by Amber Boffin
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
About the Author
AMBER BOFFIN
LETHALLY GREEN
A Maggie Flanagan Cozy Mystery
AVENOAK
Text © 2017 Amber Boffin
Cover Illustration by Steve Thomas
www.stevethomasart.com
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN (print): 978-1-7751028-0-9
Avenoak
505 Hwy. 118 West
Suite 420
Bracebridge, ON P1L2G7
Canada
First Edition
to Monique
Chapter One
Having spent the morning rummaging in her boxes freshly arrived from England, Maggie Flanagan felt the urge to fill her lungs with fresh air. She stumbled over piles of books and half-unpacked cases to reach for the bow window facing the lake. As she slid the window up, a gust of air blew her red locks into her eyes. A quacking coming from her pocket interrupted her contemplation.
“Hey, Maggie! I can’t wait to see you. About this weekend, does it still work for you?”
“Amy, of course, I’ve already unpacked your bed! Why are you speaking so softly?”
“I don’t want my colleague from the morgue to hear I’m off this weekend, otherwise I’ll have a case to investigate urgently. Thankfully, up where you live no one dies suspiciously, but—”
“Come on, you’re not going to chicken out so quickly!” interrupted Maggie, hearing hesitation in her friend’s voice. “Clearly you need a break, and you’ve still not learned to delegate, I see. It’s about time you do. No excuses, I’ve already booked dinner for Friday at the Horizon Cafe.”
Amy sighed. “You’re right, as always… I’ll have to tell my hubby to deal with the kids.”
“A bit more enthusiasm, dear… It’ll be great fun, and the kids will love to have time alone with their dad.”
“I’m sorry. I’m truly happy to see you, I just worry about everyone.”
“Okay then, get on with your work so that you can come early on Friday!” replied Maggie.
Amy laughed. “Even you’re whispering now! I’ll be there. And don’t drown in your boxes.”
“Can’t wait to see you again!”
Maggie slipped her phone back into her pocket and looked down toward the shoreline. She saw herself forty years ago, running from the terrace down to the dock and plunging into the lake, her parents keeping a watchful eye on her while cheering her acrobatics from the same position behind the window.
At the thought of seeing her friend Amy, she felt time had collapsed. It had been decades since they’d spent a weekend together at the lake. During her time abroad, Maggie had only returned for short holidays to Canada to see her parents, and she had lost touch with most of her university friends, aside from Amy. Distance and busy lives had put a strain on their relationship, and now it was time to rekindle it. What better way than at the cottage, chatting in front of the fireplace, sipping hot chocolate.
A fluffy white tail caught the corner of her eye, propelled by its owner along the house into the woods. Her curiosity piqued, she slipped on her Wellington boots and jacket and laughed.I should call them rubber boots now that I’m back in Canada. She tucked her curly hair under her favourite green Tilley hat and set off to track the snowshoe hare.
She loved early spring, with the birds arriving back from their migration, the chipmunks and groundhogs coming out of their deep sleep, and the sun’s intensity growing by the day. This was her first Canadian spring in twenty years.
Losing the hare to the deep blackberry bushes, Maggie decided to check out the trails on the property leading to the beaver dam alongside the border of her land. There she hoped to capture a shot of a beaver with her camera. The sun, unhindered by a canopy of leaves, warmed her back as she walked through the woods. The large pond was still partially frozen with a few open channels leading to the beaver lodge.
She climbed onto Lake View Road, which bordered her land, to catch a better view of a brown mass she could see moving along the ridge of the dam. Sure enough, a large beaver, oblivious to her presence, was busy plugging the breach with mud and branches in the deep end of the water. She managed to freeze its startled look with one click before it dove back under the thin ice out of sight.
Her prize captured, Maggie hastened back to her home, looking forward to her ten o’clock ritual of a warm cup of tea. She had picked up the habit in London. She found it helped her relax and think. She intended to savour every moment of her new life, embracing her choice of moving out of the city back to the Canadian countryside she liked so much.
Maggie loaded the images from her walk onto her computer. She loved blowing up images on the computer to study the details that her eyes missed. The beaver appeared to stare back at her from under his bushy eyebrows, his overbite highlighted by two elongated yellow teeth.
Moving her mouse around the picture, she sat back, surprised by what seemed to be a black handle sticking out from the thin layer of ice next to the breach in the water where the animal had disappeared. Maybe a motorcycle handle…strange. Could a beaver have carried something like this into the pond…from where? How on earth did it end up there?
She suppressed the urge to go straight out again and investigate it, since her boxes were waiting to be emptied, her photo business to be implemented, and the refurbishing of the cottage had to be planned quickly. The roof was leaking and the kitchen needed replacement. Her parents had lived in the log home since she was born and had maintained it well but had postponed the replacement of the roof, having disagreed about an extension to the living room, which in the end never happened.
Energized by her walk and with a log added to the stove,
Maggie sat behind her computer. She brushed aside the anxious thought of whether her dream to become a photographer was a smart career change. Instead, she pondered ways to set up her photo studio. She had given herself a year to make it happen. She had heard from the vegetable vendor that the Millers, the owners of Moose Lodge, a restaurant and summer camp for kids, were looking for a photographer for their daughter’s wedding. She hoped they would remember her and be open to using an unproven photographer, despite the importance of wedding pictures. It would be the ideal launch for her studio and a way to see old acquaintances.
Maggie hesitated, rubbing her arms uneasily at the thought of calling the Millers out of the blue. If she were in their shoes, there would be no reason to work with her—after all, she didn’t have any credentials as a photographer. She put the kettle on and only once her warm cup of tea was nestled in her hands and she was curled up in her tweed armchair did she feel she had nothing to lose by approaching them. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Sitting in her favourite position, her legs tucked under her, with a flick of a thumb she searched for the Millers’ number. As the phone rang, Maggie straightened in anticipation.
“Hello, is this Ms. Sue Miller?”
“Yes?”
“This is Maggie Flanagan. How’re you doing?” The silence on the other side urged her to speak. “I’m a photographer and setting up my business in the region.” Maggie waited a little for an acknowledgement. “I was in the vegetable store when I overheard a conversation about the upcoming wedding of your daughter.”
Ms. Sue Miller was still silent on the other side, increasing Maggie’s uneasiness.
“We’re neighbours. I’m the daughter of the Flanagans, at the end of Lake View Road. They often visited your restaurant.”
“Neighbours you say, the Flanagans, eh? The name rings a bell. I’m better with faces than names. My daughter’s already found a photographer, but I’m not sure about him, all the way from Toronto.”
Maggie sensed an opening and rushed to say, “I’d be happy to show you my work and meet up with you and your daughter at your convenience. It’s always good to compare options.”
Another silence. Maggie was at a loss how to convince her until her mother’s little voice in her head reminded her that Ms. Miller liked bargains. She had haggled for the price of her parents’ boat down thirty percent, to the dismay of her father.
“What about if you’ve no obligation to buy my pictures, I take them at my own cost, and only if you like them, you can buy the prints you want afterward?”
Maggie heard a shuffle, and finally out came a sound from the phone.
“That seems reasonable and a better deal than the other one, but I need to check with my daughter. She’s very picky, and she’d want to see your work first.”
“Of course, I understand. I’m happy to show you my portfolio.”
As the words came out of her mouth, Maggie worried that she didn’t have wedding photos, only a wildlife portfolio, and a few printed portraits from the film era that had gone missing in the removal. Feeling she could no longer backtrack, she added, “I’m available this afternoon.”
“Let me check with my daughter. I was planning on visiting her at three o’clock. So four o’clock at her place could work.”
As Maggie hung up, she looked at the clock and realized she would never have the time to take new photographs and somehow would have to convince them that her squirrel portraits would translate into beautiful headshots of the bride. She cursed herself for being unprepared but argued that it was an opportunity she had to grasp. How many weddings will there be in Foxton per year? One, maybe two if she was lucky.
For a few minutes she hoped the call would be fruitless, with Catherine, Ms. Miller’s daughter, rejecting her upfront. She then would have time to build a website, have a portrait photo book, and be ready to approach clients. As she settled with a rejection, the phone rang and Ms. Miller confirmed the afternoon appointment.
During the following hour it seemed that an upheaval had taken place in the living room as Maggie emptied box after box still hoping to find the portrait prints. Nothing. She pulled out her wildlife portfolio and flicked through it, trying to place herself in a future bride’s mind and snapped it closed with anger. I’ll just have to be lucky. Maybe she likes animals, but even then…
Maggie printed out a few more pictures and got ready for her visit. She tried to brush aside her apprehension. She climbed into her old blue pickup truck, her father’s cherished vehicle. She liked feeling tall and safe peering over the steering wheel at the cars and animals below. Big Jay, as she fondly called it, had a mismatched red door and was rusting around the wheels, but she loved it. At just above five feet, she had to add a cushion to her seat to see the end of the hood. She often joked about it and said it was the driverless car.
She wasn’t sure what to expect as she turned onto Graham’s Lane, peering over her steering wheel at the white cottage at the far end. As she parked in front of the house, a Great Dane dashed out of nowhere, it seemed, prancing around the car. She had noted the veterinary clinic sign at the entrance and expected to encounter animals, but this dog was a pony’s size. Carefully, she rolled down her window and calmly spoke to the dog that was now fully stretched, paws on the door. Reassured by his wagging tail and attitude, Maggie climbed out of the truck, the dog at her waist, sniffing her.
To Maggie’s surprise, four people stood at the door, observing her. Maggie recognized Ms. Miller, a little more dried-up with age, like a prune but still with her prominent hawk nose taking central position between ice-blue eyes. Frozen on the spot by the intensity of Ms. Miller’s gaze, Maggie quickly glanced at the others, hoping to see the friendly familiar face of the Richard Miller she remembered. She was rescued by a warm smile from a bearded man in beige overalls she didn’t know, and as he moved sideways she saw Richard Miller. He hadn’t changed a bit. He didn’t seem to recognize her, although she noted a surprised look in his eyes, followed by a smile. He still had his full head of hair, which used to puzzle her as a child. Seeing it now, she had to conclude it was real, having turned to a mix of pepper and salt.
This was going to be a little different than Maggie had hoped for. She had imagined that they would remember her parents, or perhaps Ms. Miller hadn’t shared it with the group and still couldn’t place her. Ms. Miller finally came forward.
“Maggie, welcome, I’m Sue Miller, but call me Sue.” Ms. Miller glanced quickly back over her shoulder at the group still standing on the porch and whispered in Maggie’s ear. “I’m afraid my daughter is really set on her photographer. Although I’m paying, it’s her day…”
As the group approached the pair, Ms. Miller raised her voice. “This is Catherine, my daughter and bride, my husband Richard, and Matt, the groom.”
As Ms. Miller turned toward her future son-in-law, Maggie looked up to the bearded man, tilting her head back farther and farther until she could see his eyes. Maggie smiled at the trio. Catherine’s sharp blue eyes travelled around her face and body in appraisal.
“Hi, it’s really exciting you’re getting married so soon.”
As Maggie spoke, Matt placed his arm around Catherine’s shoulder, looking down at her with love.
Inspired, Maggie said, “I love weddings and capturing the joyful moment to extend it in time. I’m—”
Ms. Miller interrupted, “Shall we go inside, it’s a little chilly. We can hear all about it then.”
Ms. Miller waved her hands to herd the group toward the door. The family moved in unison, as if following a rehearsed drill. Richard held the door open for Maggie.
Matt, at six foot four with his burly frame, shrank the house to a doll’s size as he walked, bending under the doorways. Like a line of ants, they marched behind him via the mudroom into the kitchen. Careful not to step on one of the cats winding its tail around any leg it could find, Maggie quickly moved to a side of the wooden table, away from Ms. Miller. She could see in their
smiling eyes yet arched brows that they hadn’t expected a pint-sized, red-haired woman.
Looking at each in turn, feeling her cheeks warm, Maggie rubbed her hands together and straightened her back.
“As Sue might have mentioned to you, I’ve approached her, having heard on the grapevine of the village”—Maggie chuckled to ease the atmosphere—“that you were looking for a photographer.”
With a stern face, Catherine replied, “Mom’s the one really looking for one. I’ve already got one from Toronto. Frankly, you’re wasting your time.”
Unease fell upon the group as Ms. Miller looked reproachfully at her daughter.
“I’m sorry, Maggie, as you can see, my daughter is stubborn, and I’d hoped she would at least look at what you had to offer, given your good deal.”
Maggie replied, smiling, “I understand, Catherine, it is your special day, and if you’ve found—”
Richard Miller interrupted Maggie. “I remember you! You are the wee girl who came and play at the lodge when we had the kids for summer camp, always canoeing to our dock at the time of the bonfire for the scary stories. Like a mouse, we would suddenly see you sitting among the kids without having seen you arrive. You did worry your parents.”
Ms. Miller turned toward her husband, hitting her thigh with her hand. “Of course, that’s it, yes, the Flanagans, how could I forget? My memory’s failing me at times. So sad for your parents, my dear.”
Catherine appeared impatient, shifting on her chair, darting glances at the trio, in reaction to which Matt placed his large hand in the back of her neck, as if he were trying to appease a wild animal.
Ms. Miller looked at her daughter. “Catherine, you were just a baby when Maggie wandered up to the lodge in summer. Her parents have the log home all the way at the end of Lake View Road. It takes more time to drive there than to canoe between the lodge and their home. You know which home, you canoed there and back often enough.”
