A Willing Murder (Medlar Mystery 1)

“At eleven?” Kate said.

Sara was cleaning the countertops. “I wouldn’t be shocked at all. Sex was part of what I used to write about. Knees, hands, mouths, where what went when. Sometimes I had to use action figures to keep body parts straight. After that, I don’t embarrass easily.”

Kate ate one of Jack’s million-calorie cheesy bacon bits. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I like your books. I had to sneak to read them or Mom would have been angry.”

“When you were eleven?” Jack mocked her tone.

“No. Last month. My mother believes I’m a virgin.”

“I think you’re a virgin,” Jack said.

“More of your fanciful dreams?” Kate said. “Speaking of sublime sexual fantasies, would you mind if I invited Alastair Stewart to the house? He’d like to see what you’ve done with it.”

“Everyone in Lachlan wants to see this house,” Jack said. “But it’s private.”

“Don’t let me forget to send Detective Cotilla an autographed book.”

“You should hold a big autographing and clean out the garage,” Jack said. “There must be a hundred boxes in there. Wish I could give a book to Cheryl.” He halted, the last bacon bit on the way to his mouth.

Kate’s eyes opened wide, and Sara froze, dishcloth in hand. They looked at one another.

“An autographing in memory of Cheryl and Verna Morris,” Jack said.

“And when they come to meet the world-famous, reclusive author Sara Medlar, we’ll ask them questions,” Kate said.

Sara groaned. “I liked the idea up until now, but I don’t relish being the bait.”

Jack held out the last bacon-and-cheese to Kate and she took it.

“The funeral is Tuesday,” Kate said. “It’s Friday. Is there time to arrange something? And what about the funeral itself? Where does the county bury unwanted people?”

“Unwanted. What an awful word!” Sara looked at Jack. “Think your mom and Ivy could arrange a nice funeral? Lots of flowers? My expense?”

“Of course,” Jack said.

“And a memorial service held in this house?” Kate asked. “Food, et cetera?”

Sara nodded, but she looked like she was agreeing to her execution.

Jack spoke up. “People will come if there’s food but how do we weed out the ones who know nothing about Cheryl or her mom?”

“Good point,” Kate said. “What man is going to say that he was insane with lust for the sweet, innocent Cheryl? Or was a client of Verna?”

Sara walked around the counter. “If you offer people something they really, really want, you can usually get them to give you something you want.”

“I don’t mean to be a downer,” Kate said, “but a pretty house and a free book aren’t going to make people confess to murder.”

“Jack!” Sara said. “How much do people of this town want to see what you did to the Stewart Mansion?”

“An arm’s worth. And maybe a leg. Definitely give up their firstborn.”

Kate opened her mouth to ask why, but Sara put up her hand. “The Stewart family used to own all the land that the town’s built on. Take it from someone who’s written eleven medieval novels, this place was a fiefdom. Old Judge Stewart was a tyrant—but he was a good despot. Fair and just, as well as ruthless.”

She took a step away. “His son was in my class in high school. Nice guy, but he wimped out and married a snob of a girl from old money. It was the judge’s idea. He wanted to upgrade the family name.”

“She’s talking about your Viking’s parents.” Jack was smiling.

“People in glass houses,” Kate snapped, then looked at Sara. “You’re saying the peasants would dearly love to see the castle.”