Murder in March Read online

  MURDER IN MARCH

  A Calendar Mystery

  CAMILLA CHAFER

  Murder in March

  Copyright: Camilla Chafer

  Published: March 2018

  ISBN: 978-1-909577-18-3

  The right of Camilla Chafer to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  Visit the author online at www.camillachafer.com to sign up to her mailing list and for more information on other titles.

  Calendar Mysteries

  Jeopardy in January

  Fear in February

  Murder in March

  Contents

  Copyright

  Synopsis

  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

  Mailing list sign-up

  Sneak Peek: Alibi in April

  Other books

  Dedication

  For Teri, who is nothing like Esther!

  Murder in March

  Ava March has a big secret. The ultra-reclusive author behind the sensational Miranda Marchmont romantic novels has decided she doesn’t want to write anymore bodice rippers, not when she could be writing daring thrillers instead.

  When Ava’s loudmouth agent, Esther Drummond, comes to town, she is bound and determined to persuade her star author to write a few more glamorous novels rather than the books Ava prefers to write. Naturally, Ava knows she must refuse. The only problem that arises is when Ava’s eyes land on Esther’s hotshot publisher, Mark Boudreaux, whom she brought along as backup. He’s exactly like the kind of hero Ava wishes she could meet in real life. Just as Ava plucks up the courage to turn Esther down, she discovers her agent’s dead body. To make matters even worse, Esther has been killed in exactly the same way that Ava described in her rejected manuscript.

  With Ava as the prime suspect with an apparent motive for murder, and cherry-picked manuscript pages appearing around town, Ava’s quiet, former existence is at risk of being ripped away. There’s only one thing this wannabe thriller writer can do: Ava must channel her inner action heroine and solve the murder before her life becomes no more than a terrifying footnote.

  Chapter One

  "No, Ava, no! I'm sorry, but no!" I held the phone away from my ear as Esther Drummond's nasal, unapologetic voice whined down the line.

  Rocking back in my comfortably padded chair, I recrossed my ankles, which were resting on my desk, and stared out the second-floor window of the bedroom that I'd turned into my home office. A small room, it was nicely situated at the front of the house where I could overlook the entire row of gorgeous, gingerbread Victorian houses on Magnolia Street. Today's view was particularly pleasant. Green leaves were newly sprouting on the street's namesake trees again, and all the lawns looked lush after the past two months of rainfall. Eager shoots were pushing through the freshly weeded flowerbeds. Even better, it hadn't rained in a few days and I was sure the temperature was a little warmer when I went out for my morning walk.

  "Did you hear me?" barked Esther.

  I put the phone back to my ear. "Yes, Esther, I heard you," I said, trying not to sigh at my agent's shrieked question. My neighbors probably also heard her!

  "I'm not sure you did. I sold three books to your publisher and you've only delivered two! The last one wasn't... well, let’s just say it wasn't as thrilling as some of your bestsellers. Or as sexy! They'll certainly demand a rewrite! That's what you need to concentrate on. Your romance novels! Not those tired spy thrillers or whatever you were talking about when you sent me that awful manuscript. A manuscript I didn't even ask for!" she yelled.

  I held the phone away from my ear until the last syllable died away. Placing the handset to my ear again, I sucked in a determined breath and said, "I really want to try..."

  "In fact, the publishers were so unhappy with your latest romance manuscript," Esther cut in, "that I decided I must book a flight immediately and come down to that funny, little town you live in..."

  "Calendar isn't fun..." I started to protest. "Wait. What? You're going to book a flight to come here?"

  "I think I must speak to you in person," continued Esther, ignoring me as if I hadn't even replied. "The publisher insisted on coming too. He’s the new guy. Mark Boudreaux. He took over from Mike Johanssen when he retired last month. Mark said he's been emailing you but rarely gets an answer."

  "Mark Boudreaux?" I cringed. Esther was right. Mark had already sent a dozen emails and I replied to a total of one. His last email was short and polite, but I knew he was clearly irritated.

  "That's him. He wants to talk to you in person too. I can only guess what it might be about, since he hasn't mentioned asking for your advance back. I can only figure he must be as frustrated as I am. We're booked into the Maple Something-or-other Hotel. I remember you said it was the only decent place to stay in town. It had better be nice! We'll be there tomorrow and I expect you’ll have a good explanation for why there's barely a bodice being ripped in your supposed next bestseller!"

  "Esther, I..." There was no use in protesting as the dial tone sounded audibly. Esther employed her usual trick of yelling down the phone line, refusing to listen to a word I had to say, and abruptly hanging up. I bolted upright as her ominous words hit me, and my feet hit the hardwood floor. What did Esther just say about flying down with Mark? Tomorrow? "No!" I screamed into the room. On the sofa, my sleeping cat squealed before launching herself out of the room in a ball of white fluff and stumpy legs. "Sorry, Purrdie," I shouted after her as my shoulders slumped.

  I got up and paced the floor, trying to work out my response to Esther's announcement. The problem was, I couldn't see any way of stopping her from traveling to meet me. Even worse, she was right. Well, not completely; but I had delivered a sub-par manuscript to my publishers. After writing a dozen door-stopping romances and living my life through a lens of glamorous fictional heroines, swoon-worthy silver-tongued heroes, and sumptuous locations, I'd had enough.

  Even my pen name, Miranda Marchmont, was a work of fiction.

  Few people knew I, Ava March, was the actual woman behind the glossy romances. I turned down photographs, chat show requests, radio interviews, book signings and more; all the things that irked Esther; especially after my last half dozen books managed to hit the top of all the bestseller lists. Esther encouraged me to travel from hotel to hotel on promotional tours and book signings, and to sit on all the chat show couches in order to make even more money. I preferred to stay home in my pretty Victorian house and cuddle my cat, Purrdie, in total obscurity. That was how Miranda Marchmont had suddenly become an international woman of mystery.

  I stopped pacing when I remembered Esther's latest suggestion: to hire an actress to pretend to be Miranda Marchmont. I persuaded her to give that up when I pointed out how difficult it would be f
or anyone to actually carry off the ruse. One false word, or an uncontrolled photo of the actress, and the chase to discover the real Miranda Marchmont would be relentless.

  And now Esther intended to make her own appearance in my town tomorrow!

  I glanced at my laptop, which lay on the desk I bought with my first paycheck from the publisher. The antique desk had a lovely, reddish patina and two sets of drawers that made up the legs. It was attractively situated under the window and the surface was scattered with all my things: pens and notepads, an old-fashioned hourglass I purchased from the same antique shop as the desk, a small bowl of fruit and my cellphone. The laptop was in the middle of everything, like a shiny, white beacon. Yet no matter how often I tried, I couldn't start writing the last romance I was due to send my publishers to complete my contract. None of the words I chose seemed any good.

  Apparently, I hadn't been at my best in the last one I submitted either, but at least, I managed to send it in on time.

  I knew the reason: I was tired of writing schmaltzy tales of romance. Instead, I secretly preferred to write the page-turner I'd been penning in my spare time. Esther had told me she wasn’t interested in it weeks ago but after wrapping up the ending only the day before, I experienced a moment of bravery and emailed it to Esther. I was just reading over my email pitch again when Esther called. I hadn't even gotten the chance to hit print to get my own copy on paper.

  My conversation with Esther blew all the wind out of my excited sails. Partly because she was right. I was under contract to deliver three new romances to my publisher. I'd already delivered the first, which was being published this week. I also delivered the second, which everyone hated it, including me. And the third just refused to be written, no matter how many times I started it.

  If I wanted to keep my advance, and continue to write again, I had to produce that last book. Except I just couldn't muster the motivation to write about another fabulously coiffed and fashionably dressed woman navigating her way through high-class worlds before snagging a billionaire suitor with impossibly good hair.

  I wanted to write about car chases, and high-end thefts, and daring getaways. I didn't want my girl to necessarily wind up with the guy at the end either because she was awesome enough all by herself. So what if I couldn't remember the last time I had a boyfriend? It had nothing to do with my current abstention of romantic inclinations.

  Okay, maybe just a little bit.

  "Perhaps it's time Miranda Marchmont retires," I said to the empty room as I reached over and shut my laptop. I knew I couldn't write anymore words today. "The real Ava March needs to get a life."

  Walking out of my study, I crossed the pretty rug that spanned the landing's hardwood floors and descended the stairs. Naturally, Miranda Marchmont had paid for the house and everything inside it. Being Miranda Marchmont came with some eye-watering checks, money that was hard to pass up if I wanted to maintain my comfortable lifestyle. As I thought about it now, I wondered what there was to maintain. Sure, my house was paid off and I splurged a little by buying a convertible, which was not all that practical for Calendar, the sleepy, mountain town I lived in. But what else did I do? Certainly nothing lavish. I didn't even have a passport. My experience of the locations I wrote gloriously about came strictly via television and books. Having spent so long being wrapped up in my make-believe world, I'd stopped doing anything in the real one.

  Taking a quick look around the house for my scared cat, I gave up when I couldn't find Purrdie's hiding spot. She probably escaped through the cat flap fixed in the kitchen door and gone for a stroll around the neighborhood gardens.

  Perhaps a walk was exactly what I needed to clear my head of Esther's screeching and my own fug. I returned to the front door and grabbed my burg-lined coat from the wall hook. After wrapping my cheerful, pink scarf around my neck, I pulled on a matching pink hat over my long, red hair. Opening the front door, I patted my coat pocket for my keys, and promptly left the house.

  On the garden path, I routinely inspected the ground for new shoots, and spotted a cluster of fresh daffodil leaves. The thought of the cheerful, yellow blooms brightened my dim mood and I took off for Main Street with a noticeably lighter step.

  A good walk would definitely improve my outlook, I decided as I strolled. I planned to get a coffee and a muffin or a cookie at the Coffee Corner Café, then stroll along Main Street and look at the window displays while doing a little people-watching. I never knew when or where the muse of inspiration might hit me. Perhaps the cold winter months were to blame for plunging me into a funk. December and January were both hideously cold and the large blizzards of snowfall they left eventually became a deluge of rain that continued well into February. At least the newspaper provided plenty of excitement with a murder at the library and a fatal poisoning at the new Belle Rose restaurant! I smiled. Perhaps that was the real reason why my imagination was set on writing a thriller rather than another saccharine romance.

  Fifteen minutes later, I turned onto Main Street and walked directly to the café. I pushed the door and the little bell overhead jingled, announcing my arrival.

  "Hi, Ava. We haven't seen you in a couple of weeks!" called the owner, Jaclyn, as I stepped inside.

  I looked around until I spotted her bent over in two as she slid a fresh tray of cookies into the glass-fronted display case. Straightening up, she smiled. "Have you been very busy with your virtual assistant work?" she asked, moving around until she stood between the display case and the register. "I suppose a lot of people are deep into this year's workload now," she continued.

  That was my cover. A few years ago, someone assumed that because I worked from home, I must be a virtual assistant. I simply went along with it rather than reveal what I really did for a living. It wasn't because I was embarrassed about what I wrote, but rather, my need to elude the legions of fans that continued to proliferate the more successful my books became. There were even several websites dedicated to my books and a fan club called “Team Forward Marchmont” that Esther and my publishers oversaw.

  "That's right," I agreed with a ready nod and a smile. "Lots of typing still to do!"

  "Well, what can I get you?"

  The scent of freshly baked cookies made me salivate. "An almond milk latte please, and I'll take one of those chocolate chip cookies too."

  "To go or eat in?"

  "To go, please. I thought I'd do a little window shopping."

  "Make sure you pass by the bookstore. They just set up a display for the latest Miranda Marchmont novel. I'm going over there on my break to pick up a copy. I can hardly wait to read it!"

  I blinked in surprise. "You read romances?"

  "My guilty pleasure," admitted Jaclyn, nodding. "My sister loaned me The Billionaire and the Summer Bride and I read it so quickly that I just had to get Dangerous Love and all the rest of her books from the library. I can't wait for Sara Cutler to order her newest book so I thought I'd treat myself. Have you read it?"

  "The new one? No."

  "You really should. They're the perfect escape stories. So unlike our dull life here in our little, sleepy, mountain town!"

  "There's been plenty of excitement here recently," I reminded her.

  "Oh, I know," said Jaclyn with a flap of her hand, "but it's not the same as living the life of one of those characters. You know, I think I might book a trip to Europe next year. I bet Miranda Marchmont travels all over the world. She must lead such an exciting life to conceive all those great ideas. Here's your coffee and it was a chocolate chip cookie, right?"

  I confirmed it was, and Jaclyn packed the cookie in a little, striped paper bag. I paid and left, waving to her through the window before she turned away to serve her next customer. I nibbled my cookie and shook my head. If only Jaclyn realized she was talking to the real Miranda Marchmont! How disappointed she would have been to find out that I was not embracing the exciting existence she thought I was.

  I dawdled along Main Street and bought a new notepa
d from the stationers. I also examined the fancy hiking equipment displayed in Delaney's Sporting Goods, ready and waiting for the tourists to buy. They weren't a patch on my dad's camping store around the corner but the tourists loved their fashionable "glamping" items. Next, I browsed the menu on the display outside The Grill and made a mental note to invite my mom to lunch. I stopped into the deli and picked up some cheese, crackers, and olives for my supper before I continued my stroll, sipping my almond latte.

  The window display in Sparkes' Bookshop grabbed my attention, drawing me in. Myriad children's adventure books, the kinds I used to read when I was little, were layered on a plaster model of a castle on a hilltop. Parts of the hill had been cleverly carved out to form narrow ledges for the books. A Lionel train set was assembled below, and a tiny, vintage train steamed past and disappeared into a tunnel below the castle before it came whizzing around again. The whole exhibition was enchanting. I stepped past the door to look at the display on the other side of the shop front.

  My mouth dropped open. The other whole window was devoted to Take My Breath Away, my latest Miranda Marchmont novel. Mounds of books were stacked on top of each other, some already opened to the salacious pages to give readers snippets of the story within. The display echoed the tropical setting: a beach bag stuffed with a beach towel, a tube of sun lotion peeking out and a copy of the novel. Sandals, tropical flowers, and a cocktail glass filled with colored liquid and a garish umbrella finished the tableau. Even beach sand was lightly sprinkled across the display case. A little sign boasted Signed copies available inside!

  I remembered signing them too. Mike Johanssen insisted I fly out and spend a whole day in a cold room to autograph countless boxes of books that were to be shipped all over the country. My hand had cramped by the end of the day but Esther treated me to a delicious steak dinner. She raved about the projected sales the whole time.