Mortar and Murder Read Online Free Page A

path, ruminating on my situation as I went.
    A year ago, the idea that I’d own not just one, but two houses in Maine, in addition to a car and two cats, would have been laughable. The picture of me, wandering through the woods in worn-out jeans tucked into a pair of Wellies, would have made my eyes pop. My Wellies were pink with red lipstick kisses on them, admittedly, nothing traditional, but still. Amazing, the difference a year can make.
    When I had first arrived in Waterfield, it had been early summer, and I’d planned to spend a weekend finding out what my aunt Inga wanted, and why she had summoned me, a relative she hadn’t seen for twenty-six years, to spill the beans about family secrets and truths and lies. Only to discover, when I got here, that Aunt Inga was dead and I was her heir. But I still had no thoughts of staying. Renovating the house before putting it on the market was just to maximize return on the sale. I’d thought I’d stay a few months and then go back to my regular life in Manhattan. I had a boyfriend, a job I loved, good friends I enjoyed spending time with, and the hustle and bustle of the city around me felt essential.
    Yet here I was, ten months later—house, car, cats, and all—pretty much as happy as a clam. Sure, I still missed certain things. Like Balthazar coffee in the morning. Decent Thai food. And going to the grocery store at three A.M. The coffee wasn’t too bad up here, even if it wasn’t Balthazar, and the seafood was great. I can live without Thai. And Derek was a hell of a lot better than any other boyfriend I’d ever had. In fact, Derek made it all worthwhile.
    Before Derek, I’d been—shall we say—unlucky in love. Or so determined to find Mr. Right that I saw him in every man I met. To my detriment. Over the years, I got involved with a string of guys I should have stayed away from, and that maybe I would have stayed away from, had I not been so eager to find my soul mate.
    But this time, I’d found something real. Derek, who’s sweet, and caring, and funny, and smart, not to mention good with his hands and good-looking, as well. At least if you’re a sucker for tall, lean guys with dreamy blue eyes, the way I am.
    While I’d been thinking about—all right, gloating over—my uncommon luck, I’d made my way through the woods covering the middle of Rowanberry Island, and now I could see the ocean blinking in the distance, between the trees. Another minute or two and I was out of the woods—literally—and standing in front of, or behind, the other Colonial.
    From the back, it looked exactly like ours, except for the fact that this one was freshly painted, with no wood rot, and no blue tarp covering the roof.
    It was a gleaming white, the windows shuttered for the winter, but I was willing to bet none of them were broken.
    Sighing enviously, I picked my way around the side of the house. From this view, also, it looked exactly the same as ours, except for the condition. Four windows on each floor, plus an attic. No holes under the eaves for squirrels and birds to get into and build nests. (We’d be dealing with that little problem soon, hopefully in time to keep out the migratory sparrows and warblers that were, even now, I figured, on their way up from South America.)
    The place looked deserted, although there was a boat tied up at the dock, a dock which, incidentally, was far superior to ours. Not only did it not droop into the water, but it had room for at least five boats in addition to the one that was there now. The extra berths were in case Gert Heyerdahl decided to throw a party for his friends, I imagined. There are a lot of writers who live in Maine. Maybe they got together for Algonquin-like roundtable discussions when Gert was in residence. Or debauchery and drink, at least.
    I doubted Gert was in residence right now. Aside from the shuttered house, the boat didn’t look like something a bestselling author would own. It was utilitarian, wooden