Free Venom and the River by Marsha Qualey

rescue Terry.”
    Peach Wickham was pouring coffee in Terry’s study. “Here she is!” she said when Leigh walked in.
    Terry looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.
    “I only brought out two cups,” Peach said. “And I’ve already got lipstick on mine.”
    “Good morning, Mrs. Wickham.” Leigh filled the mug she’d brought from the kitchen and took the empty chair.
    “Peach, please. Just Peach. And don’t worry—I won’t take up too much of your work time with the vice president. I’m just making one of my regular neighborly visits to my own father’s dearest, first friend.”
    “The hell you are,” Terry growled.
    Peach’s smile widened. “All right, I confess: I’m also here to once again ask for permission to use the cottage for our convention. As always, I promise to waive any claim on the trust if we damage the place.”
    Terry wagged a finger. “It’s occupied. And you’ve already given the occupant enough trouble. Smashed her car!”
    “An accident. And I’m paying for repairs.” Peach raised the china cup to her lilac lips. After a long noisy sip, she set the cup and saucer down and patted her mouth with a handkerchief pulled from a sleeve. “And I certainly know it’s occupied. By a writer. I’m interested in borrowing her too.”
    “Goddam right she’s a writer,” Terry said. “My writer. Hands off.”
    “I do some freelance writing, that’s true,” Leigh said, shooting a look at Terry, “but I’m here only to assist the vice president with his papers before they’re turned over to the state historical society.”
    He grunted softly and massaged his brow.
    Peach chewed on her lower lip a moment, then looked from Leigh to Terry. “Well, if that’s true, Mr. Vice President, I suspect it’s a waste of her talents. Didn’t you know she’s an award-winning writer?”
    Leigh set her mug on a side table and dropped her hands between her knees. She flexed her fingers, then tightened them into fists until her nails threatened to slice into her palms. She’d been in town less than a week and already Peach Wickham and Marti Lanier had hoisted her onto some medieval device and were tightening it with all they had. One more crank and she’d split apart, her secret in the open.
    Peach cleared her throat. “Three years ago she won the Gold Medal in Literature from the National Association of Science Educators.”
    Leigh’s rested her hands on her knees. “Oh. That.”
    “Science!” Terry said. “Ha! Then maybe you can tell Geneva what to do about the fungus on the lilacs. Science!”
    “It’s quite a treat,” Peach said, “to have such an honored writer in our midst.”
    Leigh studied the woman’s carefully-made-up face and her carefully composed expression. Was she being disingenuous? Did she know about the Pulitzer, and this was her roundabout way of leading up to it or hinting that she would? She said, “It’s not that big a deal. I wrote two books in a set of six on natural wonders of the United States. I did glaciers of Alaska and volcanoes in Hawaii. There were two other writers, and the publisher used a pen name for the three of us. ‘Ann Owen’ won the gold medal. But maybe you know that.”
    The other woman nodded. “One of those two other writers has done some work for us on one of the Little Girl spin-offs. Tracey Fowler?”
    “I never met the other writers.”
    “So she said, but she knew your name. Anyway, she and I were talking yesterday about another project and I mentioned the new resident of the cottage who is writing—”
    “She’s my secretary,” Terry said.
    Peach Wickham made a face. “Good god, Terry, why don’t we just drop the games? I’ve been in touch with Dana and I know the two of you are working on a book.” She turned to Leigh. “I understand you’ve not met his children yet. In time, I’m sure. Terry’s oldest daughter and I were childhood playmates. Summers, mostly. When the Bancrofts weren’t in Washington. Until the