The intruder stared at the victim who sat in a chair reading. Sneaking up behind her, the wire looped around her neck and then tightened. She struggled. Her face flushed. Suddenly, her body went slack. So easy to murder.

***

    The female body sprawled face down on the floor. Blood soaked the carpet.

    Lieutenant Nails, a wide man twenty pounds from fat, stood over the scene. "No signs of forced entry. Doesn’t look like a burglary. Nothing appears to be missing." He nodded. "I’ve had my look. You can turn the body over." He took in a quick breath. "I’ll be damned."

    Duct tape firmly covered the mouth.

    "Somebody didn’t like what she said." He squatted next to the body. "Interview the occupants of the other apartments." He nodded at a uniformed officer. "Find out if anybody heard anything." He spoke again, almost to himself. "What did you say, sweetheart, to make someone so mad?"

    Homicides happened at an alarming rate in this town and Nails was kept hopping. When he was called to yet another murder, he stared at the male form on the floor, impassively. Nails glanced around the house. "No signs of forcible entry, nothing appears to have been taken." He nodded to the uniforms. "Turn the body over. Godamn." Duct tape covered the mouth. "We need to find out what connects this killing and the death of the woman murdered last week."

    Nails sat in front of his computer comparing lists. "Health clubs, doctors, pool people, neighborhoods. Nothing to tie the two people together. Could just be random, although I don’t want to give up on a connection. Not just yet," he told his new partner, Jake Smith.

    Smith was young and apple cheeked.

    "Let’s check what they were saying. Find out who didn’t want it said," Smith said.

    Nails nodded. "Let’s talk to the wife."

    When they walked out to the car, Smith stood by the driver’s side.

    "No one drives me until I know they won’t put me in a ditch," Nails told him.

    Smith shrugged. "If I never drive, how will ...?" His face creased in a smile

    "I’ll know," Nails said.

    Although a door bell stood within plain view, Nails nodded at Smith. Rap.

    A brunette who identified herself as the victim’s sister, Thelma Dawson, answered.

    "Lieutenant Nails," he introduced himself. "My partner, Jake Smith. We’re here to question you."

    The woman’s face turned ghostly. "Why?"

    "Could you tell us if your brother had enemies?"

    She turned and looked behind her as though searching for help. "My brother was a wonderful man."

    "Who is it, Thelma?" Another woman came into view. "I’m Margaret Dawson."

    She was a perky redhead with a face swollen from crying.

    "Did your husband know a woman named Sasha Sterling?"

    "He and Sasha were in a writer’s workshop together."

    Nails’s eyebrows rose. Why hadn’t they talked to the wife before? "How many people are in this workshop?"

    "Eight."

    "Do you have their names?"

    "I think I know where the list is."

    "We’d like it, please," Nails said.

    "Let me look in his office," Margaret said. "He kept his writing in there and the names of his workshop members."

    Nails accompanied her to the office while Smith kept company with the sister. Margaret Dawson found a brown briefcase and produced a list.

    "Thanks. How long were your husband and Sasha in this workshop?"

    "Oh, it’s been, let’s see. Thirteen years?"

    "Then you and Sasha were good friends," Nails said.

    "Oh no. The workshop was strictly Donald’s pastime. We never went anywhere socially with Sasha."

    "How often did these eight people get together?" Nails asked.

    "Once a week. Every Wednesday night."

    "For thirteen years?"

    "Tonight they’ll be holding their regular meeting," Margaret said.

    "Even though two of their members have died?" Nails asked.

    Margaret shrugged. "They meet through war and peace."

    "Can you think of any enemies your husband had?"

    Her lips quivered. "My husband was a good man."

    "I hate to ask this, but how was your marriage?"

    Anger stirred bloodshot eyes. "We still loved each other."

    "Can you tell me where your husband’s workshop will meet tonight?"

    She checked the calendar on his desk. "Tonight they’ll be at Kim Kressner’s house. Her address and phone number are on the list."

    Nails nodded to the woman. "We’ll see ourselves out. I’m sorry for your loss."

    She bit on the remnants of lipstick. "We loved each other."

    Once on the sidewalk, Nails said, "But she didn’t say they were lovers."

    "What?" Smith asked.

    "Being in love and being lovers are two different things. Looks like this address is only fifteen minutes from here."

    Smith checked the list. "All the addresses are in Plantation and they’re all close."

    "I guess that was the admittance key," Nails said.

    He tapped firmly on the door of Kim Kressner’s house. A woman with light brown hair wearing an I Love NY T-shirt answered.

    "We don’t want anything."

    He held out his shield. "How many members would have to die before you contacted the police?"

    She stammered. "I ... we ..."

    "I’m Lieutenant Nails and this is Detective Smith. We’d like to come in and question the people in your group."

    The woman led them to the family room. Two women and three men sat there.

    "I ... these are the police." She quickly sat as though she’d be less noticeable.

    "Two members of this group were murdered and yet no one thought it necessary to contact us?" Nails asked.

    A man spoke. "I’m Glen Glock. We were devastated when Sasha and then Donald was murdered. But we didn’t know the two murders were connected."

    Nails sighed. They hadn’t released information about the duct tape. Indeed, how would these people know? "Please, conduct your meeting as usual. My partner and I would like to observe."

    "I don’t feel much like reading," Kim said.

    Nails sat. "I insist." His voice fell like a stone. "How do you conduct these meetings?"

    Glock cleared his throat. "We bring a copy for everyone. A person reads their work and we make corrections on our copy. We take turns telling the people of the mistakes we find."

    Kim Kressner said, "It’s my turn to read. I’m sure you won’t be interested—you won’t understand what I’m reading— but well ..."

    Her voice shook as she read what Nails assumed to be a science fiction piece. When she finished, one by one the people destroyed what they’d just heard. Other readers followed. But none got destroyed like Kim Kressner.

    They took a break. Kim served a killer chocolate cake and he and Smith ate heartily

    "How did everyone like Donald Dawson and Sasha Sterling?" he asked. "What irritated you about them?"

    "I’m William Wilber." A short man with thinning hair stuck out his hand.

    Smith put down his cake and shook. Nails just stared.

    "We’ve been together for years. Sasha and Donald were good people. Knowledgeable in the art of writing. Nothing about them irritated us."

    The others murmured assent.

    They finished the cake, went back and sat down. The readings continued. Damn boring stuff to listen to, Nails thought. And then once you finished everyone chimed in on what you did wrong. They ended the meeting with an argument about ellipses of all things. Nails just shook his head. Damned if he’d spend his nights reading something he wrote just so a bunch of so-called-friends could rip it to pieces.

    When everyone had left, Nails turned to Kim. "They really had it in for you, didn’t they?"

    "I ... what ..."

    "You read your work and people launched into you like rockets. Maybe you got tired of Sasha and Donald?"

    "I appreciated their critiques."

    "Must be a little hard to take, though. I notice they said that Steve Sloan’s work was darn near perfect. Where were you this past Friday and the Friday before?"

    Tears appeared. "Am I a suspect? Just because they didn’t love my work?"

    "Where were you?"

    "I ... my husband and I go out to dinner on Friday nights. Always with the same two couples. I’ll give you their names."

    Nails wrote. "You like to do things by rote, don’t you?"

    Kim flushed. She opened the door. "If there’s nothing else."

    "We’ll be keeping an eye on you," Nails said as he and Smith left.

    Other cases came to fill whatever time Nails had. Then one Friday he received a call. One Kim Kressner had been killed.

    "Leave the body alone, until I get there," Nails said. He put on the siren and sped through the streets. When he arrived at the residence he elbowed his way inside. Kim’s body lay face down. He turned her over and saw the duct tape across her mouth. "Oh, sweetheart," he whispered. "They sure gave you a hard time, but what did you say?"

    When he reached headquarters a task force had been formed. Nails demanded he head it. The captain looked at his stern face and nodded. The task force went through the eight members’ lives with a fine tooth comb. Donald Dawson and one still alive member named Cherry Combs had been writing a book together. The way these people critiqued each other maybe Cherry didn’t like the way Dawson wrote. They researched the peoples’ lives getting involved in some conference called MurderFest. Crime writers, so many potential murderers.

    One morning Nails sat at his desk looking through the pile of papers that he’d gathered on the duct tape cases. That’s the name he gave to the murders.

    Nails rubbed lines from his forehead. Lines that hadn’t been there a month ago. "Someone’s killing these people–to stop them from saying things. Maybe it’s not the members of the workshop. Kim Kressner didn’t appear too upset when they reamed her, and then she was killed."

    Smith parked his bottom on Nails’s desk. "Remember when we were at the Kressner place? I remarked to Cherry Combs that I hoped we weren’t too much of a bother."

    "It’s like when we have guests," she told me.

    "Do you have guests often?" I asked.

    "We’re full up now," she said. "But the problem is always the same. How do you tell someone no so they won’t be hurt?"

    "What if they had someone as a guest," Smith said. "Told that person they didn’t like his work and that person got so pissed he’s killing off the members?"

    "Who’d be so upset about not being asked to become a member of a group that argues about where commas go?" Nails asked.

    "Well, somebody sure wants to shut these people up," Smith said.

    "It’s an idea," Nails said. "Let’s give this Glock guy a call and see who’s been turned down." He reached for the phone on his desk and dialed.

    Glen answered and said, "I don’t keep a record of who comes to visit. I don’t know that anyone does. Let me think back."

    Nails fidgeted while Glen thought. "There was this teacher. He taught honors math. We were looking for a member at that time but Donald didn’t like him."

    "Why?"

    "He just didn’t. So we told the guy no."

    "Was he ticked?"

    "Disbelieving, would be the correct word, I think. There was this woman who was involved in television. I thought she’d be a good addition but Donald didn’t like her husband."

    "It sounds as if Donald had more than one vote when it came to who’s welcome in the group," Nails said.

    Glen said, "Founding member. We wanted to keep him happy. Then one time at his house his sister sat in."

    "Did Donald like her work?"

    "As a matter of act, he didn’t. She read a few of her poems and Donald said she still wrote like a baby. She looked like she wanted to cry."

    "What did Sasha and Kim say about the work?"

    "Sasha was especially brutal. She critiqued first, then Donald, then Kim."

    "What did Kim say?"

    "She said I agree with Sasha and Donald. I tried to put a more positive spin on her poems."

    "That little act of kindness just may have saved your life," Nails said.

    Glen Glock was silent and Nails hung up.

    Nails and Smith went to the Dawson house. Margaret answered the door.

    "Is Thelma in?" Nails asked.

    "She’s in the kitchen making dinner. I don’t know what I’d do without her."

    "I think you’re going to have to find out," Smith said.

    Thelma walked out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Oh, it’s the police. I thought Margaret told you everything you wanted to know."

    "We’re here to talk to you, Thelma," Nails said. "You were a guest at your brother’s group. After you read, no one liked it, did they?"

    Thelma bit her lip. "Poems are often hard to understand."

    "But I’d expect my own brother to like my work," Nails said.

    "Brother’s aren’t always the best judges," Thelma said, a tick disturbing her right eye.

    "Sasha and Kim were hard on you too, weren’t they?"

    Thelma sniffed. "What do they know?"

    "But actually laughing at your poems?"

    As he said the word laughing, Thelma’s face turned livid.

    "So high and mighty. He and Sasha and Kim making fun of my poems. My poems!"

    Her words screeched and her eyes bulged.

    "You killed them?"

    "I killed them. Then I put tape across their mouths so they’d never be able to make fun of anyone else."

    Margaret fainted.

***

    "Did you finish the report on the cases?" Nails asked Smith.

    "Yeah, you want to look at it."

    At first Nails held out his hand, than shook his head. "I won’t critique. You might get pissed."

    Smith laughed. "Are we going over to Cherry Combs house tonight to check on what remains of their group?"

    "Yeah, we’ll offer our condolences."

    When they arrived at the house, Nails looked around frowning.

    "What’s the matter?" Smith asked.

    Just then Cherry opened the door.

    "Too many cars," Nails said.

    "Oh we’re interviewing potential members," Cherry said.

    "What if you don’t like their stuff?"

    She smiled. "Then we’ll just have to tell them no."

    "Be careful," Nails said, "or I may be seeing you in an official capacity."