Table Of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Epilogue

  Goat Cheese Phyllo Puffs

  Frozen Detective

  Copyright @ 2021 Amanda Flower

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Print 978-1-952210-54-9

  eBook 978-1-952210-55-6

  www.hallmarkpublishing.com

  Chapter One

  I sat behind my desk at Piper and Porter Detective Agency and nodded while speaking soothingly into the phone. I don’t know why I thought the nodding would calm the person on the other end of the call. “Yes, Mrs. McPherson, I can see why that would be upsetting, but I can’t arrest your neighbor just because he arrives home on his motorcycle every night at midnight.”

  The truth was, I couldn’t arrest anyone. I wasn’t a police officer. But I knew Mrs. McPherson wouldn’t believe that. Even if a police officer told her, she wouldn’t believe it.

  “You have to do something,” the elderly woman said. “I have called the Herrington Police countless times, and they do nothing at all. There is no respect for quiet hours in this town. If I hadn’t lived here all my life, I would pick up and move. Motorcycles should be outlawed, in any case. They are dangerous, loud, and no good comes of them.”

  “But—”

  “There are no buts. This situation is intolerable. Mrs. Berger told me that you’re the one to talk to if I ever needed help. Should I tell her she is wrong? Should I tell her you are not the kind young woman she claimed you to be?”

  Mrs. Berger was an eighty-something widow whose disgruntled cat constantly climbed the tallest tree in her yard, and, somehow, it had become my job to get Romy the cat down each time. It was a service I did for free. My only payment was cat scratches and Mrs. Berger’s gratitude. Fortunately, it was the middle of winter, when Romy seldom went outside. It gave me a short break from my tree climbing.

  “Do you want me to have to listen to that motorcycle the rest of my life?” Mrs. McPherson continued.

  “I don’t—”

  “I will die hearing the sound, and it will haunt me to my grave. Is that what you want?”

  I yanked on a lock of my dark brown hair. Mrs. McPherson was making me resort to pulling my own hair, as I had told her the same thing at least fifteen different ways. But the last thing I wanted to do was anger every elderly citizen in the town of Herrington. They made up most of the business for my private detective work, and they gave me referrals, which is priceless in this business.

  My business partner, Tate Porter, appeared in my doorway with a silly grin on his face. He made a gesture indicating that I should wrap up the call.

  Tate was a very fit man from years in the service, and then traveling the world after he was discharged. He had dark curly hair that was on the longish side, a well-trimmed beard, and blue eyes which revealed flecks of green in the right light. At the moment, I couldn’t see any green in his eyes. They were just clear blue and amused. What he found so amusing, I didn’t know.

  “Are you still there?” Mrs. McPherson’s voice was sharp. “I will not be ignored. I’m a taxpayer!”

  I had no idea what Mrs. McPherson being a taxpayer had to do with me. I didn’t work for the government. I worked for myself.

  Rather than argue that point with her, I said, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. McPherson, but I have to go. It seems there’s some sort of emergency here in the office. My business partner is in desperate need of my help. He just can’t do this job alone, you know?”

  Tate rolled his eyes at the comment, and it was my turn to grin back.

  “An emergency that’s more important than bringing a quiet hour violator to justice?” She was aghast. “Believe me, I will be speaking to Mrs. Berger soon and will correct her on the reliability of your services. She may never let you around her cat again!” She hung up the phone.

  Hmmm…if Mrs. McPherson tattling to Mrs. Berger could get me out of cat rescue duty, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

  I rubbed the spot between my eyebrows where a headache was forming. “I don’t know if I should be happy or sad you interrupted me. I’m glad the call is over, but now Mrs. McPherson is going to tell everyone who will listen what a terrible person I am.”

  “Aww.” He grabbed one of the chairs in front of my desk and spun it around so that he could lean his forearms on the back. It was the way he always sat when he came into my office. “Who listens to Mrs. McPherson, anyway?”

  “Her church Sunday School class, her book club, her gardening club, and Mrs. Berger.” I ticked the names off on my fingers. “We don’t need to be badmouthed. Cases are scarce, and whether we like it or not, the elderly set in Herrington is the most likely to request our services.”

  “Nah, Mrs. Berger would never listen to someone who says unkind things about you. You’ve saved her cat too many times from that tree.” He leaned back in the chair and balanced on the two rear legs.

  “Don’t sit in the chair like that. You’ll break it.” I cringed. I sounded just like my librarian mother.

  He dropped the chair back on all fours and chuckled, as if he recognized the sound in my voice, too. He propped his elbows onto the back of the chair.

  “I hope you’re right,” I told him. “Because I can’t lose the support of the Sunday School class, book club, gardening club, and Mrs. Berger. We need all the business we can get.”

  My Ragdoll cat, Gumshoe, waltzed into the room and jumped on the empty chair next to Tate. The fluffy cat circled the seat twice before settling in the middle of it. He rested his chin on his paws prettily and waited to be praised.

  Tate looked down at the cat. “Such a production.”

  Not receiving the adoration that he desired, the cat closed his eyes and went to sleep. There wasn’t much that ruffled Gumshoe’s fur.

  “So what’s up?” I asked.

  “I finished those background checks you gave me. They were all very boring upstanding citizens. I could really use something more exciting to do.”

  I shuffled through the files on my desk and removed two. “Exciting is not in season around here.”

  He accepted the files and tapped them on the back of the chair. “It never seems to be.”

  “It’s the middle of winter. It’s bound to be slow. Just be thankful we have some money coming in with those background checks. If we didn’t have them, we might have trouble keeping the lights on.”

  “Things will turn around, Piper. You have to trust me on this.”

  I pressed my lips together. How could he possibly know? Tate was always telling me to trust him. Probably because I had my share of trust issues, but the phrase was beginning to grate on my nerves.

  We had been partners in the detective agency for about three months. Before Tate came on board, I partnered with his aunt Samantha Porter for ten years. Tragically, she died in a car accident. She left her half of the business to her nephew, which is how I was working with him today. He’d surprised me when he said that he wanted to go into the business instead of selling off his half. After serving in the Army, including in Afghanistan, and then traveling the world with little more than a pack on his back, I never thought he would want to stay in our small town and be a private detective. But that’s what he chose.

  I was just about to argue with him when a woman called from the lobby. “Hello?”

  I gave Tate a look and whispered, “Did you forget to lock the front door again?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  I sighed and was just about to get up from my desk when a woman appeared in the doorway. She had striking features and silky black hair that just brushed her shoulders. Even with the snow and ice, she wore three-inch high heels under the hem of her black trench coat. If I ever saw anyone and thought, “That person is from New York City,” it would be now
. She looked like a direct transplant from the Upper East Side.

  “May I help you?”

  I stood up from my desk, and Tate tried to, but in his haste, got his leg caught in the chair. Both he and the chair fell over. Startled awake, Gumshoe bolted out of my office like his tail was on fire.

  Tate scrambled to his feet. “I’m okay! I’m okay!” he cried, fully flustered.

  The woman glanced at Tate. “You really do work here.”

  He nodded.

  My head swiveled back and forth between them. “You two know each other?”

  “CeCe and I go way back,” Tate said.

  CeCe? Why did that name ring a bell for me?

  She narrowed her eyes. “I go by Cecily now. Cecily Madd.”

  “Right,” Tate said. “I heard you changed your name when you moved to New York.”

  She frowned. “Cecily is my given name. CeCe is a childish nickname.”

  So she didn’t like her old nickname. Got it. Yet I still had no idea what she was doing in my office and why Tate, who was usually so cool to the point of being downright annoying, was so flustered around her.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  She put one hand on her hip. “Isn’t it obvious? I need a private detective.”

  Tate and I shared a look.

  “Why don’t you take a seat,” I said. “And we can discuss it.”

  Cecily looked at the fur-covered chair Gumshoe had vacated with disdain. Tate noticed and jumped out his seat. “Have my chair.”

  She studied it for a moment, and then perched on the end. If she scooted one inch closer to my desk, she’d fall off the seat.

  “How do you two know each other?” I asked.

  “Ce—Cecily was in my high school class right here in Herrington,” Tate said.

  My eyes widened. That’s why the name was familiar to me. I didn’t know Cecily Madd, but I did know CeCe Tragger. Like CeCe and Tate, I grew up in Herrington, New York, a small town in the Finger Lakes region. Tate was three years older than I, so when he was a senior in high school, I was a freshman. CeCe had been in his class. The only reason I even took notice of her was because she was the prettiest girl in town. She was close to six feet tall, model-thin with that silky black hair, and had perfectly symmetrical features. No one was the least bit surprised that she went to New York City to pursue modeling after she graduated from high school. She would have gone earlier if she’d been allowed.

  I folded my hands on my desktop. “It’s been a very long time since you moved away from Herrington. What has brought you back?”

  She folded her hands in her lap. “My husband and I are hosting a New Year’s weekend at Garden Peak Lodge for friends and clients. We reserved the lodge and the ski slope for the entire weekend for our private event. There will also be an opportunity for vendors and contractors to meet with my husband over the weekend to pitch ideas to him.”

  My eyes went wide. There were almost a dozen ski resorts in the Finger Lakes region, making the winters just as popular for vacations as the summers. Of those resorts, Garden Peak Lodge was the most expensive. Very few of the locals had ever seen the inside the lodge, myself included. The price to ski or even have lunch there was just out of the question. The townsfolk I knew who had been to the resort had worked there, and they all said the resort was just as fancy as advertised.

  If Cecily and her husband had reserved the entire lodge, including the ski slope, I couldn’t even guess what that cost. The resort was on Garden Peak Mountain, just on the edge of town. It was the closest resort to Herrington, which sits on the banks of Seneca Lake. Its skiing was supposed to be the very best in the area. Not that I knew from personal experience. I had never downhill skied before and had no desire to start.

  “It promises to be a great event for our business,” Cecily added.

  “And what business is that?” I asked.

  She pressed her hand to her chest. “My husband is Dr. Garret Madd. He’s a famous dermatologist in New York City. He even has his own skincare line called MaddlyCare, which is worth fifty million dollars.”

  I stared at her. “Did you say fifty million?”

  She nodded. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of my husband or his business. I thought everyone had heard of MaddlyCare. We are the premier skincare line in the country.” She studied my face for a moment. “You really should try it. It would do wonders for your skin.”

  I shifted in my seat. “So what’s the trouble you’ve run into that you might need a P.I. for?” I asked, determined to keep this conversation on track.

  “I’m worried about my husband. I think his life might in danger. He’s been receiving some very threatening and worrisome notes over the last several months. I want you to find the person writing the notes before it escalates out of control.”

  “It sounds like harassment to me,” I said thoughtfully. “Even without all the details. If your husband is receiving direct threats, you should contact the police. They can help you get a restraining order and protection if they think there’s a need for it. We can’t do either of those things. We might be able to identify the person, but we can’t keep them away from you or your husband.”

  “I know, but my husband forbids me from talking to the police. He’s very high-profile in his industry and needs discretion. That’s why hiring a private detective is appealing to me.”

  I felt myself grow more intrigued. Maybe it was boredom. Honestly, anything was going to beat Mrs. McPherson’s case right now. “We are pretty far from New York City. Why not hire a P.I. from the city, if that’s where you live?”

  “We’re here for the weekend, and this is where I want to find out who is behind these notes. I suspect the person writing them is on the guest list. I just don’t know who it is.”

  “Why did you pick Garden Peak Lodge?” I asked. “With the success of your husband’s business, I assume that you could have had your weekend anywhere in the world.”

  “Yes, but I wanted my husband to come here and see where I grew up. The lodge was my father’s, and I inherited it from him. I have good people on staff and the lodge runs itself. Though I’ve considered becoming more involved.”

  “What makes you think someone on the guest list has written these notes?”

  She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. A giant diamond stud sparkled in her earlobe. I had a feeling it was the real thing, too. “Based on the content.”

  This case did sound intriguing. “And what does Dr. Madd think?”

  She pressed her lips together. “That someone is trying to capitalize on his fame and fortune. He’s not putting much thought and worry into it. He’s faced threats before, but this time it’s different, because the threats are more specific. It’s as if the person sat down and gave a lot of thought as to how he or she was going to hurt us.” She opened her small leather purse and removed an envelope and held it out to me. “This is a note my husband received two days ago.”

  I took it from her hand. It read, It will come to the point where you will have nowhere else to hide. You know what you did. If I have to spend the rest of my life hunting you, I will. This is your fate for ignoring my warnings.

  The note was typed in all caps on a piece of computer paper. The words were right-justified, which made the note appear off-center. I wondered if that was intentional, planned by the sender to unsettle Dr. Madd somehow. The other interesting detail was the word “point” was underlined. For whatever reason, the writer of the note wanted to put special emphasis on that word.

  I handed the letter back to her. “That does sound like a serious threat, but it’s not that specific. I’m not saying it’s not valid and shouldn’t get checked out. But truthfully, it’s not a lot to go on.”

  “This is just the latest threat. I have others that are more specific.”

  “Then you should really give them to the police. Even if you hire a private investigator to assist in the investigation, the police need to be aware of the threats.”

  “I can’t do that. My husband would be furious.”

  “Does your husband know you want to hire a P.I.?”

  “No, and we need to keep it that way. I would like the two of you to come to the event and pose as a couple. Tate is an old friend from high school who I’m inviting to the weekend—that’s all my husband knows.”