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After paying for her groceries, she stepped outside. The beautiful April afternoon greeted her like a warm smile from a friend. She took in the quaint, picturesque village center. She was standing on Main Street, opposite the common, an oval-shaped green surrounded by classic houses, the library, churches, the town hall and a handful of small businesses. The long winter had released its grip. The grass was green, the trees were leafing out, and daffodils were in bloom. She had been working nonstop for weeks—months—and getting out into the warm spring air felt remarkably good, almost as if she’d come to life herself.
She noticed dark-haired, broad-shouldered Christopher Sloan farther down Main Street. He was the fifth of the six Sloan siblings, with four older brothers. She couldn’t imagine having five brothers. She didn’t have any brothers. The O’Dunns and the Sloans and other families had lived in Knights Bridge for decades, even for generations. Ruby and Chris had grown up together. That created bonds and a familiarity that Kylie couldn’t pretend to have in her adopted town.
Or want.
Not now at least.
She arranged her groceries in her bike bags, aware of a vague uneasiness about the arrival of a private investigator at Moss Hill. It wasn’t just that she wasn’t thrilled about it. She’d worked hard not to draw attention to herself during her months in Knights Bridge.
But it would all work out, she told herself as she climbed on to her bike. She had champagne, food and coffee. If she so much as sensed this Russ Colton was going to cause trouble for her, she could hide out in her apartment for days, content in her world of evil villains, handsome princes and daring princesses.
* * *
Moss Hill was quiet even for a Saturday afternoon. Kylie’s mud-spattered Mini was the only vehicle in the parking lot, so new it didn’t have a single pit or pothole. She could feel the ten-mile round-trip ride in her thighs as she jumped off her bike. She’d relished the slight breeze and the fresh scents of spring in the air on this warmest day of the year so far.
She grabbed her groceries out of her bike bags and gave them a quick check. Somehow she’d managed not to break or spill anything. She started to slip her phone into her jacket pocket but saw she had a voice mail.
Her sister, Lila, three years younger, still hard at work as a veterinary student in Boston. Also still a chronic worrier who was convinced her only sibling was turning into a recluse.
Kylie listened to the message, smiling at its predictability. “I hope you’re not answering because you’re off having a great time with friends. Call back whenever. Just saying hi.”
Lila had known at four that she wanted to be a veterinarian like their father. She’d never wavered. Kylie had always been more interested in drawing pictures of the animals that came in and out of the Shaw clinic than in operating on them.
She hadn’t been out with friends. She’d missed her sister’s call because she’d turned off her phone while she was on her bike.
She’d call Lila back later.
Kylie left her bike on the rack by the front entrance and followed a breezeway to the residential building, the smaller of the two brick-faced structures that formed the mill, or at least what remained of its original complex. Built in 1860 to capitalize on the burgeoning market for palm-leaf straw hats, the renovated mill was situated on a small river on the outskirts of town. Its namesake rose up across the road.
Moss Hill was one of the many knobs and hills that formed the uplands that had helped make the region attractive as a source of drinking water for metropolitan Boston. The bowl-shaped Swift River Valley had caught the eye of engineers and politicians, and the massive Quabbin Reservoir was created in the decades prior to World War II. Four small towns were disincorporated, their populations relocated, their homes and businesses razed, their graves and monuments moved, and Windsor Dam and Goodnough Dike were built, blocking the flow of three branches of the Swift River and Beaver Brook and, through the 1940s, allowing the valley to flood.
Even before Quabbin, the mill had been in decline, little realistic hope for its future. Straw hats had been going out of fashion, and by 1930, the mill stopped producing them. Subsequent owners hadn’t succeeded with alternative businesses. Eventually, the old buildings were boarded up and abandoned. A few years ago, a local architect and his business partners had bought the property and begun the painstaking process of demolition, renovation and refurbishment.
Kylie took the industrial-style stairs to the second floor. In addition to its four apartments, the building included a well-equipped exercise room, lounge and lower-level parking and storage. Although she’d grown up in the western exurbs of Boston, she’d never heard of Knights Bridge until a friend, an art professor recently hired by the University of Iowa, had told her about her country house. You need a place to work for a few months, and I need a renter until I figure out what to do.
Kylie had only meant to stay in Knights Bridge three months—long enough to catch up on work and clear her head. But three months had turned into six, then eight, and when her friend decided to sell the house because Iowa was just too far away, she had taken a look at Moss Hill.
She’d been captivated by the transformation of the old mill and had surprised herself when she fell in love with her second-floor loft-style apartment. She’d loved the house she’d been renting, too. Charming, quiet and romantic, it had cried out for kids, dogs, chickens—a family.
She unlocked her door and went inside, relaxing now that she was back in her space. She set her groceries on the counter in the kitchen area. She was only a little more than a month into living here, but the open layout suited her. Tall ceilings, arched floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, brick and white-painted walls and gleaming wood floors combined old and new, the specialty, she’d come to learn, of the owner and architect, Mark Flanagan. He’d thought of everything to make the space comfortable, contemporary and efficient. His wife, who worked at a local sawmill owned by her family, had helped with the finishing touches.
Since her previous rental had come furnished, Kylie had been scrambling to get things pulled together for this place. A buttery-leather sectional had been delivered a week ago, and she’d finally given up a ratty futon she’d dragged out of her parents’ basement and bought a decent bed, queen-size with washed-linen sheets. She hated scratchy sheets.
She’d brought her worktable with her. She’d made it herself in college out of a finished birch-wood door on trestles, and it had gone with her almost everywhere since then. Not Paris or London; she’d left it in storage then.
She put the champagne in the refrigerator. She needed something concrete to celebrate before she opened it. It didn’t have to be big, but it had to be more than daffodils being in bloom. That felt forced.
Because it is forced, she thought.
She put away the rest of her groceries and flopped on the couch, tugging the clip out of her hair, which, despite being pulled back, was tangled from her bike ride. It was pale blond and past her shoulders, and she kept promising herself she would get to a hair salon. She was okay with a pair of scissors and could manage a quick trim, but she wasn’t a pro.
Too restless to sit for long, she got to her feet, yanking off the lightweight jacket she’d worn into town. She kicked off her shoes and walked in her stocking feet to her worktable. She’d been working on Little Red Riding Hood for only a few days. It was the third in a series of fairy tales she was illustrating. She’d finished Hansel and Gretel and Sleeping Beauty.
She knew it would take some effort to get her into the world of a clever wolf, a dark forest and an adventurous girl with a picnic basket.
Kylie sank onto her chair, feeling unsettled, strangely out of her element. Had she made a mistake moving here?
But she knew she hadn’t. As fantastic as it was, the house she’d rented had made her think about what she didn’t have. This place worked fine, given her solitary ways and her bad luck with men.
* * *
She lasted twenty minutes at her worktable.
She was working on the perfect tree to go in front of the grandmother’s house in Little Red Riding Hood. She was doing sketches by hand, on paper. She stared at the last one. Not good. It looked more appropriate for a story about zombies than a classic fairy tale.
She balled it up and tossed it into the recycling bin under her table, on top of the other discarded sketches. She debated switching to her computer and drawing on her art board, but she knew from experience that wouldn’t work, either.
Her tree needed more time. It wasn’t there, and working harder and longer wasn’t going to make it be there.
Also, she was distracted.
She noticed Sherlock Badger tucked at the base of her task lamp and smiled. She’d put him together with bits of fabric, dryer lint, a few notions she raided from discarded clothes, a needle and thread and glue.
Now here was a guy, Kylie thought.
Never mind that he was only four inches tall.
He was a law enforcement officer in a series of picture books for young readers she’d created. He wasn’t in all the books. He didn’t live in Middle Branch, the fictional town where his Badger cousins had a house and a veterinary clinic on a river.
Kylie pointed her finger at him. “Not a word about my Little Red Riding Hood tree. Not. A. Word.” She tossed her sketching pencils in their basket, one she’d picked up in Paris, before that ill-fated bottle of wine with the sculptor. “I’m not stuck. I’m just thinking.”
She picked a piece of lint off Sherlock. He had a square jaw and a tough look about him, but he was solid, trustworthy and brave.
What would Sherlock do if a private investigator came to Middle Branch?
It would depend on what people had to hide, wouldn’t it?
Kylie felt her throat tighten. She sprang to her feet, restless, uncertain. Three years ago, when she’d had the idea for The Badgers of Middle Branch, the first book she would write as well as illustrate, she’d decided to work under a pseudonym and keep Kylie Shaw separate.
She’d chosen Morwenna Mills as her alter ego.
A year later, when the Badgers had debuted, they had been an instant hit with young readers. More Badger books followed. Instead of telling everyone she was Morwenna, Kylie had kept it to herself. Even her family didn’t know. Lila didn’t know.
Would Russ Colton, PI, want to know?
He didn’t have to want to know. All he had to do was start asking questions about the only resident at Moss Hill, and he could complicate her life.
Two (#ulink_4403cbc3-354e-5186-b2db-035fac665d71)
Russ Colton had considered all the ways he could get out of this trip to Knights Bridge, Massachusetts, but he was stuck. He had to go. Right now, he was on the deck of the hillside Hollywood Hills home owned by his friend Julius Hartley, also an investigator with Sawyer & Sawyer. Russ was trying to savor the last of his coffee, but he had Daphne Stewart eyeing him from across the hexagon-shaped table.
Finally she sniffed and sat up straight. “I know what you’re thinking.”
Russ looked at Julius for help. When Julius had heard Daphne coming up the stairs from the street, he’d suddenly developed a driving need to pick dead leaves off his multiple potted plants. He didn’t meet Russ’s eye now. Thrown to the wolves, Russ thought. More accurately, wolf, in the form of petite, copper-haired Daphne Stewart, a diva in her early sixties.
“What am I thinking, Daphne?” Russ asked her.
“This trip is a waste of time.”
“It is a waste of time. You don’t have to read my mind. I told you.”
“You gave me your professional opinion. I get that, but I have a bad vibe about my return to Knights Bridge. I’ve learned to trust my vibes. They’re not always right, I admit that, but they’re not always wrong, either.” She sniffed. “I’m willing to pay for my peace of mind.”
She settled back in her chair, eyeing Russ as if daring him to argue with her. She wore a close-fitting top with a deep V-neck and slim pants, both in the same shade as her dark green eyes. Even early on a Saturday afternoon, she had on gold earrings, a bunch of rings and gobs of makeup. But she pulled it off. She looked good. She always did. As a costume designer, she’d told Russ, she felt she should make an effort with her attire whether she was running out for a quart of milk or attending the Academy Awards.
Julius piled more plant debris onto the deck rail. He was in his fifties—twenty years older than Russ—and newly married to a San Diego attorney. He had on expensive golf clothes, his usual attire these days. He had two grown daughters by his first marriage, both Los Angeles attorneys. The younger one was buying his house, now that he was moving into his wife’s La Jolla home. Russ figured he could afford a Harry Potter cupboard in either La Jolla or Hollywood Hills.
“Why is this place called Moss Hill?” Julius asked Daphne.
She shuddered. “I hate that I know the answer. It’s at the base of an actual hill of that name.”
“Is there moss?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, Julius.”
He tackled a fernlike plant, grabbing a handful of brown matter. “Was it always called Moss Hill?”
“Yes. Sort of. It was called Moss Hill to distinguish it from the other Sanderson mills in the area. They’re all gone now, most of them demolished when the reservoir was built.”
Russ tried to control his impatience. He didn’t care what the damn place was called. It was in this nowhere-town, and he had to get on a plane tonight, fly to Boston and drive there in the morning.
“My great-great-grandfather, George Sanderson, built the mill in the nineteenth century,” Daphne said. “It produced straw hats until sometime after World War I.”
“Like the straw hat Dick Van Dyke wears in Mary Poppins?” Russ asked.
Julius and Daphne both raised their eyebrows. Julius held his clippers in midair. “You’ve watched Mary Poppins? Seriously?”
“Marty and I watched it on a snow day back when our father was stationed in upstate New York,” Russ said. “I was six. Marty was eight. I’d sing the chimney-sweep song to taunt him.”
Julius snorted. “He didn’t throw your ass in the snow?”
“No, he did. It had no effect.”
Daphne shook her head. “I have a hard time envisioning you and Marty as little boys. You shouldn’t run into snow in Knights Bridge this late in April.”
“If it snows on me,” Russ said, “I’m quitting.”
“Oh, no, you’re not,” Julius said. “You can’t quit this week. I can’t fill in for you. I’ll be in La Jolla planning my new office in the poolside guest room.”
“I can’t believe you’re moving down there.” Daphne snorted with displeasure. “Do you have a clause in your sales contract with your daughter that you can get your house back if you hate La Jolla?”
“There is nothing to hate about La Jolla, Daphne,” Julius said.
Russ admired Julius’s patience. After ten years working with her, Julius was used to Daphne, and he considered her a friend. Russ did, too, although he’d only known her a few months, and today she was testing him.
“I’m not quitting Sawyer & Sawyer,” Julius added. “I’m not going to abandon you.”
“Will your daughter invite me to coffee on your deck?”
“When have I ever invited you? You just show up.”
Daphnee pursed her lips, clearly fighting back a smile. “You’re the devil himself, Julius Hartley. But now I have my young PI, Colt Russell. How do you like Los Angeles compared to San Diego, Colt?”
Julius gathered up his pile of debris and threw it over the deck into his backyard without a word. Russ picked up his coffee mug. He didn’t correct Daphne. She knew his name. She was trying to get a reaction from him. He wasn’t irritated, amused or concerned. This was just part of his new life.
“You’re so serious,” she said. “You remind me of Liam Neeson in Taken.”
Julius joined them at the table. “You told me the other day he reminds you of Mark Harmon as Gibbs in NCIS.”
“Gibbs was a marine,” Russ said. “Neeson was CIA.”
“And you were navy,” Julius said.
Daphne waved a hand. “Whatever. Liam Neeson and Mark Harmon are both older than you, Russ, I mean Colt, but you have that same kick-ass look. I like it. I’ll bet you can kill people with your left thumb.”
“Easier with my right thumb.”
Russ could tell Daphne didn’t know if he was serious. She got to her feet. “Well, I like knowing you’re in my corner as I prepare for this class. You know I’ve never taught a class, right? I don’t even like to speak in public. Ava and Ruby O’Dunn were very persuasive in getting me to say yes. They appealed to my ego and my desire to help and encourage young designers. I fell for every bit of it.”
“You’ll be great,” Julius said.
Daphne kept her green eyes on Russ. Finally, she sighed. “Well? Aren’t you going to agree?”
“Agree with what?” Russ asked, mystified.
“That I’ll be great.”
He wasn’t as good at client care and reading the cues as Julius was. “Sure,” he said. “You’ll be great.”
“You’re both awful men and total liars,” she said with a cheeky smile. “I could stink up the room on Saturday, and you’d tell me I had the crowd in the palm of my hand.”
“I never lie to you,” Julius said. “Sometimes you choose not to hear what I’m saying, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lied.”
“Well, I give you permission to lie on Saturday, because it won’t matter. Whether I stink or I’m terrific makes no difference. Either way, I am never, ever, ever doing this again.”
“That’s nerves talking. See how you feel after you get through this thing.” Julius rubbed the back of his neck, looking awkward. “I’ve been meaning to tell you... I can’t be in Knights Bridge on Saturday, Daphne. I’m sorry.”
“Your wife again. La Jolla. This move. Next, you’ll be telling me you’re volunteering at the San Diego Zoo.” Before Julius could respond, Daphne swung around to Russ. “I suggest packing bug spray. It might be black-fly season in Massachusetts.”
