Free Death by Coffee by Alex Erickson

ceased. I’d hoped to wait out in the hall and eavesdrop for a few minutes, especially if they were talking about Brendon’s death. Since my cover was blown, I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered the room.
    Five faces turned toward me.
    “Uh, hi,” I said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. This wasn’t just a bad idea—it was a horrible one!
    “Oh, my!” Rita stood and waved her hands frantically in front of her face as if she was about to hyperventilate. “You came! You really came!” She hurried across the room and grabbed my hand. She all but dragged me inside.
    “Everyone,” she said, “this is Kristina Hancock. She’s James Hancock’s daughter.”
    There were murmurs of greeting that ranged from indifferent to, well, indifferent. Clearly, Rita was the only one who thought of me as some sort of minor celebrity. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I felt a faint twinge of disappointment. Sue me.
    “Hi,” I said. “It’s Krissy, really.”
    Rita beamed at me and led me to a rickety-looking chair. I sat down and it creaked and listed alarmingly. I shifted so I was sitting on the very edge of the seat. That way, if the thing collapsed, I might make it to my feet before I went down with it.
    Rita took a recliner next to me. Her chair looked almost new. “Now,” she said, “I suppose we should have a round of introductions.” She smiled at me. “I’ll go first.”
    Rita introduced herself, which was kind of pointless, since everyone there had already met her. It wasn’t much of a surprise to learn she wrote mysteries.
    “Next,” she said when she was done.
    The woman to her right smiled at me. She had white hair fluffed up around her head like a curly cloud. She wore reading glasses perched at the end of her nose. A delicate chain ran from them to around her neck. She was sitting in a rocking chair and looked like someone’s grandma. The only things missing were a ball of yarn in her lap and knitting needles in her hands.
    “I’m Georgina McCully,” she said. “I write romantic fiction based in the Appalachian Valley.”
    And around we went.
    The woman beside her wasn’t quite as old, but her hair was a steely gray and fine lines spiderwebbed out from her eyes. She didn’t quite smile at me when she introduced herself as Andi Caldwell. She apparently wrote literary fiction—whatever that meant.
    Next to her was a middle-aged man who looked as if he’d slept through the rest of the introductions. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes when he mumbled his name as Adam something-or-other and that he wrote poetry. His head drooped and I think he went back to sleep.
    I actually had met the girl next to him, which was something of a relief. She smiled at me in a way that told me she recognized me as well. She had a fresh scrape on her elbow and a black eye. Her skateboard lay beneath her chair.
    “Lena Allison,” she said. “YA.”
    Then it was my turn.
    “Krissy Hancock, as you know.” I gave a nervous laugh. I felt like an idiot. “I don’t write.”
    There was a shocked gasp from Andi, and Georgina gave me a look that said she was quite disappointed in me. I think Adam’s head moved a little at my proclamation. It was either that or he was finding a more comfortable position for his nap.
    “Of course, you do, dear,” Rita said. “You just haven’t found your muse yet.”
    There was a murmur of agreement.
    I was saved from any more comments on my lack of writing when someone else came through the door. She was short but fit, despite her age. I’d put her around fifty, though the years didn’t sit too well on her face. It looked like she spent quite a lot of time frowning. She walked purposefully to an empty chair between Adam and Georgina. She sat down in a way that told me she was used to being in charge. Her eyes fell on me and I immediately felt uncomfortable.
    “Glad you could make it, Patricia,” Rita said. “We’d just gone through introductions with Krissy