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  LIBEL TO KILL

  A Digital Detective Mystery

  GILIAN BAKER

  a misterio press publication

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  Published by misterio press LLC

  Cover art by Elliot Next

  Copyright © 2019 by Gilian Baker

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used, transmitted, stored, distributed or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the author’s written permission, except very short excerpts for reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the publisher’s/authors’ express permission is illegal and punishable by law.

  Libel to Kill is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and most places are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or the events in their lives, or to any businesses or organizations, is entirely coincidental. Some real places are used fictitiously. The town of Aspen Falls, Wyoming is fictitious.

  The publisher has no control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites and their content.

  Books by Gilian Baker

  Blogging is Murder

  A Time to Kiln

  Murder Over Medium

  Libel to Kill

  Chapter One

  "No, no, no," Bernadette "Bernie" Comer said sharply. "I've told you, the Oxford comma is vital for clarity.”

  Phyllis Buckley straightened in her chair. “Well, I have a brand-spankin' new grammar book that says it's up to the writer whether to use ‘em."

  "I was taught in school to always use them, and I stick by that." Bernie sternly nodded her head once as if determining the matter settled.

  The weekly meeting of the Writing Alliance Circle, or WAC, was in full swing, as was evident from the argument that periodically resurfaced. During each session, writers have the chance to get feedback on their work-in-progress. It was sheer bad luck Phyllis had landed with Bernie this week.

  "You were in school back when Moses brought the stone tablets down from the mountain. I hardly think we can go off that antiquated advice," Phyllis’s voice grew loud.

  I knew where this was leading, and it was nowhere good. Looking at the ceiling, I gathered my patience and headed over to them. I needed to intervene before they came to blows.

  Bernie huffed and crossed her arms over her ample chest. "Phyllis Buckley, you are older than me. How dare you bring my age into this. I'll have you know my cardiologist recently told me I'd live another twenty years, regardless of my—"

  Having reached them, I spoke in a stage whisper, "Ladies, ladies…I thought we'd agreed to live and let live when it came to the Oxford comma.” I scanned the room. A few eyes watched with amusement while others peered hard at their screens, scowling. “You're interrupting everyone's concentration."

  Phyllis craned her neck. "You're the writing expert. What do you think of the Oxford comma?" A knowing grin playing on her lips as if she believed I'd side with her.

  " It used to be taught as a requirement, that anytime you had a list of words, you always added a comma before 'and.' Now it's considered stylistic."

  I straightened from my hunched position. “In other words, use it when it's needed to clarify a sentence. Other than that, choose the convention you prefer and use it consistently."

  I looked pointedly at Bernie, "Sometimes there is no right or wrong."

  I moseyed back to my chair where my daughter Ellie was seated. From the slight grin on her face, I could tell she'd enjoyed watching the scene play out. As an English major, she had her own opinion on the Oxford comma, but I wasn't about to ask. It wouldn't do for us to end up in the same argument I'd just refereed.

  It was good to see a genuine smile on the younger version of my own face, even if it was understated. A slight twinkle shone in Ellie’s bright green eyes as she twisted her long auburn hair into a more secure bun on the top of her head. Since Ellie had been home for summer break, she'd been mopey and prone to mood swings. She and I usually shared everything, but not this. Whatever it was, it had me worried beyond distraction.

  I sat back down and rolled my eyes at Ellie. She snickered and sneaked a peek towards Bernie and Phyllis to make sure they hadn't noticed.

  A fleeting glimpse at the teacup-shaped clock on the wall of Tea and Sympathy revealed it was past time for our final activity of the evening. Out of the kindness of her heart, and with a promise of more cash in her till, the owner Millie Harris had agreed to provide us with a space to meet. On the condition we met only on Tuesdays and only until nine p.m.

  "Okay, everyone," I clapped my hands. "Finish up the sentence you're working on and move your chairs into a circle."

  There were several stragglers, but I started without them. This was an informal group, but I frequently had to dig into my old bag of professor tricks to keep everyone in line. At times, it seemed more like a third-grade classroom than a room full of adults.

  After clapping my hands again, I announced it was Phyllis's turn to read.

  "I haven't written anything this week other than tonight, I'm afraid. Been too busy with wedding planning, so I'll pass." Phyllis pulled her chair into the circle.

  "Okay then, who would like to read this week?"

  Before I had the question out of my mouth, Bernie raised her hand. "I'll go."

  Though we were a bit short on time, I knew there wouldn't be much feedback on Bernie's manuscript. She was an insufferable woman who didn't take constructive criticism well. Although she saw herself as the spiritual leader of our little community, something told me she'd never read the New Testament with its "love thy neighbor" message.

  Our true spiritual leader, Reverend Holt, eyed me with his eyebrows peaked, the corners of his full lips upturned. Not even he dared annoy Bernie. She had a way of repaying her enemies in public ways.

  I also assumed he was thinking of her subject matter. Bernie was writing her fictionalized version of what the End of Days would be like. It was enough to raise the hair on my arms. Even though I wasn't a believer, I found myself wiggling in my chair when she read. She could really bring fire and brimstone to life on the page. The author of Revelations had nothing on her.

  "Okay, Bernie. Go ahead," I said, hoping I sounded cheerful.

  Bernie scowled as she looked around the circle, waiting impatiently for everyone to provide her the attention she believed was her due. Like naughty school children, we shut our mouths and folded our hands in our laps. Once she was satisfied we felt reprimanded for wasting her time, Bernie cleared her throat and began reading.

  The other writers in the group were people who'd been part of my life for years. There was a wide range of genres represented in the group. Reverend Holt, the suave, handsome minister of the local non-denominational church was writing a western, his pages full of cowboys sporting white and black hats.

  The painfully-shy spinster, Kaye Kilgore, was writing a sweet romance novel, which I still found unbelievable. She must have a vivid imagination because I'd be surprised if she had any experience in the relationship department. Phyllis was writing her memoir, focusing on her life as a burlesque dancer during the vaudeville era. She said now that everyone knew about her secret past, she might as well make some coin from it.

  Deputy Crystal Metcalf was penning a romance that was spicy enough to cause me to blush, and I'm no prude. Sitting beside Crystal was Gabrielle Langdon. She was the one who surprised me the most. Not only for joining the group, but also for the quality of her writing. Her thriller, with its female lawyer protagonist, was a twisted plot that still had me guessing. I predicted she'd be the next John Grisham.

  Ber
nie’s words brought me back to the present, apparently just in the nick of time. As Bernie continued, I scanned the faces around the circle. I wasn't the only one to recognize her newest character as the good Reverend Holt. I'd only seen him flustered once before when I'd been probing him with indelicate questions during one of my murder investigations, but he was definitely discombobulated now. His ears were scarlet while his cheeks were gray as a Wyoming winter day. The rest of us avoided looking him square in the eye, instead taking short sideways glances.

  This wasn't the first time Bernie had taken liberties with her insider knowledge of the village. I'd been forced to speak to her before about putting thinly-veiled townspeople on parade as characters. I thought I'd been clear when expressing the importance of writing what you know without direct duplication of real people.

  I probably should have spoken to her more than once. Though I wouldn't admit it to anyone but myself, I'd avoided the discussion because I was downright scared of the backlash it might cause. I'd seen Bernie go after other people who questioned her, and I didn't want to put a target on my chest.

  When I'd spoken with her before, I'd explained how uncomfortable others were at being part of her narrative, especially since the characters were destined to go to hell for eternity. Bernie was pointing out sin that others didn't want everyone to see on the written page.

  I'd firmly recommended she use her imagination to come up with characters who didn't so closely resemble her neighbors. She countered that her book was meant to be a cautionary tale, and therefore needed to be firmly rooted in reality. I suggested it didn't need to be so rooted and right outside her own front door.

  Obviously, my suggestions had fallen on deaf ears. One can't afford to be subtle with Bernie. She doesn't do understated. I'd have to make it clear that if she wanted to continue participating in the group, she'd have to cease maligning the fine citizens of Aspen Falls, even if she did think they were sinners.

  But it wouldn't do to address the matter now. Having an audience, Bernie would ramp up her indignation to provide a real show. Better to have a quiet word with her alone.

  I gave her a few words of encouragement on other aspects of the chapter and offered the floor to anyone else who had something to add. There were only mumbles and shifting in chairs. No one was going to open that particular can of worms. Chances were, if any of us had pearls of wisdom for the writer Bernie, we'd keep them to ourselves. We all knew what would happen if we gave even a well-meaning critique.

  After declaring the night a success and encouraging everyone to keep up with their daily word count, I adjourned the group. Since we'd run later than usual, I busied myself helping Millie's employee, Aimee Buccanon, clean up.

  The others stood in a clump discussing their various writing woes. I'd rather have been standing with them but didn't want to be scolded by Millie if she had to pay Aimee extra. Millie was a sweet, grandmotherly sort, but she was serious about her bottom line. If WAC became a larger burden than profit-maker, we'd be out on our collective cans.

  As I came back from carrying a load of dirty mugs and dessert plates to the industrial-sized dishwasher in the back, Sheryl, Aimee's grandmother, and local gossip walked through the front door. The group of writers hollered a hello to her, and she joined their company.

  I found myself grinning as I hustled around, clearing up. This is what I'd hoped for when I'd started the group—an intimate band of wanna-be authors coming together to share our joys, frustrations, and feedback. My smile faded as I drew closer. Rather than discussing writing, their animated discourse was due to the small group of nudists who'd set up a make-shift camp on the outskirts of town.

  Minutes later, they migrated to a slightly different topic—that of the town streaker. It was assumed he was a member of the nudist group since he'd not been seen before they arrived.

  I'd yet to witness the spectacle, and for all I knew the man believed his activity was simply jogging au naturel. The fine, conservative citizens of Aspen Falls didn't see it that way, and more than a few were upset about his appalling behavior.

  I tuned them out and brought my mind back to my own novel that was coming slowly and painfully. I was pounding out words each day, well, most days anyway, but they certainly weren't flowing the way I'd imagined when I visualized myself as a mystery writer.

  Other WAC members reported going into another world when they wrote. Their eyes shined with enthusiasm even when they were stumped by where to take their plot next. I, on the other hand, wasn't sure I'd written anything worthy of storing on my hard drive. Writing fiction felt like slogging through quicksand. I wasn't sure how much longer I could tread before going under for good.

  With a sad little whimper at that thought, I picked up the last few mugs on the far-left table in the corner. Once finished swiping the table with a damp dishrag, I started moving towards the kitchen and observed Sheryl furtively sifting through Bernie's laptop bag. Sheryl paused long enough to look around, a worried look on her face.

  Wanting to get a better view, I veered slightly to the left.

  Sheryl slipped a thin Manila file folder into Bernie's bag. I shrugged. It was likely information Bernie needed for some church committee or other.

  Once the last tray of dishes was loaded into the dishwasher, I headed into the dining area, the machine grinding away in the background. Rounding the corner, I stopped in my tracks. If Sheryl had simply been returning a promised file, why had she been skulking around?

  Chapter Two

  Swearing, I threw a pencil across the room with enough force to startle my cat Tommy, causing him to skedaddle out of my office. I sighed heavily and let my head fall back onto the cool leather of my desk chair.

  Closing my eyes, I tried to relax, allowing the early morning sun to bathe me in warmth as it streamed through the window. I needed a break from working on my novel. After standing and stretching, I looked out the window at the labyrinth my friend Gwendolyn had created when she'd visited last autumn.

  She and I had walked it day in and day out, rain, shine, or blizzard during her unexpected extended stay. Sometimes we couldn't be sure we were walking on the actual path when snow covered the ground. Regardless, we sauntered, meditatively, and I'd kept up the practice after she was gone. In fact, I'd grown dependent on walking the path to clear my mind and open up to my budding creativity. No one was more surprised by this than me.

  After slipping into a pair of sandals, I began slowly walking the labyrinth, feeling the frustration of my day ever-so-gently seeping down into the ground with each step. Eventually, my breath became deeper and less constricted, and I allowed my mind to wander back to the struggle of writing fiction.

  Experiencing frustration in my career wasn't new to me. Once upon a time, I'd believed earning my Ph.D. in literature and working as a professor at the University of Wyoming would be where I started and finished my career. But after many years in the academic trenches, I found myself unfulfilled and frustrated by the lack of dedication in my students and the overwhelming pettiness of campus politics. Being unable to stand it another semester, I'd struck out on my own by starting an online business.

  Just four years later, I was bored with the business I'd built. Both my blog for newbie freelance writers and my ghostwriting agency were popular and financially successful, but I'd grown apathetic. I'd begun seeking a new challenge.

  I spent months researching other online business models, but they'd all left me flat. I'd finally resigned myself to continuing in the same vein until retirement (do bloggers retire?) when my former colleague and labyrinth-walking friend Gwendolyn Hexby came sauntering back into my life. She'd offered me insights I wouldn't have believed from anyone else and helped me accept that it wasn't too late to make a drastic change in my work life. Hence, I was writing a murder mystery and running WAC.

  Going into my default mode, I'd researched tirelessly before striking out as an author of fiction. I identified the most commercially-successful mystery sub-genre, read
a pile of books by fiction writing gurus, learned about character arcs and structuring a page-turning mystery, and delved into the world of marketing as a self-published author. And yet, after all that, I still felt totally ill-equipped.

  As exhilarating as the idea of writing fiction was, I'd expected it to come easily. I was a writer, after all. I knew words and had plenty of ideas. In between forcing myself to pound out my word quota each day, I'd spent hours searching for the magical elixir that would make the plot flow. I had yet to discover it, and I was beginning to wonder if it existed at all. Perhaps it was like the elusive Fountain of Youth—sought for by many, found by none.

  I pulled my wandering mind back to the path and focused on the feeling of my feet touching the earth. Not for the first time, I wondered if I'd gotten it wrong. Maybe "my bliss" wasn't in writing mysteries at all. Self-doubt once again rose in my throat like bile. The smart thing would be to concentrate on the businesses I'd already built. My stomach sank. A long sigh escaped my lips at the thought of dedicating myself to a career that left me unsatisfied. I came back to the present, remembering I was meant to be focusing on the path and the way my feet kissed the earth, not wallowing in self-doubt and pity. Slowing my breath, I began walking the path in earnest.

  ✽✽✽

  An enticing thought formed as I reviewed a client's manuscript the next morning. The author's protagonist, a lawyer to the stars, was discussing a case of libel with his client. I cared nothing about the plot, but it got me to thinking. Was Bernie setting herself up for a possible lawsuit with her libelous characters? Would anyone in our community take it that far?

  Even if she wasn’t actually taken to court for defamation, the threat might be enough to stop Bernie from modeling characters after village citizens. A slow smile grew on my lips the more I thought about the idea. Bernie would never risk having her good name raked through the mud. She considered her reputation above reproach.