Agatha's American Cousins
"And to think my mother wanted me to become a school teacher!" Colleen McKinnon laughed when she learned that she was officially the bestselling living female mystery writer.
Although delighted by the news, she realized she could never hold a candle to Dame Agatha Christie or even hope to equal James Patterson's sales. Still, she did not do too badly for a kid from Maine. Her book sales alone would have made her one of the wealthiest women in America, but she had other lucrative sources of income as well. Many of her books had been made into major motion pictures or limited series on Netflix. Some inspired videogames. Others were rewritten as graphic novels. She derived additional revenue from fan merchandise: T-shirts, coffee cups, cell phone cases, keyrings and even a special edition Monopoly game. Colleen was much more than just a writer; she was a brand.
However, being at what was undoubtedly the pinnacle of her career was not without its downside. She was only forty-eight years old; she could quite possibly live another forty or fifty years.
Where do I go from here? she wondered. What goal is there for me to strive for?
Since the age of twenty-one, Colleen mercilessly drove herself to succeed, writing one book after another. She had never taken time to travel or to get married and have a family.
"Maybe you can slow down now," Ford Jannings, her agent, suggested. "Take the time to smell the proverbial roses."
"No thank you. Lilacs, maybe, but not roses. I think I'm the only woman on the planet who dislikes their smell."
"Lilacs, roses, gardenias—whatever flower you prefer. Take some time off and enjoy yourself for a change."
"What would I do?"
"Travel. See the world. Take a cruise to some tropical island."
"Did you forget that I now live on an island," the writer laughed.
"Nantucket isn't Hawaii or Tahiti. You can't sit on a beach here in January and soak up the sun."
"I'm not one for sunbathing. I don't tan; I burn."
"There are lots of other places where you could vacation. How about Europe?" Ford suggested. "And while you're sightseeing, maybe you can get ideas for plots for future books."
"That would be a change of pace for me," the writer said, giving the matter some serious thought. "All of my mysteries have been set in American cities. Maybe I ought to write a few with foreign settings."
Unlike many of her fellow authors, Colleen did not use the same detective in her novels. She did not rely on a modern equivalent of Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple, Lord Peter Wimsey or Hercule Poirot. The crime solvers of her stories—which, like the settings, varied from book to book—included a public defender in New York, a medical examiner in Philadelphia, a retired judge in Atlanta and a crime scene analyst in Los Angeles. Some of her protagonists were not even associated with the legal system. These included a Boston history professor, a San Francisco mortician and a Dallas reporter.
Over the next few weeks, as she finished the final rewrite of her latest novel, Colleen mulled over her agent's suggestion. It would be nice to see something of the world beyond her Massachusetts home.
"But where would I go?" she wondered. "Paris would be nice, as would Rome or Venice."
A letter she received two days later—surprisingly, some people still send written correspondence through the mail—helped her arrive at a decision. The personalized stationery identified the sender as Vivica Taft, a New Orleans-based author whose Mardi Gras Murders had just been made into a major motion picture starring Julia Roberts. Ms. Taft was credited as being the number two bestselling living female mystery writer.
I wonder why she's writing to me. I only met her once, in New York, two years ago.
Thankfully, Vivica did not waste time with useless small talk. Rather, she got right to the point. She had been reading about the Detection Club, which was formed in 1930 by a group of British mystery writers that included Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, John Dickson Carr (although an American, he was living in England at the time), G. K. Chesterton and others. The letter briefly described the objectives of the club and the guidelines it established for its members who, in addition to occasionally meeting for dinners, sometimes collaborated on books with each writer contributing one or more chapters to the final work.
"I was thinking," Vivica wrote in her final paragraph. "Wouldn't it be nice if several of us American mystery writers formed a similar club? Let me know if you're interested."
Never having been much of a joiner, Colleen initially wanted to decline the invitation and toss the letter into the wastebasket beside her desk. Then she thought better of it.
It might be fun. Besides, I've been looking for new inspiration. This club might provide it.
She reached into her handbag for her cell phone and called rather than texted the number on the stationery. Since Vivica had taken the time and trouble to write her a letter, the least she could do was speak to her.
* * *
When the Virgin Airlines flight touched down at Heathrow, Colleen put aside the hardcover novel she was reading and prepared to deplane. (Like many people of her generation, she preferred the feel of an old-fashioned book in her hand to an e-reader or tablet.) After clearing customs, she found the car Vivica had sent to pick her up.
"So, this is London," the writer said as the cab driver headed toward The Shard.
"Is this your first trip to the city?" he replied.
"It's my first time out of America."
On the way to the hotel, Colleen passed by the Tower of London and Tower Bridge. Seeing the iconic structures brought vivid images of British mysteries to mind. She could almost see Sherlock Holmes with his famous deerstalker hat on his head and his Calabash pipe clenched in his mouth rapidly walking along foggy city streets, searching for clues, while a befuddled Dr. Watson tried to keep up with him, both physically and mentally.
No sooner did she check into her room at Shangri-La than her cell phone rang. It was Vivica.
"How was your flight?" the New Orleanian asked in her pronounced Southern drawl.
"Fine."
"I hope you're not tired."
"No. I had a nap on the plane."
"Good! Because I've got a few things planned for us today. But I'll let you get settled in first. Why don't we meet up in the lobby in, say, half an hour?"
"That sounds good. I'll see you then."
Thirty minutes later, the writer from Nantucket stepped out of the elevator and was met by six other women, all well-known names of the mystery genre.
"Is this everybody?" Colleen asked.
"Yes, and now that we're all here, let's get a move on," Vivica suggested.
"Where are we going?"
"Just across the Thames to the Towner of London."
En route to the nearly one-thousand-year-old palace/prison, Colleen asked if any other writers had been invited to join their detection club.
"No. I thought we'd start small," Vivica replied.
"I suppose Patterson is far too busy for such things anyway."
"Frankly, I didn't want to ask him. We don't need any men in Agatha's American Cousins—not yet. Maybe once we're more established, but not while we're still testing the waters."
"Agatha's American Cousins?" echoed Joy Newhouse, author of a series of books featuring a Washington, DC, police detective who solves crimes with assistance from the ghost of his deceased partner. "How did you come up with that name?"
"Agatha after Ms. Christie, obviously," the originator of the club explained. "And American because all of us are from the U.S. I chose the word cousins while I was reading an article about Lincoln's assassination. He was watching the play Our American Cousin when John Wilkes Boothe shot him."
"I like that title," Colleen said. "It's different."
"But it conveys nothing about who we are," opined Amethyst Eastwood, the author of the bestselling Shawkey for the Defense series, about a Perry Mason-like attorney from Seattle who not only gets his clients off but also reveals the true killer at the end of each book. "Maybe we should call it Agatha's American Sleuths instead. That way, people will know the club has an interest in crime-solving."
"I don't agree," Colleen argued. "I like cousins better."
"Why don't we take a vote on it?" Vivica proposed.
Five out of seven members voted to keep the title just as the cab arrived at the Tower of London.
"This way, ladies," Vivica said, acting as a tour guide. "We already have our tickets, so we can enter through the Middle Drawbridge rather than wait in that long line."
For the next few hours, the American authors wandered about the palace-fortress. They took a tour with a yeoman warder, viewed the crown jewels and bought books and souvenirs in the gift shop.
"What's next?" asked Jade Arliss whose mysteries about a 1940s husband-wife private detective team from Los Angeles were liberally dotted with names of leading film stars from Hollywood's golden era.
"I thought we'd pay a quick visit to Westminster Abbey and then go out to lunch," Vivica replied.
"I haven't been inside a church since I got married!" Amethyst said. "And that turned out to be a disaster."
"Don't worry. You'll like Westminster Abbey. Over three thousand people have been buried there."
"Sounds like my kind of place," laughed Leia Burdette, who straddled the boundary between the traditional mystery and supernatural genres with her psychic detective books.
After a full day of sightseeing, the women stopped at the Sherlock Holmes Pub for dinner.
"This is the perfect place for a group of mystery writers!" exclaimed Sadie Rawlinson, the mind behind several bestselling books in which a cantankerous, old-fashioned police detective, partnered with a college-educated rookie, is reluctantly forced to rely heavily on forensics to solve murders.
"And a great way to end the evening," Colleen added.
"Who said it's the end?" Vivica asked.
"It's already dark out. Who goes sightseeing at night?"
"It's a surprise. You'll have to wait and see."
Colleen, who was worn out after touring London, wanted only to return to her hotel room and sleep, but she did not want to be the party pooper of the group. Besides, she figured, she would probably never get the opportunity to return to London. She might as well make the most of it.
Still unaware of their destination, the six women who blindly followed Vivica Taft's lead were surprised when she told the cab driver to drop them off at the Aldgate East tube station.
"We're going to ride the subway?" asked Amethyst Eastwood, a native New Yorker, who could not get used to referring to London's subterranean transit system as the underground.
"No."
"Then what are we doing here?"
"Be patient. You'll see."
Soon other people began to gather at the meeting point. Then a woman carrying a folder of eight-by-ten photographs arrived and introduced herself.
"I'm Zarabeth Frick. I'll be leading the Jack the Ripper Walking Tour tonight."
"Jack the Ripper!" Leia Burdette exclaimed. "How exciting!"
If Zarabeth recognized any of her well-known guests, she did not call attention to them. She wanted people to focus on her and her presentation, not the famous writers in the group.
For two hours, Agatha's American Cousins followed in the footsteps of the world's most famous serial killer, a man whose identity has never been discovered, despite the dedication and hard work of "Ripperologists" around the globe. When the tour came to an end, the women generously tipped their guide and headed back to The Shard.
It had been quite a day, and the two-week holiday had only just begun!
* * *
The seven women met for breakfast the following morning.
"Look at all this food!" exclaimed Colleen, who normally had only a cup of coffee to wake her up.
"This is what is called a full English breakfast," Vivica explained as she cut into a sausage link.
"Beans? In New England, we serve beans, preferably baked, with our dinner, not breakfast."
"You know what they say," Sadie Rawlinson laughed as she picked up her fork. "When in Rome ...."
While they ate, the authors discussed their plans for the club. Since the members lived in different parts of the country, they agreed to meet four times a year, varying the location of each meeting. However, they would stay in touch via the Internet the rest of the time.
"And what will we do during these meetings?" Joy Newhouse asked, sipping a cup of Earl Grey tea.
"For one thing, we'll discuss our current projects and get input from the other members," Vivica replied.
Colleen suppressed a frown. She was not one to collaborate; she preferred to work alone.
"Also, we'll work on a book together, just like the Detection Club did. In fact, I thought we'd decide on the basics of the plot while we're here in England. Then once we all get home, we can start writing."
"But I'm currently working on a new Shawkey novel," Amethyst Eastwood cried.
"I'm in the middle of a book myself," Leia Burdette said.
"Me, too," Jade Arliss added.
Vivica threw up her hands in mock surrender and replied, "I know. We're all busy women, and we're all working on our own projects. I'm not suggesting you stop what you're doing. All I'm saying is that in whatever spare time we have, we each write a couple of pages. Once I have enough material, I'll assemble the rough draft for your review. Don't feel you have to rush. We can work at our leisure since we won't be under a deadline."
"But how will we know what to write?" Colleen asked.
"Once we decide on the who, where, when, how and why of the plot, I'll come up with an outline of chapters. Then we'll each be assigned one or more of them. I'll volunteer to coordinate everything since this was all my idea."
The six other women at the table agreed to her proposal.
"I think it'll be fun," Leia Burdette decided.
"I propose we don't use any of our usual characters," Amethyst Eastwood announced. "We ought to make up a new crime-fighting hero for our collaborative effort."
"I agree," Vivica said.
By the time the morning meal finally came to an end, topped off by another round of teas and coffees, the writers had decided on the barebones of a plot that answered the basic questions. Who? The victim would be a former child star; the protagonist would be a reporter who worked for a tabloid newspaper that specialized in celebrity scandals. Where? The crime is committed in London, an homage to the original Detection Club. When? The book would be set in the late Eighties/early Nineties, a time when most paparazzi were fixated on Princess Diana, and the protagonist is the only one who is interested in the victim's death. How? The former actress is found strangled in a tube station. Why? She was killed to keep her from revealing the truth about her affair with a member of the House of Lords.
"We're off to a great start," Vivica announced as she closed her notebook and rose from the table. "In a couple of days, I'll have a rough outline of the book, and we'll decide who is going to write what."
"And until then?" Joy Newhouse asked.
"We enjoy the sights of London and the surrounding areas. I don't know about you ladies, but I thought I'd take the train down to Windsor."
As they had done the previous day, the other members of Agatha's American Cousins followed Vivica Taft's lead.
* * *
On the third day of their London holiday, the women split up. Vivica wanted to remain in her room, working on the outline. Joy and Leia hired a car to take them to Stonehenge, Amethyst and Sadie took a train to Bath, Jade decided to visit Harrods and the shops along Oxford Street and Colleen, who could never be accused of being a "people person," went alone to Kensington Palace. They agreed to meet for dinner at Oblix on the thirty-seventh floor of The Shard at seven o'clock.
Colleen, as usual, was punctual, arriving at the restaurant at seven on the dot. Moments later, Vivica joined her. Joy and Leia, who had managed to avoid heavy traffic on their way back to London from Amesbury, were only ten minutes late whereas Amethyst and Sadie did not show up until half past seven.
"Sorry, we're late," Amethyst apologized. "Our train just got into Paddington."
"That's okay," Vivica said. "We're still waiting for Jade."
"Didn't she stay here in London to do some shopping?" Colleen asked.
"Yes, but maybe she's one of those women who is always fashionably late."
"Why don't we order drinks while we wait for her?" Leia suggested.
Forty minutes later, Vivica called Jade's cell phone, but the call went to voicemail.
"I'm going to go to her room and see if she's there. She may have her phone turned off." When Vivica returned ten minutes later, she announced, "Jade's not there."
"I'll bet she met someone," Joy theorized. "From what I've heard, she has quite a reputation for picking up handsome young men."
"If that's the case, the least she could have done was called us," Colleen declared in an irritated voice.
"Let's just go ahead and order then," Amethyst said. "I'm hungry."
When dinner came to an end, the women returned to their rooms. Vivica made one last attempt to get in touch with Jade, but there was no answer from the author of the bestselling Director's Cut thriller.
"Do you think we ought to notify the police?" Leia asked when the missing woman failed to show up at breakfast the next morning.
"If Joy is right and Jade met someone," Sadie replied, "then it could prove embarrassing if the police find out she's shacked up somewhere with a man half her age."
"Why don't we wait before calling anyone?" Colleen suggested. "After all, we naturally assumed she was a reliable person, but none of us really know her. This might be her typical behavior."
Leia looked doubtful.
"Relax!" Joy exclaimed. "I'm sure Jade is all right. We mustn't automatically assume the worst."
"I'm afraid it's a professional hazard of being a mystery writer," Amethyst laughed. "Our creative minds are always looking for the monster under the bed or the killer hiding in the closet."
"Well, I can't wait around all day, hoping she'll show up," Vivica said, putting her empty coffee cup down on the table. "I want to go work on the outline. Do you ladies have any plans for the day?"
"I'm going to the Tate," Joy replied. "Does anyone want to come along?"
"Amethyst and I are going to the Victoria and Albert Museum," Leia answered.
Sadie also declined the offer, preferring to take a boat ride to Greenwich.
"What about you, Colleen? Are you an art lover?" Joy asked.
"No. I think I'll take one of those hop-on/hop-off buses and see the rest of the sights in London."
Before they went their separate ways, the writers agreed to meet for dinner again that evening.
"I'll keep trying to reach Jade," Vivica told them. "I'm sure she'll show up soon."
* * *
Colleen and Vivica entered the pub together. Again, they were the only two to arrive on time.
"How was your sightseeing?" Vivica asked after the server led them to a table.
"Nice. I stayed on the bus most of the time, but I did get off at Buckingham Palace. How's the outline coming along?"
"I'm almost done with it. Tomorrow, I'll print out copies for everyone and distribute them at dinner. Speaking of which ...," she said and began to study the menu.
"I already know what I want," Colleen announced. "I can't come to London and not try the fish and chips."
"Normally, I'm not a big fan of seafood."
"Having been born and raised along the coast of New England, I was brought up on it. To most people, lobster is a delicacy; to us, it was a normal Friday night meal."
"With my family, it was the typical Southern fare: jambalaya, grits, cornbread, muffulettas, red beans and rice—oh, and the beignets. I mustn't forget them."
While the two women discussed foods from their childhood, Amethyst and Leia arrived.
"What a day we had!" Amethyst exclaimed. "There was so much to see at the museum. We spent over eight hours there and still didn't see everything."
As Leia described some of the fashions that were on exhibit, Sadie took a seat at the table and declared, "Oh, good. I'm not the last one. Joy isn't here yet."
"By the way, has anyone heard from Jade?" Colleen wondered.
"I called her a few times, but I still had no luck getting through to her," Vivica replied.
"I'm beginning to worry. None of us has seen her since breakfast yesterday. I spoke to the man at the front desk. She hasn't checked out."
"Did she stay in her room last night?" Sadie asked.
"I don't know," Colleen answered. "Maybe we ought to question the maid. She would know if the bed was slept in or not."
As on the previous evening, the women ordered drinks while they waited for the last member of their party to arrive. This time, it was Joy Newhouse who failed to show.
"I wonder what's keeping her," Colleen said. "She doesn't seem to be the flighty type."
Once again, the women began to worry. And with good reason. Now, two of the group seemed to have disappeared.
* * *
Sgt. Cecil Hornbeck of the Metropolitan Police patiently listened to the American women's accounts of their two missing travel companions. Of the five writers he spoke to, he was acquainted with the works of three of them. He was most familiar with Colleen McKinnon, having read several of her novels. However, he was determined not to show the celebrity authors any preferential treatment.
"Do either of these women have husbands or children they might be in contact with?" the police officer inquired.
"I believe Jade was married three or four times, but I don't think she had any kids," Leia answered. "And Joy—well, she preferred women to men. At least, that's what I heard."
"Before we arrived in London," Vivica explained, "we all knew each other by name and reputation but were not actual friends. Some of us never even had the opportunity to meet in person."
"So, you're telling me these two women were pretty much strangers to you and to each other?"
"Yes."
"How well we know them isn't the point," Colleen cried, beginning to lose patience with the young police officer. "No one has seen Jade Arliss for two days, and now Joy Newhouse is gone. And neither one of them is answering her cell phone."
"I assure you, Miss McKinnon," Sgt. Hornbeck replied, not wanting to appear inexperienced or inept, "we'll do everything in our power to locate your friends. I just need to get as much information as possible about their families, friends, habits and whatnot."
After leaving New Scotland Yard, the five women went to Pret a Manger for some much-needed coffee.
"I guess there's no point in my handing out the outlines of our proposed book," Vivica said.
"Don't be such a pessimist," Colleen told her. "The police will find Jade and Joy, and we can continue with our plans for the club."
"I don't think that's such a good idea," Amethyst opined. "In fact, I think we ought to just forget about Agatha's American Cousins."
"I agree," Leia concurred. "I'd just as soon get on a plane and go back home."
"You're not thinking of leaving now?" Colleen asked, horrified at the very idea. "Not while two of our group are missing!"
"Yes, I am," Leia replied. "What good will it do for me to stick around? I'm not a detective. I don't see how my staying in England will be of any help."
"Maybe Leia is right," Vivica said. "It might be best if we all just ...."
"No!" Colleen cried. "We have to stay. We have to know what happened."
"And what if the police can't locate them?" Sadie asked. "How long are we to remain here? For all we know, they could both be dead."
"That's true," Amethyst agreed. "I hope to God they're all right, but it doesn't look good, does it?"
"No," Leia answered. "It doesn't. I don't want to sound unsympathetic, but I've got a life back home, and I want to get back to it."
"Look. We all originally agreed to come to London for two weeks," Colleen pointed out. "We all rearranged our schedules to accommodate these plans. Didn't we?"
The four other women reluctantly nodded their heads.
"Then let's do just that. We'll stay here for the agreed-upon time."
"That's still a week and a half we have to remain in London," Sadie argued. "Are we to just stay in our rooms, waiting for word from Sgt. Hornbeck?"
"No. We're going to do what we do best. We're going to take an outline from Vivica and start on our collaboration."
"I'm not sure if I can concentrate on writing now," Sadie said.
"Me either," Amethyst agreed. "But I'll stay, as agreed. Tomorrow, however, I'm taking a train out of the city."
"Where will you go?" Vivica inquired.
"I don't know, but I can't stay in London. I need to get away and clear my head."
* * *
The following day, only Colleen and Vivica turned up for breakfast.
"Where's everyone else?" Colleen asked.
"Amethyst left early for St. Pancras station. She's planning on spending the day in Canterbury. I suppose Leia and Sadie are in their rooms."
"Do you have any plans for the day?"
"Not really."
"You ought to get out. You've been spending too much time working on that outline—which, by the way, you did a hell of a job on! I can't wait to start writing my chapters."
"I'm surprised that you're so enthusiastic about this project," Vivica said.
"Why shouldn't I be? For so many years now, I've had my nose to the grindstone. Is it so hard to believe that I want to relax and have a little fun?"
"Your hard work paid off, didn't it? You're currently the number one female mystery writer in the world."
Did Colleen detect a hint of envy in Vivica's voice?
"Well, you know what happens when you become number one?" Colleen laughed. "Everyone below you wants to take your place."
"Maybe I will go out for a while today," Vivica announced, turning her head toward the windows to admire the magnificent view of the city. "It's such a beautiful day. I think I'll stroll through Hyde Park. Want to join me?"
"No, thanks. I'm going to visit Madame Tussaud's and then take a ride on the London Eye."
"You're such a tourist!" Vivica laughed.
"What's wrong with that? Besides, I want to set my next book in London. Seeing the sights will no doubt give me some ideas."
After leaving the restaurant, the two women went their separate ways. They did not see each other until the following morning, at which time they learned that Amethyst had not returned to the hotel after setting out for Canterbury.
"That makes three," Leia cried when she heard the news.
"Someone is out to get us!" Sadie exclaimed.
"I'm sure it's just a coincidence," Vivica said.
"Three out of seven members of our group have vanished. That's more than a coincidence."
"Maybe we should return to the U.S. before something happens to the rest of us," Leia suggested.
"I thought we all agreed to remain ...," Colleen began.
"Are you serious?" Sadie cried. "Scotland Yard has yet to find Joy or Jade, and now Leia is gone. Someone is targeting us. I don't know who or why, but I don't intend to hang around and wait for my turn to disappear."
"Me either," Leia insisted.
"Fine! Perhaps we should all go back home," Colleen relented. "But let's go see Sgt. Hornbeck first. He may have some news for us."
"Don't give up hope, ladies," the police officer said after admitting that the two women had not been found yet. "We have more than nine hundred thousand CCTV cameras in this city. Currently, we're checking those around The Shard to see if we can find Ms. Newhouse or Ms. Arliss on any of them. But I'm sure you realize this will take time."
"While you're at it," Sadie said, "You can look to see if Amethyst Eastwood makes an appearance. She has disappeared, as well."
With a third woman missing, Cecil Hornbeck decided to refer the matter to his superior officer. Detective Chief Inspector Guillaume Cadwallader was then assigned to head the case. The prospect of three American authors possibly having come to harm in their city prompted the Metropolitan Police to assign additional manpower to the case. Footage from hundreds of CCTV cameras was gathered, and photographs of the three missing women were distributed to law enforcement personnel throughout the United Kingdom.
"What about the newspapers and television?" Colleen asked. "Wouldn't appealing directly to the public be the quickest way to find missing persons?"
"We don't want to cause a panic by going to the media," DCI Cadwallader replied, "If we don't get a break in the case in another day or so, we may be forced to but not just yet. Meanwhile, you be careful. Don't go off anywhere by yourselves or with strangers."
"There's no danger of that," Leia said. "I'm taking the first plane back to Denver."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible. All of you will have to stay in London in case we need to question you again."
"Surely you don't think we're involved in these disappearances!" Vivica cried.
"We don't know what happened or who might be involved. Until we do, I'll have to ask for all your passports."
* * *
When the police finally released the story to the press, it created a media storm. By that time, two more women, Leia Burdette and Sadie Rawlinson, could not be found. To prevent any further disappearances, police officers were assigned to keep watch over Colleen and Vivica. For weeks, the Metropolitan Police were hounded by reporters, demanding to know what progress was being made on the case.
"We're following several leads at the moment," Guillaume Cadwallader announced; he did not report that all the leads so far had led nowhere.
Eventually, other news stories pushed the disappearances off the first page. And with no progress to report, TV coverage virtually stopped as well. Then, just when police feared the case would go cold, the worst happened: the bodies of the five missing women were found in an abandoned warehouse. The discovery was made on August 31—exactly one hundred and thirty-four years after Mary Ann Nichols was found butchered in Buck's Row (now Durward Street) in Whitechapel. Like Jack the Ripper's victims, all the American writers had been eviscerated. The story made news not only in England but also in the U.S. and most of Europe. Newspaper headlines around the world screamed: JACK'S BACK!
"Obviously, we have a copycat killer on our hands," DCI Cadwallader announced during a press conference. "But New Scotland Yard is much more advanced than our predecessors were back in 1888. Forensic science and modern detection procedures have come a long way since then. We'll find whoever killed those women."
Solving the crime turned out to be much easier than even the Met had expected. The murder weapon was discovered a block away from the bodies with the blood of all five victims still on it.
"It could have been us," Vivica said, shocked by the horrific discovery.
"But it wasn't," Colleen told her. "We're still alive."
"For now, anyway. The police haven't caught the killer yet. Maybe he still plans on coming after us."
"You believe someone is targeting us as a group?"
"Yes. Don't you?"
"I'm not sure."
"Five women, all successful mystery writers. It can't be a coincidence."
"Maybe the killer saw us on the Jack the Ripper tour," Colleen hypothesized. "We were all there. Maybe he was, too. He could have followed us back here to The Shard and then began to pick us off one by one."
"I never considered that," Vivica said, seeing the logic of such an argument. "It makes sense."
"More sense than the idea that he wants to kill off mystery writers."
"We've got to tell the police about this. They're bound to have at least one CCTV camera along the Ripper route. If the killer was on that tour, he's bound to show up on the footage."
"You forget," Colleen pointed out. "We took that tour weeks ago. I don't how long they keep the tapes, DVDs or whatever they use to record the images."
"Maybe they can question Zarabeth, the tour guide."
"See sees dozens of tourists a week. What makes you think she'll remember one man?"
"Well, it's worth a try. I'm going to go to the police and tell them about the tour. Are you coming with me?"
Before Colleen could reply, there was a knock on the door. It was DCI Cadwallader, Sgt. Hornbeck and several uniformed police officers.
"I'm glad you're here," Vivica said. "There's something I want to discuss with you."
"Vivica Taft, I'm here to arrest you for the murders of Joy Newhouse, Amethyst Eastwood, Jade Arliss, Leia Burdette and Sadie Rawlinson," Cecil Hornbeck announced in an official voice. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court."
"What? You don't think I ...!"
"You will have the opportunity to call your solicitor when we get to the station."
"This is ridiculous!" Colleen cried. "She didn't kill anyone."
"The evidence says otherwise," a stone-faced Guillaume said.
* * *
In each of her eight bestselling books, Vivica Taft had written about DNA tests, blood spatter patterns, hair and fiber samples and many other forensic clues that led to the arrest and conviction of the murderers. Thus, when she saw the evidence the police had collected, she knew her fate was sealed.
Her DNA was found not only at the warehouse but also on the murder weapon. Strands of her hair were found in Jade's hand and on Leia's blouse. Most damning of all was the footage from the cameras in the hotel lobby.
"This is a video of you following Ms. Arliss out of the hotel the day she went missing," DCI Cadwallader explained as he played back the CCTV footage on a laptop computer. "We also have you on video following Ms. Newhouse, Ms. Burdette, Ms. Eastwood and Ms. Rawlinson just before they went missing."
"That's not me."
"Are you sure? I admit we don't see your full face here, but this woman is about the same height and weight as you. Her hair is the same color and style as yours. That even looks like the jacket we found in the closet of your hotel room, the one stained with blood from four of the five victims."
"That might or might not be my jacket, but that's not me wearing it. I was in my room working on an outline when those women went missing."
"Even if that wasn't you in the footage—which I find hard to believe—how do you account for the forensic evidence we found?"
"It's obvious that I'm being framed.”"
"By whom?"
"I don't know."
"These women came to London at your invitation. This detection club was all your idea, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Was that your way of getting rid of your competition?"
"No!" Vivica screamed. "I told you! I didn't kill them! Someone else did. I passed a lie detector test, didn't I?"
"Polygraph tests are not foolproof. You ought to know that."
"Are you suggesting I kidnapped and murdered five women just because they're fellow writers? If I did want to eliminate anyone, it would be Colleen McKinnon, the only woman whose books outsell mine, and she's still alive."
"Maybe we got to you before you could get to her."
"This is insane!"
"I admit none of this makes sense," the detective chief inspector acknowledged. "But we have to go where the evidence leads us, and that's to you."
Despite hiring one of London's most prominent barristers to represent her, Vivica Taft—dubbed Jill the Ripper by the media—was eventually convicted of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment.
* * *
When Colleen McKinnon's plane touched down at Logan International Airport, she braced herself for the reception she knew she would receive.
There they are, she thought when she saw the horde of reporters and cameramen, all eager to interview her.
"Do you think you would have been Jill the Ripper's next victim?" a blonde from Fox News asked, shoving a microphone in the writer's face.
"I can't possibly know what went on in Vivica Taft's mind, but I'm glad the Metropolitan Police put a security detail on both of us. If they hadn't, I might not be here today."
"Do you plan to write about your harrowing experience?" a reporter from CBS News queried.
"Of course. That's what I do. I'm a writer. But unlike my other books, which have been works of fiction, this one will be a true crime drama."
There were more questions, but thankfully Ford Jannings arrived and was able to usher his client through the crowds and into a waiting car.
"God! That must have been awful for you!" the agent exclaimed. "How are you holding up?"
"As good as can be expected."
"This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I suggested you travel," he laughed nervously.
"It may have been a frightening experience, but it served its purpose. I wanted inspiration for a new book, and that's what I got."
"But what a way to get it!"
The inspiration had come on the first night in London when Vivica Taft arranged for the seven women to take a Jack the Ripper tour. During Zarabeth's recounting of the events of 1888, Colleen had looked at Vivica and the other five women and saw not fellow writers all eager to supplant her as the number one bestselling female mystery writer but rather as the perpetrator and victims of a crime that would shock the world. Relying on information she had acquired from consulting with members of law enforcement over the years, she then planned and executed the perfect crime.
It was all so easy! she mused, as she sat in the passenger seat of Ford Jannings's Mercedes, gazing out the window as the car headed toward Hyannis where she would get the Hy-Line ferry to Nantucket.
Upon returning to the hotel after the Jack the Ripper Walking Tour, she ordered a blond wig and jacket like the one Vivica wore from amazon.co.uk. Then Colleen paid a visit to her fellow author's room where she obtained strands of hair from a brush and a sample of DNA from a blood-stained tissue Vivica had thrown in the bathroom trash bin after cutting herself while shaving her legs.
Not even the multitude of CCTV cameras located throughout London posed a threat to Colleen's plan. Even if she was caught on video, wearing the wig and jacket, she would appear to be Vivica to the police. Only the five victims got close enough to her to ascertain her true identity—and they weren't going to talk!
Thus, Ms. McKinnon's long-awaited next book was not, in reality, a nonfiction work. After all, it was not meant to be a confession. Instead, it was a retelling of the abductions and murders as she wanted the story told. When Jill the Ripper was finally released, it sold out of its first run in less than a day. The book eventually sold more than all of Colleen's other works combined, and the price Sony Pictures paid for the movie rights set an industry record high.
Meanwhile, Vivica Taft served her sentence in Surrey's Bronzefield Prison. Colleen felt no guilt at having ruined an innocent woman's life, but then psychopaths are not known for their compassion.
I did what I had to do, she reasoned. All that nonsense about Agatha's American Cousins! Vivica and the others all wanted to take my place as the number one bestselling female mystery writer. Who can blame me for doing what was necessary to remain on top?
The Detection Club was a real club formed in 1930 by British mystery writers.
English or American, when it comes to breakfast, Salem isn't fussy.
