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Homicide Detective Gary Northcutt entered the conference room at Wild Capers to find the place crowded with members of the Lieu du Crime writers group.
He soon learned there were several writers there that were not local residents. Since the release of BJ Donovan’s debut novel, aspiring writers from around the region had come to meet her and, Gary guessed, to glean a few insider tips useful to the publishing industry.
Okay, so that’s why I’m here. Along with an invitation to join her at the chef’s table.
He was taken aback when she finally followed up on her offer of a get-together over coffee. Dining at her restaurant was way better than drinking coffee at Benyay’s. There was only so much coffee he could consume in a day, so their time together would’ve been limited. Not to mention he’d be bouncing off the walls from the caffeine.
He sat on a black metal fold out chair against the back wall.
Smiled when his roving gaze fell on her.
A red dress, and a matching red headband on pale yellow hair covering her shoulders. She folded her hands neatly on top of several sheets of paper. Paid close attention to Secretary Epps as she read the minutes of their last meeting.
Loud round of applause.
The secretary moved out of the treasurer’s way, and returned to her seat beside the podium. The microphone squeaked horribly when the short man tried hard to adjust it down to his height.
Snickering and whispering arose from four young people sitting close together.
Gary shook his head in disappointment of their behavior.
The treasurer droned on and on about facts and figures.
Gary gave up following questions asked and answered about an upcoming joint book signing. He had too many other things on his mind.
A sudden roar of applause.
The moment they’d all been waiting for was upon them. The critique hour. The time when everyone, published and non, was encouraged to read an excerpt from his or her work-in-progress and receive feedback, positive and non.
BJ, the thirteenth writer to stand before her peers, exuded a great deal of confidence. She read slowly and clearly. A hush fell over the room. Everyone seemed captivated by the tone of her voice and her soft-spoken accent.
Gary leaned forward in his seat, clasped his hands and let them hang between his knees. He tilted his head near the end of her piece. Then his jaw dropped.
Odd-colored handcuffs? Red on yellow? Seems a little strange she’d use a critical piece of evidence, attached to a real-life murder investigation, in her novel.
She’d read something else from her excerpt he could’ve sworn was confidential information. Couldn’t remember what. Gary studied her interaction with the writer beside her.
Is someone in the department whispering in her ear? If so, why?
His chest tightened.
If word gets around Donovan’s using this information in her unpublished novel, will people think I am her whisperer? Damn. Not people, Lucas Cantin. He’s been acting strange, here lately. Kind of secretive. What’s he got he doesn’t want me to have?