With that, Libby steps around him bearing a tray of tall dessert glasses of gelato affogato. While handing out spoons, she says, “The combination of hot espresso and vanilla ice cream is delicious. Dig in before it melts. And before I forget, how did focusing on ‘Flip it Over’—last night’s card from The Observation Deck—work out while writing this afternoon? Did it help anyone?”
“It gave me the freedom to just start,” Cynthia says. “It was like I’d received permission to dive in.”
Fran nods in agreement. “Me, too. I picked up a thread and moved forward from there.”
“It wasn’t quite that easy for me,” Mick says. “But once I stuck my stake in the ground, I gained traction.”
“Before today, I thought the story had to be in sequential order. I was a bit stuck,” Emma says. “But when I swapped two chapters, the logjam let loose, and the story flowed.”
“I’m glad it was helpful. Fran, would you like to pull tonight’s card?”
Her enthusiastic nod was all it took for Libby to hand her the box. “I’ve removed last night’s card, so we don’t have to worry about repeats. Choose any card you’d like.”
Fran’s fingers go straight to the back where she pulls the last card. “It says, ‘Eavesdrop.’ What on earth does that mean?”
Libby turns to the corresponding page in the book and reads out loud. “‘If you listen to people talk, you’ll learn how to create better dialogue. Listen where people pause in their sentences and watch how their facial expressions change when they say certain words. Include this knowledge for the characters in your—’”
“Get down!” Mick shouts, a heartbeat before an explosion rips clumps of earth from the ground, sending them like projectiles against the house. The window shatters, spewing jagged shards of glass into The Ink Well.
Jason removes a vial from his pocket, uncorks it, and pours clear liquid into Hemingway’s water bowl. He slips back out the mudroom door the same way he entered—with practiced stealth—and darts between the night-shrouded trees to Thoreau cottage.
As the group pours out the front door, Jason runs to them from the direction of his cottage. “What the hell happened? It sounded like there was an explosion.”
“There was,” Mick says. “Libby, call the police. Hemingway, stay!” After illuminating the flashlight on his cell phone, he continues, “Niall, come with me.”
Niall turns his flashlight on, too, and they walk toward a smoldering area just off the circular drive. With the combined light focused on the charred remains, Mick says, “I’m no expert, but it looks like it was a pipe bomb.”
“Who on earth would do such a thing? And why?”
“It was placed where no one would get hurt.” Mick’s voice is slow as he thinks out loud. “It wasn’t a large enough charge to do much damage. But big enough to draw attention.”
Heads lift as they hear the distant sound of a siren drawing closer. “I’ll go in and open the gate for the police,” Libby says. “Come with me, Hemingway. Ladies, why don’t you come, too?
As the women wait in the kitchen for the vehicle sensor to buzz the arrival of a squad car, their rapid-fire conversation is speculative, circling back to the same two questions that Niall asked Mick just minutes earlier. “Who on earth would do such a thing? And why?”
Fran jumps when the buzzer sounds. Libby pats her arm reassuringly. “Between Mick and the police, they’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Mick’s lean body is silhouetted against the headlights as he walks to meet the squad car. “Hey, Dan, thanks for coming out,” he says, shaking the officer’s hand.
“What happened, Mick?”
“Grab your flashlight and follow me. I’ll show you.”
After studying the gaping hole, Dan scours the surrounding area with an intense beam. Shaking his head, he says, “Even with my SureFire it’s still too dark. I’ll come back in the morning when it’s light. Hopefully, we’ll find something then. And I’ll bring a photographer with me. In the meantime, help me get this area roped off. I’ve got CS tape and stakes in the trunk.”
After securing the area, Dan says, “You know the drill. Make sure nothing’s disturbed.”
“I’ll keep everyone clear,” Mick says. He hears the yellow plastic rattle in the sea breeze as a stray end waves like a torn flag.
“The wind’s picked up,” Dan says. “Let’s go inside so I can meet your guests and take their statements.”
Mick nods toward Niall. “I believe you know my brother-in-law, Niall MacCullough.” Turning, he adds, “And this is Jason Hughes. He’s one of this month’s writers in residence.”
After introductions are made, Niall suggests, “This could take a while. Why don’t you all sit down at the table, and I’ll make coffee.”
Before they can move, all heads turn as a wind-whipped priest blusters into the room.
“Paddy, what are you doing here?” Niall asks, an expression of bewilderment on his face.
“I heard on the police scanner that there was an explosion at Pines & Quill. What the devil’s going on?”
“You heard right,” Niall says. He turns to his guests. “I’d like you to meet Father Patrick MacCullough of St. Barnabas Parish. He’s also my brother.” Niall turns back to Paddy. “I’m just about to serve coffee. Would you like some?”
“Yes, please. But make mine Irish.”
“I’d like that, too,” Jason says.
An hour later, and after paying particular attention to Fran, Dan says, “The way I understand it is that none of you, except Mick, saw a flash. You heard him shout, ‘Get down!’ then heard an explosion. That’s when everyone went out the front door, where Jason joined you from his cottage because he heard the blast too.”
They all nod in agreement.
Dan takes Mick’s statement last. When he’s done, Mick adds what he told Niall earlier. “I think the bomb was intentionally placed where no one would get hurt. The charge wasn’t large enough to do much damage, only to draw attention. Now that I’ve had a chance to think
