A Deadly New Year: A Mt. Abrams Mystery (The Mt. Abrams Mysteries)

by Dee Ernst

  A Deadly New Year

  Dee Ernst

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Also by Dee Ernst

  Copyright © 2016 by Dee Ernst

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All the characters in this book are the product of an overactive imagination. Any resemblance to a real person, living or dead, is a tremendous coincidence.

  If you’d like to learn more about Mt. Abrams, including other books in the series, please visit

  https://mtabrams.com

  To find more of other Dee’s books, go to

  www.deeernst.com

  Comments? Questions? An uncontrollable desire to just chat? You can reach me at

  Dee@deeernst.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9970514-7-6

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter 1

  It’s great when you’re in a relationship with someone who has the same interests as you. I met my ex-husband, Marc, at my first job in a well-known publishing house in New York City. What we shared at first was a love of words, books, and reading. We could talk for hours about favorite authors, bits of beautiful dialog or unforgettable scenes. Any book lover out there will know what I’m talking about, and how powerful it is to have someone share your passion.

  Sam Kinali, on the other hand, did not share my love of books. Sure, he was well read, but mostly non-fiction. He devoured biographies and history. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just not the same as sitting across the table from someone who can tell you the exact moment they became a fan of Elizabeth George or Lee Child.

  But Sam and I had something else in common.

  Solving crime.

  Sam did it for a living. He was a police detective. It was his job.

  For me, Ellie Rocca, it was something of an obsession. Sure, editing mysteries and thrillers as a freelancer let me vicariously solve all sorts of devious crimes. But the past six months had put me in situations where real people had been murdered, and I had figured out who had done it and why.

  It was pretty exciting. It also put my life in danger, and Sam, as well as my ex-husband and daughters, strongly suggested that my hobby had become too dangerous. I had to agree. I pledged to keep myself out of any similar situations, and I had managed to keep that promise. Mostly.

  So when Sam suggested a New Year’s Eve getaway to a bed and breakfast in Vermont that featured a king-sized bed, and roaring fireplace, and a murder-mystery weekend, it seemed too good to be true.

  Me, a sexy man, and a murder.

  How could anything get more perfect?

  My daughter, Tessa, was watching me pack. She was eleven, just on the edge of becoming totally unbearable. I was stupid, lame, didn’t understand, never let her do anything, hated puppies…you name something awful, I did it, said it, or felt it. Having already raised another daughter, Caitlyn, to full adulthood, I knew that Tessa would someday stop thinking I was the worst mother in the world. I was just hoping it wouldn’t take as long as it took Cait.

  “I don’t know why I can’t come with you,” she said. Again. “I could ski while you play at your lame mystery.”

  I sighed patiently. Again. “We’re really not close to any ski places.”

  “Mom, Vermont is, like, tiny. How far away from anything can you be?”

  “I would have to go with you, Tessa. It’s not like I can just drop you off at the base of a mountain, then pick you up at the end of the day.”

  “So what’s wrong with hanging out in the ski lodge? Cait said you did it all the time when she and Daddy went.”

  I had recently purchased a very expensive piece of lingerie, black with a bit of lace that was sitting in my drawer, waiting to be moved to my suitcase. If I did it in front of Tessa, I’d never hear the end of it. If I didn’t pack it now, the odds were stacked against me remembering to do it even, say, ten minutes from now.

  “This is not a family vacation, Tessa. This is a weekend for Sam and I to spend together. There’s a difference.”

  I opened the drawer, There it lay, a wisp of black satin, guaranteed to look amazing for the maybe fifty seconds I’d be wearing it before it ended up as a heap on the floor. I covered it with flannel jammie pants, rolled it tightly, then tucked it carefully into the corner of my suitcase.

  “Then do you promise I can going skiing with Aunt Suzie over break?”

  “Sure,” I said as I carefully zipped the suitcase closed. “Promise.”

  She sighed, rather elaborately, then slid off the bed and slouched out of the bedroom.

  Tessa would be spending New Years Eve with her much older sister, Cait, and her boyfriend Kyle right here in Mt. Abrams. Cait had no problem with my going off for a few days with Sam, because it meant she and Kyle would have the run of the house. I knew they were having sex. She was a grown woman, and Kyle was the only man in her life. I didn’t mind. Tessa, queen of the sleepover, wouldn’t blink. But I knew there would be people in Mt. Abrams who would raise their eyebrows and murmur…Ellie left for a weekend? And put her daughter in charge of that little girl? And the daughter was sleeping with…

  Mt. Abrams, for all its quaint charm and illusion of perfect small-town-America, was like any other small town, which meant people lived to watch, judge, and gossip.

  Luckily, I didn’t care all that much.

  I carried the suitcase downstairs to set it by the front door. Cait was in front of the fireplace, reading. She was a teacher and had spent her entire Christmas break in front of the fire with her Kindle, when not off with Kyle, of course.

  “When is Sam coming?” she asked.

  “About ten minutes. When is Kyle coming?”

  She grinned. “Well, I guess in about fifteen minutes. He’s at his parents.”

  “Are you going to throw a wild party here Saturday night?”

  She snorted. “Oh, yeah. That’s me all right. A wild party person.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if you had some friends over.”

  “I know. But Tessa has never seen The Lord of the Rings movies, so we may do a marathon. Kyle is pretty excited about it.”

  I shook my head. “You are such geeks, I can’t stand it.” I saw Sam’s car pull up. “Tessa, kiss.”

  She came down the steps, allowed me a hug and kiss on the forehead, then flew back upstairs. I hugged Cait, gave a quick pat on the head to Boot, the most adorable and spoiled cocker spaniel on the planet, and then opened the door. Sam, grinning, reached for my suitcase.

  “Ready?”

  I grabbed my coat. “Absolutely.”

  And we were off.

  There are certain places where, if you’re driving through them, you should automatically add three hours to the estimated drive time. Places liked Connecticut. Which is why we arrived at Manchester, Vermont at eight in the evening instead of just in time for cocktail hour.

  We had stopped at around six thirty at a diner, simply because I was getting hungry and cranky, and Sam knew if I wasn’t fed, things could get ugly. During that half hour, it started to snow. When we pulled up in front of the inn, the snow was getting thick, and it was cold. Very cold. Sam dropped me off at t
he front door, and I ran up the stone steps and into Chilton House.

  The house looked like a storybook.

  I’d been on the website, of course, and knew the history of Chilton House. Built in 1908 by a minor oil baron, it had eighteen rooms, seven of them guest rooms with private baths, all carefully renovated to recapture the house’s former elegance. The pictures on my computer screen had looked perfectly nice, but in real life, the foyer, which was as large as my living room and served as the lobby, was stunning. There was a fire in the marble fireplace and classical music playing in the background. The Christmas tree in the corner was decorated by the very-good-taste fairy. Something that looked like a bar from a Victorian brothel served as a check-in desk and counter. Four overstuffed chairs were grouped around the fireplace, a perfect place to stretch out after a long drive. I shook off my coat and moved in that general direction as a woman came bustling up.

  “Are you Ellie? You’re the last to arrive. We were getting worried. I’m Meg. Here, let me take your coat. Where’s Sam? Parking the car? I’ll send Rob out to help him. Come through here and I’ll bring you something. Tea? Hot cider? Wine?”

  She was young, probably not thirty, dressed in corduroy pants and a Fair Isle sweater. She was one of the owners, I knew. She certainly was good at the Welcome part of her job.

  “Hot cider would be great,” I said and followed her through an archway festooned with pine garlands into an even larger, more comfortable room filled with people I didn’t know.

  Sam had made the arrangements for our weekend. Apparently, every year his law school roommate, Bradley Bishop, planned a New Year’s…something. Once it was a penthouse overlooking Times Square to watch the ball drop. In the past there had also been cruises, skiing, and trips to Disney World. This year, he had rented out an entire bed and breakfast, invited all the regular law school cronies, and hired someone to create a murder-mystery weekend. Sam had been on a few other New Year’s Extravaganzas in the past, but when he was invited to this one, he didn’t hesitate to RSVP.

  I’m a pretty social person, but staring down eight complete strangers was unnerving, especially since they all looked like they’d just stepped out of Town & Country magazine. I just stood, smiled, and waved. “Hey, I’m Ellie.”

  A short, round, bald man came bounding forward. ”Welcome! Sam has told us all about you. I’m Bradley. This is my little show. Where’s Sam?”

  “Parking the car.” I shook his hand. “Hi, Bradley.” I had already been warned. It was Bradley, not Brad. “Sam has told me all about you, too. This weekend sounds terrific.”

  I looked around.

  Sam had explained that he and Bradley had been part of the same study group all through law school, and they had all remained good friends. They kept in touch, met a few times a year, and really enjoyed each other’s company. I was never a fan of lawyers, but maybe that was a New Jersey thing, where lawyers had a tendency to be ranked right beneath village idiots on the statewide “deserves respect” scale. These were Sam’s friends and their spouses, and I was willing to give them all the benefit of the doubt. After all, he’d met all of my friends, and we were still together.

  But they looked…intimidating. All the women were expertly made up and dressed in obviously expensive outfits. The men looked groomed and pampered. I couldn’t imagine any of them drinking beer out of a red plastic cup. Not that red plastic cups were any measure of compatibility, but I knew I was in with a very different crowd from what I was used to.

  “You look a fright,” one of the women said. “Was the ride up awful?”

  I nodded. Sure, I’d blame the traffic. And sitting in a car for hours. Could I get away with calling black yoga pants and a fleece pullover tastefully accessorized with fake Uggs and a plaid blanket scarf a travel outfit? “Connecticut,” I said. “Connecticut always adds three days to your travel time.”

  Everyone chuckled. Who were these people? Shouldn’t there be nametags?

  “Here.” Meg came up beside me and handed me a mug of faintly steaming cider. “If you’d like to put a little something in it, the drink cart is over there. Are you hungry?”

  Drink cart? Drink cart? I’d never seen one in real life, only in old movies, where a butler in a tux mixed martinis for the crowd. “No, not hungry. Thanks, Meg.”

  Sam brushed by me with arms outspread, and he and Bradley hugged, clapped each other on the back, and then practically kissed. I faded back into a corner, sipping cider, to watch Sam.

  He was a big man, and he filled the room with not only his physical presence, but with his loud laughter and beaming smile. Everyone stood up to get a hug, and for some minutes, I watched him as I had never seen him before—totally relaxed and in his element. This was his tribe.

  He had told me all about them, of course. I knew who the high maintenance wives and disgruntled husbands were, who had slept with whom during law school, and who were most likely to burn out completely and move to a sheep farm in Montana. They sounded like interesting and likable people in the car. Seeing them, they looked posh and unapproachable.

  Sam finally disengaged himself and began to introduce me. Putting a face to the backstory made me feel better. The blonde with the bodycon black dress, for instance, was Claudia, who also went around to homeless shelters offering free legal representation to those in need.

  After about twenty minutes, I felt so much better, but was still way underdressed.

  I’d been carrying around my empty mug, and now had to pee, so I nudged Sam.

  “I’d like to see the room. Do you have a key?”

  “Sure.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out an old-fashioned skeleton key, with an elaborate tag hanging from it. “Room 7. Second floor. But there’s a touchpad to get in. The code is the Abrams zip code.”

  I smiled. How clever. I reached up to give him a quick kiss, set down my mug, then went in search of room 7.

  The staircase was also covered in garland, real Scotch pine swags attached with delicate gold ribbon. I stopped on the stairs to try to figure out how I could do something like it next year on my staircase, when Meg and another man, also in a Fair Isle sweater, appeared below. They were fighting in hushed, harsh whispers. I retreated further up the stairs. The man grabbed Meg’s arm and she shook him off. She got right in his face, hissing. Her lips were drawn back, and she was obviously furious.

  I did not want to know. I tiptoed up the rest of the stairs.

  Room 7 was lovely. King-sized bed, stone fireplace, a small, cozy love seat in the bay window. My suitcase was at the foot of the bed. The bathroom did not have a claw foot tub, but rather an extra large shower and two pedestal sinks. Everything was calm, tasteful, and smelled faintly of cedar.

  I unpacked a few things to get the wrinkles out. Should I change? Do something else with my hair? Re-apply lipstick? Get a facial, lose ten pounds and have a bit of work done around my eyes?

  Someone was working the keypad, and Sam opened the door.

  “Everything okay?”

  I smiled. “Yes. Just feeling shopworn.”

  He put his arms around me and gave me a very nice kiss. “I told everyone we had a terrible ride up, and you might be tired, if you want to, you know, just hang out up here?” His eyes had that certain little spark that usually sent a tingle down to my lady parts, but I shook my head.

  “We have all weekend to, you know, just hang out. I need to make a good first impression on your friends, or they’ll spend the rest of the year talking about how I only want you for your body.”

  “Don’t be silly. They already love you.”

  “How could they? All they know about me is that I don’t like driving in Connecticut.”

  “Then come on back downstairs. We can just sit and talk. You’ll see. They’re just people. You can dazzle them with tales of Mt. Abrams.”

  “You mean scare the crap out of them, right?”

  He laughed again. “Probably, yes. Come on.”

  I gave myself a quick look i
n the mirror, fluffed my hair, and followed Sam back down into the lion’s den.

  Chapter 2

  By morning, the snow had stopped, the sun was dazzling, and the view out the window was something from a postcard. The inn was off the main street in the town of Manchester, and surrounded by mountains. Although I wasn’t a fan of any activity that required going outside in the snow and the cold, the view almost inspired me to slap on some snowshoes and whoosh my way through the countryside.

  Almost.

  I eased out of bed to shower. I carefully did my hair and put on makeup. What to wear? Dazzle them right away? Slowly work up from mundane to fabulous? Dazzle was lots of work, so I slipped on jeans and a sweater, but upgraded with ballet flats and a spritz of perfume.

  The dining room overlooked the back garden. Thanks to the website and all the carefully placed brochures, I knew that the back garden had a slate patio and small swimming pool, in addition to a rose garden and banks of azaleas in the spring. Now, it was just white, with more white, but it was still beautiful, with the stark tree branches against the brilliant blue sky.

  The dining room was also fairly empty. Bradley, his wife Annalise, and a cool brunette in a black silk tunic sat in a corner. They turned as I entered and waved.

  “Morning, Ellie. How did you sleep?” Annalise called.

  “Fine. It’s beautiful today.”

  Breakfast was a buffet. I peeked under a few warming trays and my heart sank. Blueberry pancakes and French toast. The French toast looked to be made with raisin bread. The scrambled eggs were glistening with cheese. I swear, when my stomach growled, I looked over to see if Bradley and Co. had heard me and turned their heads in combined surprised disgust.

  They hadn’t.

  “Everything is wonderful,” the brunette purred. Her name was Sybil Townsend. If ever a name and personality were completely in sync, it was with Sybil Townsend.