“I can’t wait,” Mercer said.

“Please don’t,” Leigh said. “You’re much too smart for it. I love your writing.”

Mercer was touched and quietly said, “Thank you.”

“Then we slowed down,” Myra continued. “We got sued twice by this crazy bitch up north who claimed we had stolen her stuff. Wasn’t true. Our crap was much better than her crap, but our lawyers got nervous and made us settle out of court. That led to a big fight with our publisher, then our agent, and the whole thing sort of knocked us off our stride. Somehow we got the reputation as thieves, or at least I did. Leigh did a good job of hiding behind me and dodging all the mud. Her literary reputation is still intact, such as it is.”

“Now, Myra.”

“So you stopped writing?” Mercer asked.

“Let’s say I slowed down considerably. There’s money in the bank and some of the books are still selling.”

“I still write, every day,” Leigh said. “My life would be empty if I didn’t write.”

“And it would be a helluva lot emptier if I didn’t sell,” Myra snarled.

“Now, Myra.”

The pack’s largest dog, a forty-pound long-haired mutt, squatted close to the patio and dropped a pile. Myra saw it happen, said nothing, then covered the area with a cloud of smoke when the dog was finished.

Mercer changed the subject with “Are there other writers on the island?”

Leigh nodded with a smile and Myra said, “Oh, far too many.” She chugged the fruit jar and smacked her lips.

“There’s Jay,” Leigh said. “Jay Arklerood.”

It was becoming apparent that Leigh’s job was to merely suggest so that Myra could then narrate. She said, “You would start with him, wouldn’t you? He’s another literary snob who can’t sell and hates everybody who can. He’s also a poet. Do you like poetry, Mercer dear?”

Her tone left no doubt that she had little use for poetry. Mercer said, “Don’t read much of it.”

“Well, don’t read his, if you could even find it.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of him.”

“No one has. He sells less than Leigh.”

“Now, Myra.”

“What about Andy Adam?” Mercer asked. “Doesn’t he live here?”

“When he’s not in rehab,” Myra said. “He built a fine home down on the south end, then lost it in a divorce. He’s a mess but a really good writer. I adore his Captain Clyde series, some of the best crime fiction around. Even Leigh can stoop to enjoy it.”

Leigh said, “A lovely man, when he’s sober, but a dreadful drunk. He still gets in fights.”

Seamlessly taking the handoff, Myra jumped right back in with “Just last month he got in a fight at the saloon on Main Street. Some guy half his age beat the hell out of him and the police hauled him in. Bruce had to post his bond.”

“Who’s Bruce?” Mercer asked quickly.

Myra and Leigh sighed and took a sip, as if any discussion of Bruce might take hours. Leigh eventually said, “Bruce Cable, he owns the bookstore. You’ve never met him?”