The Corpse in the Cabana

we were housed in separate buildings, she waved goodbye and tottered off across the brick paved courtyard. I sank down on one of the benches lining the walkway. It was well past midnight, but I wasn’t ready to go to my room. My blood was still thrumming from the earlier excitement. Hopefully by tomorrow all the gossip would be about Natasha’s behavior rather than about Cheryl. Poor thing would be so embarrassed come morning. She was usually so quiet and reserved, but put a few drinks in her and anything could happen.
“You look like you could use a drink.”
I glanced up. “Are you following me?”
Lucas’s brilliant white smile flashed, and he gave an elegant shrug. I noticed his suit jacket was gone. Likely in deference to the lingering heat of the day. “It’s a small resort. I’m buying.”
“Well then,” I said, standing up and smoothing the skirt of my mint-green sundress, “I’m drinking. Lead on.”
The lobby bar was the only place open that late at night. The round bar, ringed by black leather barstools, sat in the center of the hotel lobby, serving coffee in the morning and booze at night. A couple of other NWA members sat chatting over glasses of wine. Either they’d missed the excitement in the ballroom or they didn’t care, as neither of them gave us a second look.
The bartender of the evening was a middle-aged man with a buzz cut and a cheerful expression. He was slicing lemons, wielding the very large butcher knife in his hand with the sort of grace I always envied.
“What’s your poison?” Lucas asked as the bartender came around to take our orders.
I settled carefully onto the barstool, careful not to tip it over. I was not a small woman, which could make such perches rather treacherous. “Blackberry bourbon, please. On the rocks.”
He lifted an eyebrow as if he found my beverage choice interesting, but said nothing. He ordered an Old Fashioned for himself, and we sat in silence, watching the bartender work his magic.
Drinks in hand, Lucas lifted his glass in a toast. “To new friends and interesting times.”
“Isn’t that a curse?”
He appeared amused. “Only if you want it to be.”
I took a thoughtful sip of my bourbon. “I guess time will tell.”
I had no idea how prophetic my words would be.

Chapter 2
A Diabolical Discovery
LUCAS WOULD HAVE BEEN happy to buy me another drink and continue talking, but I was mere chapters from finishing my latest novel, The Studly Cowboy’s Mail Order Bride. Dixon and Daphne, the aforementioned cowboy and his bride, were cornered by a gang of notorious outlaws, and Dixon had only two bullets left. All very exciting. I was sure my readers were going to love it.
When I first started writing, I’d decided thrillers were where it was at. Romantic ones, of course, but that was four years before the genre became popular, and my books didn’t sell. Plus, I might have had a flair for the melodramatic. Just a touch. After that, I’d tried just about every genre you can imagine: erotic romance, paranormal, contemporary. Nothing worked. And then I tried a historical romance with just a touch of over-the-top drama. It sold like proverbial hotcakes. And the rest, as they say, was history. My rabid readers couldn’t get enough of the bodice rippers I gleefully churned out. I love it. They loved it. It was sort of perfect. Sure, people looked down their noses and called my books “trash,” but I laughed all the way to the bank.
As I wove my way across the courtyard of the resort, perhaps a tiny bit tipsy from too much blackberry bourbon, my mind was completely focused on the next scene I would write. How was I going to get Dixon and Daphne out of their dreadful situation? I smirked a little as a couple of different options came to mind. Followed, naturally, by Daphne throwing herself at Dixon. I could see it all very clearly in my mind. Talk about steamy. My fingers itched for my keyboard.
Loud voices derailed my train of thought. Frowning, I glanced around the courtyard trying to find the culprits. When I caught sight of the shadowy figures beneath a small cluster of palm trees, I shook my head. Of course, Natasha Winters was right in the thick of it. She was yelling rather drunkenly at what looked like her almost-ex-husband, Jason. It was hard to tell what with the shadows, but he was the right height and build, and he had on the same color shirt I’d seen Jason wearing: that awful striped shirt, which suited his frame and complexion not at all.
“Listen, you nitwit,” Natasha snarled. “I am tired of financing you and your little floozy. I’m done.”
Oh, juicy. I knew Jason had cheated on Natasha. Everyone in the romance industry did. That was why their marriage broke up. Natasha had gone on a drunken social media rant. There’d even been pictures, though those had been taken down eventually. But plenty of screen shots of her meltdown remained. Most writers would probably end up with their careers in the toilet. Not Natasha. Her sales had skyrocketed. The bigger and crazier her rants, the more people gobbled up her books.
Of course, the ridiculous thing was that Natasha had been cheating on Jason for years. Everyone knew that, too. Or at least everyone who went to writer conventions. Natasha would always end up with some random waiter, bartender, or male stripper for the weekend. Somehow that was okay, but the minute Jason strayed, she was done. Frankly, if I were Jason, I’d have dumped her ages ago. Of course, there was the money to consider. From my understanding, Jason hadn’t worked at a regular job in years, thanks to Natasha’s income. For a while, that had been fine. Apparently, Natasha finally grew tired of Jason and his girlfriend sponging off of her. Couldn’t say I blamed Natasha.
Jason held up his hands, placating. “Listen, Tash—.”
“Don’t call me that. Don’t