The Spring At Moss Hill

Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

One (#ulink_9745b9e2-eff7-5402-957d-6783df1b581c)

“What do you think a private investigator would want me to stock in his fridge and pantry?”

The provocative question came from Ruby O’Dunn, up front by the cash register at the Swift River Country Store, a fixture in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts, for at least a century. Ruby was speaking to Christopher Sloan, a local firefighter. Kylie Shaw, out of sight in the wine section, had spotted them coming into the store. Now she wished she’d been paying closer attention to their conversation. Private investigator? What private investigator?

“He’s from Beverly Hills,” Chris said. “I’d start with that.”

“He works for a Beverly Hills law firm. I don’t know if he’s actually from Beverly Hills.”

“Close enough.”

“It’d almost be easier if we were having him stay with my mother. She’s got a fully stocked kitchen.”

“She also has goats.”

“Don’t get me started. I cleaned out their stalls this morning. It’s bedlam at her place. Even staying there a few days would be a lot to ask. Moss Hill is a much better choice.”

Kylie held tight to a bottle of expensive champagne.

Moss Hill?

Moss Hill was a former nineteenth-century hat factory that had undergone extensive renovations and opened in March, with offices, meeting space and residences. She’d moved into one of its four loft-style apartments five weeks ago. So far, she was the only tenant. She accepted that the other three apartments wouldn’t stay empty, but she hadn’t ever—not once—imagined a private investigator moving in, even temporarily.

She missed what Chris said in response to Ruby. Ruby went on about wild mushrooms, artisan cheese and artichokes, but Chris finally told her to focus on basics. “Put a six-pack in the fridge,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”

Ruby muttered something Kylie couldn’t make out, and Chris left, apparently with a six-pack of his own.

Kylie placed the champagne in her basket. She’d promised herself she would take time to celebrate once the daffodils were in bloom, and they were definitely in bloom. The last time she’d come up for air and tried to celebrate had been in August. She’d ended up at a Red Sox game with a negative, burned-out carpenter who complained for seven innings. She’d been relieved when the game didn’t go into extra innings and had told him she’d had a call from her sister, a veterinary student at Tufts, to get out of going back to Knights Bridge with him. Before that, she’d split a bottle of wine with a condescending sculptor in Paris, celebrating her first children’s book as both author and illustrator. These little children’s drawings you do are sweet, Kylie, but... He’d shrugged, leaving her to imagine the rest of what he was pretending to be too polite to say. She couldn’t make a living as an illustrator, they weren’t real art, they weren’t any good, anyone could do it. It had been that kind of but.

She headed to the cash register with her basket. She could always have her champagne alone on her balcony and toast the stars and the moon, with gratitude.

Maybe invite the Beverly Hills PI.

That’d be the day. She didn’t plan to do anything to invite his scrutiny.

Ruby was lifting a basket off a stack by the register. Kylie had met all four O’Dunn sisters around town—the country store, the library, the town offices where their mother worked—but didn’t know any of them well. She’d moved to Knights Bridge last summer and kept telling herself she wanted to get to know people there, but so far, they remained acquaintances, not friends. Ruby and Ava, fraternal twins and the youngest O’Dunns, were theater graduate students, Ava in New York, Ruby in Boston. A natural redhead like her three sisters, Ruby had dyed her hair plum-black and tied it back with a bright pink scarf. She wore a long black skirt, a white T-shirt and a denim jacket, with black boots and no jewelry.

“Oh, Kylie, hi,” Ruby said. “I didn’t see you back there.”

“I couldn’t resist the wine sale.”

“Ah. Champagne, I see. Excellent. Did you hear Chris Sloan and me talking just now? A private investigator will be here from California tomorrow. He’ll be staying in the apartment across the hall from you.”

“What’s he investigating?”

“One of his clients is giving a master class at Moss Hill next Saturday,” Ruby said. “Daphne Stewart—she has roots in town.”

“She was here last September for the vintage fashion show at the library,” Kylie said. “Hollywood costume designer. I remember.”

“Did you go?”

“No, I didn’t.” She’d been fiddling with a project ahead of hitting the Send button. Work was always her excuse for not being more social. “I heard it was a great success.”

“The fashion show raised a lot of money for the library and the historical society.” Ruby hooked her basket on one arm. “Daphne’s a character. Russ Colton—the private investigator arriving tomorrow—is making sure everything’s set for her arrival. It’ll be Moss Hill’s first public event. You should come, Kylie. You’ll be right there.”

“Thanks. I’ll give it some thought.”

Ruby held up her basket. “I need to fill this up. I should get moving. Good to see you.”

“You, too,” Kylie said, but Ruby had spotted someone she knew and taken off down the canned-goods aisle.

Kylie set her basket on the counter.

A private investigator and a respected, longtime Hollywood costume designer on their way to town—to Moss Hill.

Just what I need.

She held back a groan. If she couldn’t fake excitement, best to be neutral.

She unloaded her groceries. In addition to the champagne, she’d picked up plain yogurt, cheddar cheese, flax-seed bread, coffee and mixed spring greens, all local to her quiet part of New England, west of Boston.