for you”
I was tempted to point out that Bloody Marys
weren’t exactly part of the four healthy food groups,
not to mention contained a high alcohol content, but refrained. Instead, I concentrated on my pancakes and listened. When I was hungry, fortunately my motor mouth
shifted into low gear.
Chrissy clucked her tongue. “I never eat processed
foods or artificial anything.”
“G … g … good for you” George’s eyes kindled in
admiration.
I paused, my fork hovering near my mouth. Was
George infatuated with Chrissy? He was looking at her
as if she were the next best thing to sliced bread. And
he’d been furious when Hillman caused her to breakdown in tears yesterday. Motive for murder? Maybe.
“Aside from Jack’s neighbor, did anyone visit the
house while all of you were still there yesterday?” I
continued eating the pancakes.
“We left shortly after you did,” Burt said. Betty nodded in agreement.
“Me too,” George managed to get out without a
stammer.
Chrissy sighed. “After my poetry session was interrupted, I left. Jack was still arguing with his neighbor,
but no one else showed up”
“How come you’re so interested?” Burt’s tone turned
wary.
Uh-oh. “I’m doing a story on the murder for the Observer,” I replied, all of a sudden feeling like an insect
pinned to the wall by four pairs of razor sharp eyes. “My
editor wants it as the lead story for next week’s edition,
and I’ve got to come through for her. My job is on the
line.”
“Oh,” Chrissy responded. She nibbled on an allnatural granola bar. “If you need an interview or want
to include a picture of me from my blog for the story,
I’d be happy to oblige. Anything for Jack.”
“Thanks. I might take you up on your interview offer.” Anita would probably burn down the newspaper
office before she’d let me promote a blog in the paper.
“What are all of you going to do now that the Writers’
Institute is … defunct?”
“We decided to still meet-right here at Starfish
Lounge” Burt waved his hand in a wide arc around the
table. “We figured that we’d have to give statements to
the police and remain on the island for a while, so we
thought we might as well keep critiquing each other.”
“I have to keep working on my poetry if I want to
make my blog a success by the end of the year,”
Chrissy said.
“I want to keep going on my b … b … book on
shyness,” George added.
“And Betty and I have every intention of finishing our short story collection.” Burt gave a broad smile.
“We all felt it would honor Jack’s memory to keep writing since he believed in us so strongly.”
“That sounds like a plan.” I smiled back weakly.
“Hey, how ‘bout you joining us, Mallie?” Burt said.
“We could review your newspaper stories and help you
become a better journalist-not that our critiquing skills
are in the same league as Jack.”
I opened my mouth to dissent, but then closed it
again. Coming to the critique sessions would keep me
in contact with them, and give me access to any information they might come up with about Jack’s murder.
“Why not? Count me in.”
“Wonderful” Betty clapped her hands. “We’ll meet
you here tomorrow morning and get started”
Everyone joined in with a chorus of approving
exclamations-except Burt. He simply lifted his glass
in a silent toast. I swallowed hard, and not because the
pancakes were lumpy, but because I had just committed
myself to more endless mornings of literary commentary with four strangers any one of whom could’ve been
Jack’s murderer. Oh, goody.
A few hours later, after hearing the group discuss
Chrissy’s “Ode to Jack Hillman: Man of the Earth”written that very morning-I headed back to the Twin
Palms Resort for a swim. I needed to feel the cleansing
calm of the Gulf of Mexico.
I pulled up to my Airstream, noticing the honeymooning couple next door in the behemoth RV still hadn’t
I was tempted to point out that Bloody Marys
weren’t exactly part of the four healthy food groups,
not to mention contained a high alcohol content, but refrained. Instead, I concentrated on my pancakes and listened. When I was hungry, fortunately my motor mouth
shifted into low gear.
Chrissy clucked her tongue. “I never eat processed
foods or artificial anything.”
“G … g … good for you” George’s eyes kindled in
admiration.
I paused, my fork hovering near my mouth. Was
George infatuated with Chrissy? He was looking at her
as if she were the next best thing to sliced bread. And
he’d been furious when Hillman caused her to breakdown in tears yesterday. Motive for murder? Maybe.
“Aside from Jack’s neighbor, did anyone visit the
house while all of you were still there yesterday?” I
continued eating the pancakes.
“We left shortly after you did,” Burt said. Betty nodded in agreement.
“Me too,” George managed to get out without a
stammer.
Chrissy sighed. “After my poetry session was interrupted, I left. Jack was still arguing with his neighbor,
but no one else showed up”
“How come you’re so interested?” Burt’s tone turned
wary.
Uh-oh. “I’m doing a story on the murder for the Observer,” I replied, all of a sudden feeling like an insect
pinned to the wall by four pairs of razor sharp eyes. “My
editor wants it as the lead story for next week’s edition,
and I’ve got to come through for her. My job is on the
line.”
“Oh,” Chrissy responded. She nibbled on an allnatural granola bar. “If you need an interview or want
to include a picture of me from my blog for the story,
I’d be happy to oblige. Anything for Jack.”
“Thanks. I might take you up on your interview offer.” Anita would probably burn down the newspaper
office before she’d let me promote a blog in the paper.
“What are all of you going to do now that the Writers’
Institute is … defunct?”
“We decided to still meet-right here at Starfish
Lounge” Burt waved his hand in a wide arc around the
table. “We figured that we’d have to give statements to
the police and remain on the island for a while, so we
thought we might as well keep critiquing each other.”
“I have to keep working on my poetry if I want to
make my blog a success by the end of the year,”
Chrissy said.
“I want to keep going on my b … b … book on
shyness,” George added.
“And Betty and I have every intention of finishing our short story collection.” Burt gave a broad smile.
“We all felt it would honor Jack’s memory to keep writing since he believed in us so strongly.”
“That sounds like a plan.” I smiled back weakly.
“Hey, how ‘bout you joining us, Mallie?” Burt said.
“We could review your newspaper stories and help you
become a better journalist-not that our critiquing skills
are in the same league as Jack.”
I opened my mouth to dissent, but then closed it
again. Coming to the critique sessions would keep me
in contact with them, and give me access to any information they might come up with about Jack’s murder.
“Why not? Count me in.”
“Wonderful” Betty clapped her hands. “We’ll meet
you here tomorrow morning and get started”
Everyone joined in with a chorus of approving
exclamations-except Burt. He simply lifted his glass
in a silent toast. I swallowed hard, and not because the
pancakes were lumpy, but because I had just committed
myself to more endless mornings of literary commentary with four strangers any one of whom could’ve been
Jack’s murderer. Oh, goody.
A few hours later, after hearing the group discuss
Chrissy’s “Ode to Jack Hillman: Man of the Earth”written that very morning-I headed back to the Twin
Palms Resort for a swim. I needed to feel the cleansing
calm of the Gulf of Mexico.
I pulled up to my Airstream, noticing the honeymooning couple next door in the behemoth RV still hadn’t
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