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going to start implying things about the rest of us—” Joe began.
    â€œOh, come now, Joe, we’re all grown-ups. Everyone knew that no matter how polite and controlled he seemed, Jon was furious with Cassandra. He thought she was having an affair—and she implied to me on several occasions that she was!”
    â€œSusan, ‘Pass me the butter’ has made you think people were having an affair on at least one occasion,” V.J. said impatiently.
    â€œV.J., it’s all in how someone says it. The point is, Jon thought she was having an affair, and she thought Jon was. If they were both right, then you have two other people involved. And God knows, Cassandra nearly destroyed some careers. Any number of us despised her at various points for what she said about our work.”
    â€œ You might well have despised her,” a soft voice said. It was shy, retiring Camy, who smiled apologetically at Susan. “After all, Ms. Sharp, you two were often in direct competition, weren’t you?”
    Susan arched a brow, staring at the girl imperiously. She didn’t mind the accusation; she minded Camy’s interrupting her. “My dear child, I have no real competition. But just for the record, I did despise Cassandra Stuart. She was an opportunist who used and manipulated people, and you should be grateful that she’s dead, because she would have had you fired by now otherwise. Now please excuse me.” She turned her back on the girl and spoke to the others. “You mark my words. Everyone here has a secret, not to mention a reason to hate Cassandra Stuart.”
    â€œExcept Sabrina,” Joe commented quietly.
    Susan stared sharply at Sabrina. “Who knows? Maybe she had as much reason as the rest of us. But you couldn’t have tossed her over the balcony, could you, Sabrina? You turned down the invitation to come here last time. Why? Most writers would kill—if you’ll pardon the expression—for such an invitation.”
    â€œFear of flying,” Sabrina said sweetly.
    Susan kept staring at her. “I’ll just bet,” she said. Then, whirling around, she left the group.
    â€œI think she did it,” Brett said with such simple conviction that they all laughed.
    â€œAccording to the police, no one did it,” Joe said.
    â€œCassandra didn’t commit suicide,” V.J. commented. “She loved herself far too much for that.”
    â€œBut I thought she had cancer,” Sabrina said.
    â€œShe did, but maybe it was treatable,” Brett said.
    â€œMaybe she simply tripped,” Sabrina suggested.
    â€œThat’s probably just what happened,” another masculine voice interrupted. It was Tom Heart. Tall, lean, white-haired, handsome and dignified, he was the unlikely author of some of the most chilling horror novels on the market. He smiled, lifting a champagne flute to them all. “Cheers, friends, gentlemen and ladies, Brett, Joe, Sabrina…V.J. Good to see you all. And, Sabrina, you may be right on the money. From what I understand, Cassandra was shouting at Jon, who had simply had it with her mood of the moment and was walking away. Perhaps she leaned over to shout louder and leaned just a little too far. Ah, there’s our host now, with the lovely Dianne Dorsey on one arm and the exquisite Anna Lee Zane on the other.”
    Sabrina looked toward the library door. Their host was indeed just arriving—in style.
    He was in a tux, and achingly handsome. His height and dark good looks were enhanced by the elegance of his attire. His hair was slicked back, his crystalline eyes enigmatic as he talked and laughed with the two attractive women.
    Anna Lee was a writer whose novels were based on true crimes. She was somewhere in her late thirties, very petite and feminine, and rumor had it that she happily chose her sexual partners from either gender.
    Dianne Dorsey was considered the up-and-coming voice of horror. She