Free Lethal Lasagna by Rhonda Gibson Page B

leaned forward. Our faces were inches apart. His breath drifted over me, smelling of peppermint. “How?”
    “Since you really don’t know what you want to write, I’m going to suggest you move about the groups. Ask questions about each genre and if an opening comes ask about Mitzi.” He smiled at her for approval.
    A smile touched my lip. It was a first-class plan. “Sounds good to me.”
    His head raised as several students returned to the classroom. “So anything new happen since last night?”
    I nodded. “Jake, Mitzi’s son, called and asked me to pack Mitzi’s stuff. I made a trip to the police and got permission to do so.”
    He stood slowly, the remainder of the class had returned. I smiled at the other writers that sat in my group.
    “That was a quick break.” He announced as he moved to stand at the front of the room. “While we were on break, Ms. Parker and I chatted. She’s not sure what genre she’d like to write.” He smiled in her direction. “She seems to like them all and can’t choose a favorite. So, I have suggested she visit each of our groups. Please tell her why you enjoy writing the genre you have chosen.”
    I watched them nod, some faces looked eager to spend time with me, others indifferent, but Martha simply reflected anger. What caused a woman to feel such resentment? Surely it wasn’t that she was jealous. I turned my attention to the romance writers.
    They smiled.
    TITLE

Lethal Lasagna

Chapter 9
    Later that evening, while I ate supper, my thoughts moved toward what I’d learned about the three romance writers in the creative writing class. I glanced down at the paper that I’d made notes on while talking to them. Their names lined the left hand side under the words “romance writers.”
    Dora Lee, a Southern lady, perhaps sixty years old, with a desire to write at least one bestseller before the Lord calls her home. Blond hair with silver streaks, blue eyes, and dimples. Her reason for writing romance? Expressing to readers that true love can still be found.
    Rikki, the mother of two teenagers, in her early forties, wanted to meet new people. Brown hair framed her heart-shaped face. Green eyes looked tired but excited when she spoke of writing. Her reason for writing romance? Because she loves escaping into another world.
    Then there was Linda Grace, the woman who confessed she’s fifty-five years old. Auburn hair, stark green eyes, and a long face. Very self-assured of publication almost to the point of being brazen. Her reason to write romance? At the time, it seems the easiest to write, and she wanted to prove she could do it.
    I read through them once more. Beside each name I wrote one word to describe each woman. Dora Lee: romantic. Rikki: lonesome. Linda: arrogant.
    Carrying my dishes to the sink, I decided two of the romance authors weren’t suspects in Mitzi’s death. The third, Linda, I hadn’t decided on yet. When they had asked why I was taking the class, I answered, “My friend Mitzi had suggested it.”
    Memories seemed to drift across their faces. Sorrow had filled Dora and Rikki’s eyes. Linda’s had remained cool and uncaring, she claimed to not have known her.
    I walked back to the table and placed a star by Linda’s name. The star represented possible suspect.
    She’d shown no emotion at the mention of my friend’s name. I’d read somewhere that killers have no feelings for their victims. What motive would Linda have to kill Mitzi?
    As I tapped my pencil on the kitchen table, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway grabbed my attention. I glanced out the dining room window. Megan stepped from her car and headed for the backdoor. A moment of guilt stung me. I should have visited her over the weekend, but church and new friends had filled the time.
    Brandon’s handsome face floated through my mind’s eye for a few moments.
    “Mom, you home?” Megan called as she came through the back door.
    I smiled. “Hey, sweetie. What brings you out