Chafer - Murder in March

MURDER IN MARCH

ACalendar Mystery

CAMILLACHAFER

Murder in March

Copyright: CamillaChafer

Published: March 2018

ISBN:978-1-909577-18-3

The rightof Camilla Chafer to be identified as author of this Work has beenasserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of theCopyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Allrights 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 otherwisetransmitted without written permission from the publisher. You mustnot circulate this book in any format.

Visit the author online at www.camillachafer.com tosign up to her mailing list and for more information on othertitles.

Calendar Mysteries

Jeopardyin January

Fear inFebruary

Murder inMarch

Contents

Dedication

For Teri,who is nothing like Esther!

Murder in March

AvaMarch has a big secret. The ultra-reclusive author behind thesensational Miranda Marchmont romantic novels has decided shedoesnt want to write anymore bodice rippers, not when she could bewriting daring thrillers instead.

WhenAvas loudmouth agent, Esther Drummond, comes to town, she is boundand determined to persuade her star author to write a few moreglamorous novels rather than the books Ava prefers to write.Naturally, Ava knows she must refuse. The only problem that arisesis when Avas eyes land on Esthers hotshot publisher, MarkBoudreaux, whom she brought along as backup. Hes exactly like thekind of hero Ava wishes she could meet in real life. Just as Avaplucks up the courage to turn Esther down, she discovers heragents dead body. To make matters even worse, Esther has beenkilled in exactly the same way that Ava described in her rejectedmanuscript.

With Avaas the prime suspect with an apparent motive for murder, andcherry-picked manuscript pages appearing around town, Avas quiet,former existence is at risk of being ripped away. Theres only onething this wannabe thriller writer can do: Ava must channel herinner action heroine and solve the murder before her life becomesno more than a terrifying footnote.

ChapterOne

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

Rockingback in my comfortably padded chair, I recrossed my ankles, whichwere resting on my desk, and stared out the second-floor window ofthe bedroom that I'd turned into my home office. A small room, itwas nicely situated at the front of the house where I couldoverlook the entire row of gorgeous, gingerbread Victorian houseson Magnolia Street. Today's view was particularly pleasant. Greenleaves were newly sprouting on the street's namesake trees again,and all the lawns looked lush after the past two months ofrainfall. Eager shoots were pushing through the freshly weededflowerbeds. Even better, it hadn't rained in a few days and I wassure the temperature was a little warmer when I went out for mymorning walk.

"Did youhear me?" barked Esther.

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

"I'm not sure you did. I sold three books to your publisherand you've only delivered two! The last one wasn't... well, letsjust say it wasn't as thrilling as some of your bestsellers. Or as sexy! They'll certainlydemand a rewrite! That's what you need to concentrate on. Yourromance novels! Not those tired spy thrillers or whatever you weretalking about when you sent me that awful manuscript. A manuscriptI didn't even ask for!" she yelled.

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

"Infact, the publishers were so unhappy with your latest romancemanuscript," Esther cut in, "that I decided I must book a flightimmediately and come down to that funny, little town you livein..."

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

"I thinkI must speak to you in person," continued Esther, ignoring me as ifI hadn't even replied. "The publisher insisted on coming too. Hesthe new guy. Mark Boudreaux. He took over from Mike Johanssen whenhe retired last month. Mark said he's been emailing you but rarelygets an answer."

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

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

"Esther,I..." There was no use in protesting as the dial tone soundedaudibly. Esther employed her usual trick of yelling down the phoneline, refusing to listen to a word I had to say, and abruptlyhanging up. I bolted upright as her ominous words hit me, and myfeet hit the hardwood floor. What did Esther just say about flyingdown with Mark? Tomorrow? "No!" I screamed into the room. On thesofa, my sleeping cat squealed before launching herself out of theroom in a ball of white fluff and stumpy legs. "Sorry, Purrdie," Ishouted after her as my shoulders slumped.

I got upand paced the floor, trying to work out my response to Esther'sannouncement. The problem was, I couldn't see any way of stoppingher from traveling to meet me. Even worse, she was right. Well, notcompletely; but I had delivered a sub-par manuscript to mypublishers. After writing a dozen door-stopping romances and livingmy life through a lens of glamorous fictional heroines,swoon-worthy silver-tongued heroes, and sumptuous locations, I'dhad enough.

Even mypen name, Miranda Marchmont, was a work of fiction.

Fewpeople knew I, Ava March, was the actual woman behind the glossyromances. I turned down photographs, chat show requests, radiointerviews, book signings and more; all the things that irkedEsther; especially after my last half dozen books managed to hitthe top of all the bestseller lists. Esther encouraged me to travelfrom hotel to hotel on promotional tours and book signings, and tosit 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 mycat, Purrdie, in total obscurity. That was how Miranda Marchmonthad suddenly become an international woman of mystery.

Istopped pacing when I remembered Esther's latest suggestion: tohire an actress to pretend to be Miranda Marchmont. I persuaded herto give that up when I pointed out how difficult it would be foranyone to actually carry off the ruse. One false word, or anuncontrolled photo of the actress, and the chase to discover thereal Miranda Marchmont would be relentless.

And nowEsther intended to make her own appearance in my towntomorrow!

Iglanced at my laptop, which lay on the desk I bought with my firstpaycheck from the publisher. The antique desk had a lovely, reddishpatina and two sets of drawers that made up the legs. It wasattractively situated under the window and the surface wasscattered with all my things: pens and notepads, an old-fashionedhourglass I purchased from the same antique shop as the desk, asmall bowl of fruit and my cellphone. The laptop was in the middleof everything, like a shiny, white beacon. Yet no matter how oftenI tried, I couldn't start writing the last romance I was due tosend my publishers to complete my contract. None of the words Ichose seemed any good.