looked past Heather and Sylvie, obviously scanning the gathering for the person she wanted to introduce. She waved to the young woman who had entered the room with Fiona and Avis Morrey.
The woman waved back and Liza motioned for her to come over and join them.
Meghan Lincoln rapidly crossed the ballroom to join the three women. Again, Liza made the introductions. “Meghan is Fiona’s indispensable personal assistant. You’ll be working with her on the logistics for tomorrow’s book signing and the later critique sessions.”
Heather thought Liza’s voice held a note of relief that at least this was one aspect of the conference she didn’t have to take personal responsibility for.
Meghan Lincoln was slender with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. She wore a long black silk skirt paired with a white blouse, and her hair was combed into a sleek and elegant chignon.
Heather would have thought she was the epitome of professional competence and confidence if it weren’t for the haunted, nervous look in her eyes. Meghan’s manner made Heather feel uneasy.
Having observed Fiona Fulbright’s high-handedness, she thought she could understand the cause of that look. Being Fiona’s PA could hardly be an easy job. Heather doubted she herself would last a day in that role.
“Yes, let’s go over the plan for tomorrow,” Meghan said as she gave Heather and Sylvie cold, rigid handshakes and a stiff smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Fiona is a stickler for things going off as planned.”
Oh, I’ll just bet she is, Heather thought to herself.
Meghan opened the leather-bound notebook that Heather had noticed earlier and flipped to the page with tomorrow’s date. She’d just opened her mouth to say something when a loud voice could be heard over the soft music playing in the background.
Someone shouted, “You conniving, deceitful hack.”
All heads snapped towards the direction of the voice. It had come from a very attractive redhead standing in the middle of the ballroom facing the small crowd encircling Fiona Hill.
“I beg your pardon,” Fiona answered back, pushing her way through the crowd of her admirers and parting them with her arms like some plump, literary Moses parting the Red Sea. “How dare you come here and insult me. Where is security?” Fiona screeched. “Someone needs to remove this ... this ... woman.”
Heather shot a look in Liza’s direction to see that her face looked as if someone had slapped her.
“Oh, no,” Liza groaned.
Meghan Lincoln stood stock still, every muscle in her slender body tensed.
The red-haired woman strode toward Fiona, who immediately sought refuge behind two of the writers in the crowd.
“You stay away from me,” Fiona yelled at the advancing figure. “What are you doing here? You’re crazy.”
Heather slipped her cell phone from her clutch and stepped away from the others. She pressed 911 and described to the dispatcher the scene that was unfolding at the Seaside Inn, then she returned her phone to the purse and re-joined the others.
“Should someone call the police?” Liza asked anxiously. “I never thought we would need security for a cocktail party.”
“I’ve called them,” Heather said, then turned to Meghan. “Do you know the woman accosting Fiona? Has this happened before?”
Meghan nodded. Her lips were pressed together so tightly that they were edged in white. “That’s Olivia Olsen. She claims that Fiona plagiarized her manuscript. Fiona has an order of protection against her, but clearly it isn’t working.”
“Is that her real name or her pen name?” Sylvie asked. “Romance writers seem to love alliteration.”
“It’s her real name,” Meghan said with a sigh.
“Who would’ve thought there’d be a scene at the welcoming event.” Sylvie wiggled her eyelashes at Heather.
Everyone was laser focused on Olivia Olsen who had momentarily stopped her advance on Fiona.
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