Flower Power Trip E-Book

James J. Cudney

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Who killed the strange man staying at the Roarke and Daughters Inn?

At a masquerade ball to raise money for renovations to the Memorial Library, Kellan finds a dead body dressed in a Dr. Evil costume. Soon after, a stalker targets school president Ursula.

With a special flower exhibit in town and the arrival of strange letters, Kellan can't decide which mystery in his life should take priority. Every lead seems to trace back to the Stoddards: a new family who recently moved in.

What Kellan doesn't know is that the biggest mystery of all has yet to be exposed.

Leseprobe

Flower Power Trip

Braxton Campus Mystery Book 3

James J. Cudney

Copyright (C) 2019 James J. Cudney

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgments

Writing a book is not an achievement an individual person can accomplish on his or her own. There are always people who contribute in a multitude of ways, sometimes unwittingly, throughout the journey from discovering the idea to drafting the last word. Flower Power Trip: A Braxton Campus Mystery has had many supporters since its inception in December 2018, but before the concept even sparked in my mind, my passion for writing was nurtured by others.

First thanks go to my parents, Jim and Pat, for always believing in me as a writer as well as teaching me how to become the person I am today. Their unconditional love and support have been the primary reason I'm accomplishing my goals. Through the guidance of my extended family and friends, who consistently encouraged me to pursue my passion, I found the confidence to take chances in life. With Winston and Baxter by my side, I was granted the opportunity to make my dreams of publishing this novel come true. I'm grateful to everyone for pushing me each day to complete this third book.

Flower Power Trip was cultivated through the interaction, feedback, and input of several talented beta readers. I'd like to thank Shalini G, Laura Albert, Anne Foster, Mary Deal, Misty Swafford, Anne Jacobs, Nina D. Silva, Candace Robinson, Lisa M. Berman, Carla @ CarlaLovesToRead, and Valerie for supplying insight and perspective during the development of the story, setting, and character arcs. I am indebted to them for finding all the proofreading misses, grammar mistakes, and awkward phrases.

A special call-out goes to Shalini for countless conversations helping me to fine-tune every aspect of the setting, characters, and plot. She read every version and offered a tremendous amount of her time to advise me on this book over several weeks. I am beyond grateful for her help. Any mistakes are my own from misunderstanding our discussions.A big welcome to Carla, Anne, and Mary for joining the beta reading and proofing team with this book and providing helpful comments on things that needed to be fixed or updated to sound better. Thank you!Many thanks to QueNtiN who determined the options for the 1993 Chicago lab explosion. Without this guidance, I wouldn't have known what to do with fertilizer, a Bunsen burner, or various powders and mixtures. I appreciate their patience and help finding the perfect solution.Many thanks to Timothy J. R. Rains for turning my simple hand drawn map into an awesome software-generated map I could include in the book.

Much gratitude to all my friends and mentors at Moravian College. Although no murders have ever taken place there, the setting of this series is loosely based on my former multi-campus school set in Pennsylvania. Most of the locations are completely fabricated, but Millionaire's Mile exists. I only made up the name and cable car system.

Thank you to Creativia / Next Chapter for publishing Flower Power Trip and paving the road for more books to come. I look forward to our continued partnership.

Welcome to Braxton, Wharton County (Map drawn by Timothy J. R. Rains, Cartographer)

Who's Who in the Braxton Campus Mysteries?

Ayrwick Family

Kellan: Main Character, Braxton professor, amateur sleuthWesley: Kellan's father, Braxton's retired presidentViolet: Kellan's mother, Braxton's admissions directorEmma: Kellan's daughter with FrancescaEleanor: Kellan's younger sister, owns Pick-Me-Up DinerGabriel: Kellan's younger brother, returns to townNana D: Kellan's grandmother, also known as Seraphina DanbyDeirdre Danby: Kellan's aunt, Nana D's daughterAlexander Betscha: Nana D's cousin, doctorFrancesca Castigliano: Kellan's supposedly deceased wifeVincenzo & Cecilia Castigliano: Francesca's parents, run the mob

Braxton Campus

Ursula Power: President of Braxton, Myriam's wifeMyriam Castle: Chair of Communications Dept., Ursula's wifeFern Terry: Dean of Student AffairsEd Mulligan: Dean of AcademicsAnita Singh: Chair of Science Dept.Connor Hawkins: Director of Security, Kellan's best friendMaggie Roarke: Head Librarian, Kellan's ex-girlfriendYuri Sato: Student, Works at Roarke & Daughters InnSam Taft: Recent graduate, Millard's great-nephewJordan Ballantine: Recent graduate, Fern's nephewCarla Grey: Recent graduate, Judge Grey's granddaughterGeorge Braun: Visiting professor

Wharton County Residents

Helena Roarke: Maggie's sisterDoug Stoddard: Karen's husband, chefKaren Stoddard: Doug's wife, event managerCheney Stoddard: Doug and Karen's sonSierra Stoddard: Doug and Karen's daughterLissette Nutberry: Owns multiple pharmacies and funeral parlorsMillard Paddington: Sponsor for Mendel Flower ShowDot: Owns the costume shopBrad Shope: Nurse

Wharton County Administration

April Montague: Wharton County SheriffMarcus Stanton: Braxton Town CouncilmanDetective Gilkrist: Retiring DetectiveOfficer Flatman: Police OfficerBartleby Grosvalet: Current MayorJudge Grey: Wharton County MagistrateLara Bouvier: ReporterFinnigan Masters: Attorney

Chapter 1

A postcard with an image of lush sprawling foliage and a rust-covered antique carriage taunted me from the cushy passenger seat of my SUV. I almost veered off the road twice on the drive to campus because I couldn't peel my eyes away from its persistent glare and blatant reminder of Mendoza. It had to be from Francesca. No one else knew about the remote South American vineyard we'd visited on our honeymoon many years earlier. I shook my clenched fist at the spooky vision of her vanishing in the rearview window. Was she following me everywhere now?

It was Francesca's seventh message since leaving town and failing to inform anyone she wasn't returning to Los Angeles. A torturous weekly mystery highlighting her whereabouts but leaving no way to contact her. At first, I thought she'd accepted my decision to remain in Pennsylvania and would wait until her parents, the heads of the Castigliano mob family, discovered a way to bring her back from the dead. Let me clarify—she wasn't truly dead, but everyone thought she was. Upon getting caught in a vicious war with Las Vargas, a rival crime family, Francesca's parents had faked her death as the only way to keep her safe. No one else besides Francesca's parents and my sister knew Francesca was alive.

My wife just needed space to adjust to the changes. For two-and-a-half years, she'd been sequestered in a Los Angeles mansion watching from a distance as I raised our seven-year-old daughter on my own. Emma stayed with her nonni a couple of nights a week which made Francesca feel like her daughter was never too far away, but she couldn't actually talk to Emma. Once I moved back home, Francesca lost her ability to see Emma and materialized from seclusion hoping to reconcile. Based on the postcards, she was visiting all the places we'd once traveled to together. Perhaps she needed to feel close to me since I'd refused to participate in whatever game her family was embroiled in with Las Vargas. Unfortunately, now that the Castiglianos blamed me for Francesca's inexplicable disappearance, I anticipated their goons lurking around the corner and following me all the time. Dramatic stuff, huh?

I drove along Braxton's main street cutting through the center of our charming, remote town and parked in the South Campus cable car station's lot near Cambridge Lawn, a large open field filled with colorful flowerbeds, bright green blades of thick grass, and moss-covered stone walkways. It was Saturday, which meant graduation day at Braxton College—also my first one as a professor at the renowned institution. Although I'd only been back for a few months, it felt like I'd never left given my mother, Violet Ayrwick, was still its director of admissions and my father, Wesley Ayrwick, had just retired from its presidency. He would co-lead the ceremony with the new president to complete his responsibilities, thus allowing him to concentrate on converting the college into a university.

Although I'd been apprehensive in accepting my professorship, I grew excited about the opportunity to reconnect with family and friends whom I'd hardly seen since originally leaving town a decade ago. When my cell phone vibrated, I clicked a steering wheel button to display the text message on the SUV's dashboard screen. The previous owner, a family friend who'd been murdered earlier that year, had added all the bells and whistles making it easy to remain hands-free. Was I the only one slightly unnerved by driving a dead woman's car?

Nana D: Are you still coming by after the graduation? I've got sticky buns and a broccoli and Gouda quiche for a late brunch… and I'm getting nervous about the race.

My grandmother, known as Seraphina Danby to everyone else, had finished the third and final debate in her surprise quest to become the next mayor of Wharton County, the larger geographical area encompassing Braxton and three other villages in north-central Pennsylvania. She was neck and neck with Councilman Marcus Stanton, her dreaded enemy for reasons she refused to share with anyone. I secretly suspected she was angry with him because of a bad date or his failure to flirt with her once Grandpop had left us for the great big afterlife in the sky.

Me: You'll be the new mayor. I'm confident. Focus on the numbers. Emma doing okay?

Nana D: Yep. She's in the stable talking to the horse groomer about finding her a puppy.

Me: Never committed to it! You told her she could have one if we moved into Danby Landing. Not me.

I'd been living with my parents in the Royal Chic-Shack, a huge modernized log cabin they'd built before I was born thirty-two years ago. When it became clear I needed my own space, Nana D thoughtfully suggested a move to her farm's guesthouse to provide Emma and me some privacy. We'd agreed to give it a chance for the summer, but if it didn't pan out, I'd look for our own place posthaste.

Nana D: Emma loves it here. She keeps me out of trouble. You and your mother should be grateful.

She was right. Without a chaperone or extensive supervision, Nana D often found herself skirting too close to disaster. I parked the car and told my seventy-four-year-old cross to bear—I mean that as lovingly as possible—to expect a two o'clock arrival. The graduation ceremony would last longer, but I was only making a brief presentation to declare this year's cable car redesign winner.

Between North and South Campus ran a one-mile electrical track transporting students and faculty back and forth to dorms, academic halls, administrative offices, and other student buildings. The old-fashioned cable car was the only one of its kind in the area and often brought in visitors—and much-needed surplus income—from all over the country. Braxton's graduating class voted each year to redesign the interior as its outgoing gift to the college. There was a surprise victor this year which would make my friend and colleague, Dean Fern Terry, quite relieved. At one point, she worried an apocalyptic dystopian world of aliens would litter the inside of the two-car transportation system she used daily. It was not happening under my watch. I checked the time, stole one last glance at the ominous postcard, and walked across Cambridge Lawn.

As I approached the last stone pathway, I heard my name being called in the distance. I turned to see Ed Mulligan talking with an unknown bald man in his mid-to-late forties. Dean Mulligan, the head of all academics at Braxton, wore an impeccably tailored three-piece suit—his normal highbrow approach to dressing—and scuttled toward me as if he were in a desperate rush to the finish line.

“Kellan, I'd like you to meet George Braun, a visiting professor who arrived in town a few weeks ago to teach a summer course,” Dean Mulligan said. When the sunlight landed on George's face, it highlighted the rippled, leathery texture of his skin. Perhaps he suffered from the effects of a recent sunburn or battled a case of rosacea.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Kellan. Dean Mulligan tells me you recently joined Braxton and might lend a new guy some pointers about how to survive on this exquisite campus,” George replied with an unusual accent. Although I was adept at picking up common enunciations, his was a mixture of too many unbalanced inflections to be certain of its origin. There were hints of a gruff Midwest tone with drawn-out vowels, yet I sensed a cultured European style as he finished each of his words.

When Dean Mulligan nodded to confirm George's statement, his jowls jiggled like Santa's belly. “I can think of no one else more qualified,” he added with an exaggerated wink.

“Certainly, happy to play tour guide. I'm late at the moment, or I'd stay and chat. I have ceremonial duties for this morning's graduation.” Upon shaking George's hand, I noticed he wore a pair of thin leather gloves despite the warm temperatures making it unnecessary. Germaphobe?

I wanted to ask what area he'd be working on given my boss, the indomitable Dr. Myriam Castle, head of the communications department, had brought in a new professor for curriculum redesign and expansion. It was supposed to be a chunk of my role at the college, but she'd quickly made a play for additional money to hire someone other than me to prepare the future vision. Now that my father was no longer the president, but Myriam's wife Ursula Power was in that role, things were changing.

“Perhaps we could have breakfast on Monday morning? I'm due on campus at ten o'clock to meet with Dr. Anita Singh about the courses,” George explained. A dark gray sportscoat covered broad shoulders and attempted to slim his stocky figure. Given he was noticeably several inches taller and wider than me, it didn't appear to help.

“That sounds like a plan. Let's meet at eight thirty at the Pick-Me-Up Diner?” I proposed, knowing it'd lend me an excuse to judge the eatery's latest renovations.

Dean Mulligan haughtily teased,” Ah, George, you'll soon come to learn the Ayrwick family has a long-standing establishment in and around Braxton. Eleanor, Kellan's sister, owns the diner, a favored restaurant by most employed at or attending our fine institution.”

As Dean Mulligan provided directions to George, I caught a puzzled expression on the visiting professor's face. He muttered something unintelligible before his gaze narrowed and highlighted two ultra-thin blond eyebrows. “Pardon?” I inquired.

“Ayrwick, you said?” he added, cocking his head to the left and focusing on the pastoral landscape behind me. He wouldn't look me in the face without glancing away. Was he sensitive about his skin condition or his funny way of speaking? I hoped I hadn't offended the man with my transitory stare and state of confusion.

“Yes, Dean Mulligan's correct. My family's been in Wharton County for close to three centuries. I look forward to speaking with you on Monday,” I replied, excusing myself and dashing toward the backstage area to locate Dean Fern Terry. Since she oversaw the graduation as head of student affairs, Fern could tell me when I was needed for the ceremony.

George Braun not only seemed familiar with the name Ayrwick, but I was certain that was concern or alarm etched on his face. After a quick catch-up with Fern, I found a spot on the east side of the stage as the ceremony began. I could stand there until it was time to declare the winner of the contest. Although I knew a few students in the graduating class, I hadn't been at the institution long enough to serve as an announcer of graduate names nor to deliver any inspirational departing speeches.

Fern initiated the ceremony by reminiscing about the school's history and highlighting the graduating class's accomplishments. She introduced Ursula who took the stage to congratulate the outgoing students, then turned it over to my father for his last opportunity to say goodbye to the future alumni. As he spoke, Ursula navigated the stage's steps like they were a catwalk and headed toward the back of the seating area.

Once my father finished boorishly riffing about something in Latin, Fern commandeered the stage and announced my name. I walked to the center and stood behind the lectern looking out at a mostly unfamiliar sea of people. With over two hundred graduates, the audience teetered around a thousand guests including their families and nearly all the college's administrative and academic staff. I talked about the process to nominate and vote for different cable car designs, then explained how it was an awfully close race. Only two people had been told the final winner. Ursula and I agreed to surprise Fern with the results given how disappointed she'd be if the apocalypse had won. She'd tried to bribe me with a homemade coconut cream cake at Easter, but I stood firm. Where desserts were my weakness, keeping secrets was my strength.

“It gives me immense pleasure to reveal today's winner,” I said, pointing and clicking the button on a tiny remote toward the digital screen. “I've been a huge fan of these two larger-than-life characters since I was a small boy, and I often find myself involved in solving a few mysteries of my own.” A series of conversations between Agatha Christie's famed detectives, Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, materialized on the large screen behind me. Various quotes and images from the books, movies, and PBS shows would appear inside the cable car to share different interpretations of the characters.

“It's because you're our inspiration for solving those two murder investigations,” Jordan Ballantine shouted followed by a bunch of cheers. “We wanted to honor your service to the campus!” Jordan was one of the graduates who'd be leaving Braxton to attend an MBA program in New Orleans.

In my three months at Braxton, I'd solved a couple of murders and been deemed a campus hero. I looked at Fern, Jordan's aunt, and smiled with humility. We'd come a long way from her disciplining me when I'd been the president of my fraternity pleading forgiveness after various mischievous activities. Fern beamed back at me and lifted her hands in the air as if to say 'holla' like the bellowing students. Somehow the image of a sixtyish woman built like a quarterback in a gray pixie-style haircut performing such a move was frightening beyond any comfort.

As I thanked everyone for their votes, I noticed one of the graduates, Sam Taft, speaking with my brother, Gabriel. I'd caught the two of them in a cozy embrace last March shortly after someone had killed Gwendolyn Paddington to ensure an inheritance of the family fortune. I'd been shocked to see my brother after eight years but even more astonished to learn he might be gay. If you'd seen that kiss, there wouldn't have been any question of might be, but until I spoke with him, I didn't want to assume. Neither one had realized I'd seen them that day, and for the last seven weeks, I'd kept the information to myself. I didn't know whether to ask Sam about it or hire a private investigator to track Gabriel.

Once I finished my speech, I sprinted down the steps to interrogate or to hug my brother—still hadn't decided which one. I tried to reach him, but Gabriel winked and escaped in the opposite direction. Before I could rush off to beg Sam for help, Ursula stepped in the way. “Kellan, I'm glad we ran into one another. I was curious if you found out anything new?” she said with a gleam of hope.

By now, Sam had lined up on stage to receive his diploma, and Gabriel was long gone. I breathed a gulp of warm air and felt my body begin to wane. For the third week of May, the heat had come from nowhere and grown inordinately stagnant. All the comforting breezes were blocked by tall fir trees surrounding one side of Cambridge Lawn and the massive church holding firm on its southern border. I liked the hot weather, but this was intense.

Ursula had recently pleaded for help with a problem involving the past finally catching up to her. I'd learned a lot about my new boss during our conversations, some of which explained the reason she was taciturn about her history and some of which shocked me to the core. Not even Myriam knew about her wife's tragedy or the years she'd been running and hiding from the truth about her real identity. While I felt the palpitating fear emanate off Ursula's normally serene exterior, I tried not to judge her for the damage her prior actions had caused.

“Not a whole lot, I'm sorry to say. Whoever is blackmailing you has gone to great lengths to keep their identity a secret. Are you sure this isn't an angry student playing a prank on you?” I asked, knowing the chances were slim. The person stalking Ursula had detailed knowledge about the complex science experiments her family had conducted in Chicago over two decades earlier.

“I don't see how anyone would know. Hans and my parents died because of what I did. Unless someone other than their assistant was loitering in the laboratory that day, no one else could still be around. That nuisance of an employee already tried to ruin me before I was forced to change my name and disappear!” Ursula cleared her throat and leaned her head in the direction of the graduation ceremony. Based on my father's latest announcement, graduate names were being called.

“I've got one more angle to try, but I don't think it'll turn up anything else. We might have to wait until he or she delivers another message to you. It could provide a clue to the identity of your stalker,” I said with fading confidence. I'd been unable to track who was pursuing Ursula nor establish any leads thus far, but I felt certain no one would keep threatening her without demanding something in return. “What could they possibly want from you?”

“To die. Just like those victims who suffered when I destroyed all the possible cures for… never mind!” Ursula sat on a wrought iron bench scrunching her fists in the hope she wouldn't lose her cool. The twitch in her right eye barely held back a flood of emotions. “I appreciate your help, Kellan.”

A chilling, nasal voice cut through the air inciting me to roll my eyes with vigor. Myriam had found us and was likely on her way armed with another acerbic Shakespearean barb. “Just what are you doing to my wife, Mr. Ayrwick?” Myriam blasted while furiously stomping the remaining few feet before approaching our bench. “Come not within the measure of my wrath.” She resembled a dark and gloomy ghost with a pointy cardboard hat floating through Cambridge Lawn in search of someone to haunt to death. I'm certain the cap's sole purpose was to hold her Jamie Lee Curtis spiky gray wig in place. No other professor wore the full academic regalia. I reminded myself that Myriam, in all her expressive and ruthless glory, was a special breed of querulous pomp and circumstance.

“Don't start with me, Myriam. I'm holding a private conversation with Ursula that has nothing to do with you. I thought we agreed to stop causing scenes by arguing all the time?” I said with half a grin. We'd had several run-ins over the last few months but ultimately found a way to co-exist with each other during the final weeks of the King Lear performance at Paddington's Play House.

“Kellan hasn't done anything wrong, M. He's helping solve an important problem at Braxton,” Ursula responded with a tentative stare in my direction. I took it as a reminder not to tell her wife anything. “Is everything okay? You look rather annoyed right now.”

“Annoyed? Well, yes, my love, I am more than annoyed. I finished directing students off the stage and followed them down the aisle once my group's degrees were delivered. As I reached the end, an unruly, frightening man jumped out of the last row and grabbed my arm.” She brushed imaginary dirt or unwelcome fingerprints off her flowing black graduation gown.

“Do you know who it was?” I asked. Would it be wrong to send a thank you gift to them?

“Of course not. Do you think I associate with such vulgarity, Mr. Ayrwick? He interrupted our graduation!” Myriam scowled. Why did she always say mister? Professor Ayrwick, Kellan, Prince of Awesomeness—anything else would be acceptable. Mister always conjured images of my father, and that's not something I relished even on a good day.

“I only meant—was it someone we could identify? Perhaps we'd recognize this supposed monster you encountered. Where is he now?” I wanted to strangle her with the honor society cords meticulously draped across her shoulders despite knowing it wouldn't help. Myriam tried to describe the man, but he sounded like a regular delivery guy who'd been hired to drop off the note, not an actual hoodlum. My boss tended to exaggerate any and all situations as well as choose the most peculiar words. “It was probably just a messaging service employee.”

“You two have been sneaking around and conspiring about something. I want to know what's going on and how it connects to this letter,” she said, thrusting her hand toward Ursula. Clasped between her fingers, besides a four-carat diamond ring, shook a piece of cardboard folded lengthwise in half. “Open it. The delivery hooligan pointed at you and said I should give it to Flower Child.”

Ursula's normally pale skin blanched to an alarming shade of white. Worried she might pass out, I reached to steady her. When Myriam batted my arm away, I stepped on the pathway to see if I could find out whether the delivery guy was anywhere in sight.

Ursula opened the note, swallowed deeply, and closed it in a balled-up fist. “Myriam, could you get me a bottle of water? I'm a little parched.” When Myriam appeared to balk, Ursula whispered something causing the woman to step away. “Thank you, M.”

“You certainly seem to be the only one who controls her. No offense intended, Madame President,” I said, trying to minimize the sudden cold front in the atmosphere. “Is it from the stalker?”

Ursula nodded, then handed me the note.

You thought you could run and hide, but life doesn't work that way. I tracked you down and plan to reveal myself at the upcoming costume party. Revenge is a long time coming, Flower Child. You'll never see the explosion this time! Nor will you make it out alive unless you follow my instructions very carefully. Remember, don't tell anyone else.

My eyes opened wide with an equal amount of shock and fear. All the previous notes were menacing and accusatory, but none had directly threatened Ursula's life. “We have to talk to Sheriff Montague at this point. I don't like where this game is going anymore.”

Chapter 2

“You were almost too late for brunch, Kellan,” Nana D teased while standing in her cozy farmhouse kitchen pouring mimosas by the bucketful. “I was outvoted by your sister and your daughter.” She'd selected giant, frosted-green goblets as the holder of the traditional beverage we'd been sharing at our weekend brunches. Ninety percent champagne, ten percent orange juice. I'd be tipsy after the first two since the bubbles always went straight to my head. Give me several cans of beer or a few cocktails, I'd be as sober as a Baptist minister in Utah.

“I thought I saw Eleanor's car out front. Isn't she working at the Pick-Me-Up Diner?” I grew antsy, something fishy was going on. There were only four place settings which meant I wouldn't be surprised by another Nana D-engineered blind date. A setup was guaranteed any day now.

Emma raced into the kitchen, hugged me tightly, and jumped into the open banquette seat near the window. “Auntie Eleanor hired a new manager. He's easy on the eyes.” When I'd left that morning, Emma had been wearing her pajamas and suffering from major bedhead. Now, she rocked a fresh blowout, an empire-cut blue dress, and a cashmere sweater with a butterfly pin clasped to the collar. Eleanor must have dressed her in anticipation of what future motherhood might be like. If Nana D had her druthers, Emma would wear overalls and pigtails.

“Easy on the eyes?” I said, squinting at my grandmother. “Where'd she learn that expression?”

“Your sister's words, not mine, brilliant one.” Nana D sat and guzzled a third of her mimosa. “I offered to let Emma taste mine, but she said it smelled funky. Like your cologne. Is that acid-reflux?”

“I suppose I should focus on the fact she declined the drink rather than harbor any concern you suggested it to begin with?” I loved my Nana D, but she rarely listened to any of the rules I'd laid down when moving back. I trusted her with my life, yet after the margarita incident a few months earlier, I wouldn't drink anything she didn't also drink from. In equal parts. In front of me. Between that revenge tactic and her homemade cold and flu medications, it's no wonder I wasn't already six feet under.

“Of course,” Eleanor chimed in as she sashayed into the room. “Didn't Nana D rub whiskey on our gums when we cut new teeth?”

“It kept me sane. Your mother would've killed me if she knew how many times I'd used that trick. New parents in the last thirty years think they invented all the rules. It's the old ways that always work.” Nana D sliced large wedges of quiche for everyone and directed us to dig in. We sat in silence devouring our food until I couldn't take it anymore.

“So… care to explain who's easy on the eyes, little sister?” Last time I checked, she'd been practically ogling Connor Hawkins. At the same time, she rotated through several picture books to select a possible sperm donor for the baby she wanted to have. On her own, as in, sans anyone to co-parent with. Was she trying to mimic my life? She'd always repeated everything I did in the exact same manner as me when we were children.

“The renovation brought in loads of new customers, I couldn't keep up. I hired a part-time manager to cover Saturdays. Now, I have a full day off. I thought I told you,” Eleanor mumbled while swallowing and moaning over the quiche. “I'm moving in if you keep serving this brunch, Nana D.”

“The more the merrier,” our grandmother replied, clinking her mimosa goblet against Emma's, which I prayed was only full of orange juice. “Maybe Gabriel will come home soon and need a place to crash. It'll be a family reunion.”

I stopped midway from shoveling a sticky bun between my lips and peered up at Nana D. Had Gabriel been in contact with her? “What makes you say that, Nana D?”

She wiggled her shoulders and fiddled with her bright red, three-foot braid. I didn't think she'd cut her hair in over a decade given it was long enough to touch the floor when she sat down. Nana D ignored me and said, “This might be my best brunch ever. Whatta ya think, Emma, dear?”

Eleanor and I glanced at one another and simultaneously downed the remaining contents of our goblets. I poured us both more while she responded. “I'm not interested in my new manager. I'm quite sure he doesn't play for my team, if you get my drift,” she whispered while nodding in Emma's direction.

“Ah. Well, that would make it difficult. Probably wouldn't stop Nana D from setting you up with him,” I quipped, remembering the bevy of inappropriate women our grandmother had thrown in my direction in the past. Was Eleanor trying to hint at knowing about Gabriel's secret, too? Something was going on between my sister and Nana D, but I couldn't clear away the cobwebs to find the prize.

“Since you two aren't making any sense, let's change the topic. The graduation ceremony went well. I ran into a few people I hadn't seen in a while,” I noted, mostly thinking about Ursula. When I left, she was planning to tell Myriam the note was about an issue with one of the college's alumni donors who called her Flower Child. I couldn't imagine explaining that name to my other boss.

From what Ursula had previously shared, Flower Child was a nickname given to her by her brother, Hans. She'd spent most of her childhood collecting flowers and researching their potential uses in medicines and herbal remedies. Their parents had been scientists who were close to finding a cure for a horrific disease. They'd only been close to discovering the answers until the explosion in the lab eliminated any records or verifiable, repeatable results.

“Did you see Maggie on campus?” Nana D asked, balancing a few plates on one arm and the tray of quiche on the other. Emma stood to clear the table. I'd taught my daughter proper manners despite what anyone else dared tell me.

While Eleanor knew Francesca was still alive, Nana D did not. Eleanor understood my reluctance to pursue a relationship with my former college girlfriend despite Nana D always trying to match me up. “No, Maggie wasn't involved in the graduation ceremony. She's busy planning tomorrow night's costume extravaganza. I'm dropping by later to help with the final details.”

When Maggie had assumed the role of head librarian of Braxton's Memorial Library, she'd quickly realized the structure and its contents were outdated. She pitched an idea to the Board of Trustees who unanimously supported her request to raise money for a complete remodel and modernization. Although they'd received large contributions, they were several hundred thousand dollars short. Maggie had proposed a grand event to show everyone what the building looked like now and could become in the future. She invited a hundred of Braxton's wealthiest families hoping they would donate the missing funds needed to start renovations. The costume extravaganza was called Heroes & Villains. Guests were encouraged to dress as their favorites from any historical period.

Emma helped Nana D dry the dishes while Eleanor and I moseyed outside to catch up on Francesca's latest postcard. “I'm certain my wayward wife will come home as soon as she realizes I made the right decision,” I explained.

“Cecilia didn't sound happy last time,” Eleanor reminded me. Cecilia Castigliano was Francesca's mother, and the brains behind the family business. Francesca's father, Vincenzo, handled the mob's daily operations ensuring his wife didn't get her hands dirty.

“Not at all. She's threatened me on a throng of occasions. I've been given two more weeks to locate Francesca. The best I can do is to list any of the remaining places we'd visited in the past. Maybe Vincenzo's thugs can check them out and find her before she's discovered by Las Vargas.”

“You certainly lead an interesting life,” Eleanor said as she unlocked her car door claiming she had errands to run. The inside of her car looked like a bomb had exploded and needed a massive decluttering. “Can you come with me next week to meet the doctor at the clinic? I think I've nailed down the top three options for a donor.”

I consented and suggested she text me the date, time, and location. I'd given up trying to talk her out of the plan to have a baby and figured it would settle itself. Sometimes keeping one's mouth firmly closed delivered the desired results.

Nana D took Emma with her to the orchard to check on Danby Landing's latest saplings. I hopped in the car to meet Maggie at her family's bed and breakfast, Roarke & Daughters Inn. Maggie's parents, former hippies in their younger days, and her four sisters ran the ten-room Victorian stunner. Maggie was the only daughter who opted not to get involved, instead choosing to enter into business with Eleanor as a fifty-percent silent partner in the Pick-Me-Up Diner. Ben and Lucy Roarke were supportive of their eldest child, but it was obvious they preferred she join them at some future point.

Roarke & Daughters Inn was located near Crilly Lake in the northern part of the county. Formed by melting glaciers during the shaping of the Wharton Mountains, the lake was a popular haven for swimming, fishing, and boating during summers. During the spring and fall, it offered striking views of the landscape where exercise and nature lovers spent countless hours surrounded by unmatched inspiration and dreamt of the future. When I pulled up to the front of the historic bed and breakfast and parked in the circle driveway, Maggie and one of her sisters, Helena, stepped into the enclosed wrap-around porch. From the twenty-foot distance, I could see they were having a disagreement about something. Maggie's finger waggled at Helena who crossed her arms on her chest and groaned loudly enough for me to hear in the distance.

I hadn't seen Helena in close to a decade, back when Maggie and I'd been about to graduate from Braxton. Helena was once the proverbial unruly teenager who'd failed her driver's license exam at least twice yet still demanded a brand-new car. She'd also gone to school with my brother, Gabriel, for a few years. Where Maggie had porcelain skin and soft, girlish features, Helena resembled the rest of their sisters—tall, incredibly thin, voluptuous, blessed with thick luxuriant hair, and immortalized with tons of makeup. Basically, the complete opposite of Maggie who was often mistaken for a ceramic statue or a timid doll. Helena recently celebrated her birthday by doing a pub crawl across all four villages in Wharton County. Eight hours, eight bars, eight different drinks. I wouldn't have survived that level of commitment.

Ivy crawled up and around each of the ornate shutters on the building's front windows offering a sharp contrast to the recently repointed beige brick and iron-colored mortar. Roarke & Daughters Inn had once been the home of a former mayor who'd passed away with no immediate descendants at the end of the nineteenth century. The three-story Victorian home passed to a distant cousin, one of Maggie's ancestors, and was used for most of the last century as their family home. Once their hippie days were over and their kids had grown up, the Roarkes converted it into an income-generating property. “Afternoon, ladies,” I said, crossing the threshold into the enclosed porch.

“Kellan Ayrwick, I heard you returned to town. Not that my darling sister ever mentioned you would dare show your face around these parts again,” Helena hollered as I walked across the porch. She scooped a handful of platinum-blonde hair into her palm and tossed it across her shoulder, revealing the thin spaghetti-straps of a hunter-green silk camisole that dipped incredibly low across her ample chest. “Dang, you look finer than I remember, hot stuff!”

I blushed when she pulled me into a tight hug and I inhaled her perfume, a cross between a bouquet of overly sweet flowers and freshly-baked cinnamon rolls. She'd matured into a fully grown-up knock-out with more curves than I'd remembered. Gorgeous. Dynamite. But not really my type, if I'm being honest. I preferred a woman with both a shy and a bit of a wild side, not someone like Helena who flirted with any man between eighteen and sixty-two and pushed her best assets out for everyone to admire on every possible occasion. “Maggie and I have put the past to rest, Helena. I hope you'll be able to, as well,” I noted, withdrawing from the temporarily enticing embrace.

Had it really been over two years since I'd let myself lose control with a woman? One drunken night a month after Francesca died—or supposedly died—forcing me to realize I'd made a grave error trying to torpedo myself forward through the pain. A man can only be celibate for so long, and judging by the way I'd felt lately, my stint as a self-anointed priest was way past its prime.

Helena began speaking in a seductive tone but was abruptly stopped. “Does that mean you're up for grabs? I could see myself grabbing a piece of your—”

“Stand back, kiddo. Kellan's not interested, are you, Kellan?” Maggie firmly responded as she swatted at her sister's arm, then looked directly at me. A second set of chills cascaded down my back before I nudged myself out of fantasyland. “Besides, aren't you enamored with a new guy in town?”

“Yeah, a girl can never have too many friends,” Helena teased as she pursed and licked her full lips. “Cheney's definitely at the top of my list, but I could permit another gentleman caller if he's able to handle all of me.”

How two sisters could be so dissimilar was beyond me. When I considered the personality differences between Maggie and all four of her sisters, I truly had respect for Ben and Lucy Roarke. “Are you helping with the costume extravaganza, Helena?” I changed the subject to keep the greeting, or me, from overheating.

“You bet. Maggie needs someone to spice up her initial designs. Wait until you see my costume,” Helena added before opening the front door and inviting me inside the house. A narrow staircase led guests upstairs to the second and third floors where all the bedrooms were located. In the front of the main floor were two parlors, one for afternoon cocktails and social occasions, another functioning as a reading or movie room depending on the night. “I'm not supposed to dress provocatively since I'll be serving appetizers and drinks, but I've got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

From where I stood, she had no sleeves. And her skirt barely covered essential parts. Not that I was complaining all that much. Months ago, I'd been judging one of my students for dressing in skimpy couture. Today, I was fine with it. I suppose that's what happened when I went long enough without any physical connection. I either had the strongest willpower known to man or I was about to make a big mistake again—potentially with someone I shouldn't. “Looking forward to it,” I said before turning to Maggie. “Have you decided on your costume?”

Maggie wasn't bringing a date given she would spend most of the night catering to all the wealthy donors. Connor Hawkins, my former best friend, and possibly new best friend again, had asked Maggie to go with him, but she indicated she'd rather go out the following day on a real date. Despite Eleanor's attraction to Connor, I stood by my promises and let the comment go. Maggie and I had agreed to focus on our friendship. Besides, I still had to figure out what was going on with Francesca. Can you divorce a dead person? I know you can't marry two women at once in Pennsylvania—not that I wanted to—but according to the government, Francesca was dead. According to the truth, she was alive and kicking. Furiously. Yeah, I'm a little frustrated these days.

“It's a surprise, but I did tell Connor. I expect him to wear something similar. I'm a heroine, but whether he chooses my mortal enemy or goes with someone she loves will be very telling!” Maggie sat across from the fireplace in a tall wingback chair that had been covered in a Scottish tartan pattern.

“Cheney and I are gonna coordinate our duds,” Helena said. “He's perfect for his costume, or at least his lack of costume, I should say. Do you think he'll be too chilly in a loincloth, Maggie?”

Maggie's eyes burst open wider than one of Nana D's duck eggs. “We talked about this! You're serving food and drink, you need to dress like you would at Mom and Dad's inn. Respectable. I don't care if you spruce it up a little with something sexy, but there should be more body parts clothed than not clothed. Got it?”

Helena appeared to acquiesce, then poured herself a tumbler of brown-colored liquor from a crystal decanter idling on the bar cart. I checked my watch—only four o'clock. “I take it your shift is over, Helena?” I didn't want to get her in trouble, but Maggie needed my support to rein in the boundaries.

“It is not over. She only started an hour ago. Put the whiskey down, Helena. Isn't it time for an update on tomorrow's waitstaff? I got you that job with the catering service, you better not make me sorry I went to bat for you.” Maggie had hired a catering event manager who recently opened a new company, Simply Stoddard. She always tried to support local businesses, especially start-ups trying to build up clientele. Cheney was the owner's son, and once Helena had met him, she begged Maggie to recommend her for a part-time position at Simply Stoddard. “Karen Stoddard and I are meeting tonight to finalize everything for the event. Are we ready?”

Helena confirmed, then excused herself claiming she had rooms to clean and beds to turn down before the guests retired for the night. I raised my eyelids when she disappeared to the second floor. “As brazen as ever, I see.”

“I adore her, but she's driving me crazy. At twenty-eight, I'd gotten my second degree, had a full-time librarian job, and set up a genealogy research service as a side gig to earn extra money. Helena's always caught up with some guy these days, I can't keep track,” Maggie said with a dash of exhaustion. “I'm sure she'll be an asset tomorrow. Hospitality is supposed to be her strong suit.”