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Chapter One
“Rise and Shine, Sunshine!”
I groaned and reached out for the covers my best friend Ruby Hardison just pulled off the bed, exposing me to the harsh sunlight streaming in her childhood bedroom windows. “What time is it?” I asked, my head still pounding from the umpteenth champagne I’d indulged in during last night’s New Year’s Eve party. It felt like tiny hammers were attacking my skull from the inside.
Ruby stood at the foot of the bed looking like an athleisure goddess with a perfect ponytail, slightly flushed skin, decked out in color-coordinated Lululemon everything.
“How?” I croaked. “How are you even vertical right now?”
“I just finished a one-hour run along the harbor!” She moved through a series of increasingly complex-looking yoga poses. “The sunrise was absolutely gorgeous. You should see the ice formations on the pier. Then I did an hour of Ashtanga yoga to really flush out those toxins from last night. I will definitely not be indulging in raspberry-infused champagne for quite a while.”
I held up my hand, trying to block the sunshine from beaming in. “I hate you.”
“Love you too!” She thrust something green and suspicious at me. “Here! Spirulina smoothie with extra ginger, turmeric and a secret ingredient that’ll cure that hangover in five minutes flat.”
Lawnmower in a glass.
“Oh, yummy!” Ugh. I so loathed these but was too cowardly to tell Ruby that, so I kept pretending these were our shared favorite drink.
“I’m going to hop in the shower. You should get moving. My dad is downstairs mixing pancake dough as we speak!” She practically skipped out of the room.
Now for that, I could get out of bed!
Pancakes. And not just any pancakes. These were Hardison pancake towers. My mouth was already watering at the thought of Mr. Hardison’s famous brownie batter chocolate chip pancakes with Madagascar vanilla bean ice cream melting down the sides like a delicious avalanche of happiness. My stomach made a sound like a dying whale.
I looked at the smoothie. I looked at Lucky, who looked just as confused and upset at this sudden awakening as I did.
“This stays between us,” I told him, stumbling across the hall to the guest bathroom.
Three flushes. It took three flushes to get rid of Ruby’s super healthy smoothie. The toilet actually seemed offended. Lucky sat on the bath mat, tail twitching with what I swear was judgment.
“Don’t give me that look. I’ll tell her someday. Or maybe I’ll wake up one day and prefer liquid greens over cupcakes. You never know. It could happen.”
By the time I made it downstairs, the kitchen was in full Hardison breakfast mode. Mr. Hardison stood at the stove like a pancake wizard, spatula spinning between his fingers. A pancake went flying through the air, over his shoulder, behind his back and caught on the spatula without him even looking.
“There’s my girl!” I smiled as I was enveloped in a Hardison bear hug that could’ve cracked ribs. To say Ruby’s family was affectionate was the understatement of the century. He was practically my second dad and always put a smile on my face with his cheery attitude. Mr. Hardison smelled like butter and vanilla and everything good in the world. “Ruby said you loved the smoothie! I told her she should bottle those things.”
“Yeah, it was amazing. But nothing like your pancake towers!”
He released me and tapped my nose with his finger, leaving what I was pretty sure was pancake batter. Then he turned his attention to Lucky. “You, my little furry buddy, look like you need some salmon.” Lucky was doing his best pathetic starving kitten impression.
Lucky actually chirped. This wasn’t our first pancake tower visit and Lucky knew the drill. Mr. Hardison always kept canned salmon on hand for our visits.
“Now,” Mr. Hardison said, pulling a plate of carefully chopped salmon from the fridge, “let me tell you about this new flip I’ve been working on. I call it the Triple Axel Deluxe.”
He tossed a pancake so high it nearly hit the ceiling, spun in a complete circle, caught it behind his back, flipped it to his other hand, then slid it onto a tower that had to be fifteen pancakes high. The Madagascar vanilla ice cream was already pooling at the base, creating what could only be described as breakfast happiness.
My stomach growled so loud that Lucky actually stopped eating his salmon to stare at me.
“Someone’s hungry!” Mrs. Hardison breezed in wearing tennis whites so bright they hurt my hungover eyes. She was one of those women who looked like she’d been born with a perfect blowout. “Though I’m surprised you’re both up so early after all that champagne last night! You girls really went for it at the museum fundraiser.”
“Well that was because of your expert party planning. You really outdid yourself this year. The Midnight at the Museum fundraiser was amazing, Mrs. H,” I said, trying not to drool as Mr. Hardison started building my pancake tower. “Even if I maybe enjoyed the premium bar a little too much.”
“Well, thank goodness you girls rode home with us instead of trying to drive.” She was doing that thing where she was looking at her phone but also somehow fixing Ruby’s hair at the same time. Moms were weird. “Especially with both your boyfriends working.”
“Twenty-four hour shift on New Year’s Eve,” Ruby said, stealing a piece of my bacon. “Hunter said, as Fire Chief, he wanted to work the holidays to boost morale for the guys who also had to work this year.”
“And Jean-Carlo is out of town on some super secret US Marshall outing,” I added wistfully. The whole point of being discharged from the military due to an injury was so he could stop doing clandestine missions but somehow he’d found himself in the exact same situation as before. I actually hadn’t heard from him in over a week and was starting to get annoyed. Not talking to him for the last ten years meant I was blissfully unaware of any danger he might be in but now it was all I could think about.
“Well, I think it’s wonderful that both of you have such hardworking men!” Mrs. Hardison said brightly. “Maybe next year they’ll be free.”
Mrs. Hardison’s phone rang. “Hello? Oh, Meredith! Happy New Year!” Mrs. Hardison’s pet Lucky while she took her call. “What? Both the Brennans? Food poisoning? Oh no! And the Weatherbys too? That’s four volunteers down!”
“Don’t worry about a thing! I have two volunteers right here. We’re on our way.” Mrs Hardison, placed a hand on both our shoulders.
“On our way to what?” Ruby asked, taking a drink of freshly squeezed orange juice.
“The museum cleanup, girls. We need to get everything from the New Year’s Eve party cleared out before tomorrow.” She grabbed her tennis bag like she hadn’t just ruined my life.
“But pancake towers,” I gestured desperately at my pancake tower, which was still in the process of being built.
“No problem! We already had our smoothies,” Ruby said, standing up and pulling me up by the elbow. “We’re totally full, right Ava?”
My stomach made a sound like a bear being murdered by another, hungrier bear.
“Yes, we did. So… filling,” I managed, while fighting back tears of pancake agony.
Mr. Hardison set down two magnificent towers. Mine had to be eighteen pancakes high, drowning in chocolate syrup cascading down like a waterfall, ice cream at the bottom turning into the most beautiful melted mess I’d ever seen. There it was. Everything I’d ever dreamed of in one beautiful breakfast plate.
“Well, maybe next time!” said Mr. Hardison, already putting his breakfast ingredients away.
“I hope so,” I told him. “You’re like a pancake angel sent from breakfast heaven.”
“Oh, Ava,” Mrs. Hardison made that bubbly laugh that meant she had no idea I was being completely serious. “You’re so funny! Now hurry up, girls. The museum needs to be spotless. The Clover Leafs have a reputation to maintain!”
The Clover Creek Museum, or as local townies liked to call it, the Duvall place, looked like someone had airlifted a French chateau from the Loire Valley and dropped it on the Maine coast. Which, knowing the Duvall shipping barons of the 1890s, was probably exactly what happened.
After going bankrupt in the big crash of 1929, the Duvalls sold the chateau to the town of Clover Creek and it sat empty ever since. Until ten years ago, when the Clover Leafs raised enough funds to transform it into the Clover Creek Museum.
I strapped Lucky into his harness and attached his super long leash to give him a wide berth but not too wide that he could break anything. Most valuables were behind glass and the statues on display were too heavy for his four pound mini kitty body to topple. At least, I hoped so.
Mrs. Hardison looked down at her clipboard as she rattled off room assignments to all the waiting volunteers. “And that leaves the dessert bar in the antique weapons room and the salad bar in the Native American lounge.”
“Ruby will do the salad bar and I’ll take the dessert bar,” I said raising my hand since the likelihood of leftovers I’d be interested in was much higher in that room.
Ruby shot me a look. “Aren’t you sick of desserts? You literally own a cupcake shop and a chocolate factory.”
“You can never have too much of a good thing,” I said.
“That’s literally the definition of too much.” But she was already heading toward the Native American lounge, shaking her head. “Between you and my parents, I’m surrounded by sugar enablers.”
I climbed the grand staircase, my hand trailing along the mahogany banister that curved like a ship’s hull, probably carved from wood the Duvalls had imported themselves. Lucky raced ahead across the hardwood floors. I always loved this part of the chateau with its soaring ceilings painted with clouds and cherubs as if it were a Michelangelo fresco.
The upstairs hallway was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the chateau’s limestone facade of carved wreaths and scalloped shells.
I practically skipped with joy toward the sign for the antique weapons room, already excited about all of the bonbons and butter cream goodness awaiting me. Lucky responded by immediately jumping onto a velvet rope and walking it like a tightrope.
The dessert table looked like a sugar crime scene. Half-eaten éclairs leaked custard onto doilies. A chocolate fountain had seized up mid-flow, creating what looked like a delicious gooey stalactite. Petit fours were scattered like tiny frosted casualties of war across the tables and bartops.
My stomach growled. Mr. Hardison’s phantom pancakes were calling to me from the great beyond.
“We’re here to clean up, buddy, not add to the mess,” I said as Lucky’s tail sent a macaron rolling across the floor. He pounced on it immediately and then flicked it again with his paw.
I popped a chocolate-covered strawberry in my mouth. Then another. The champagne truffle? Don’t mind if I do. By my sixth petit four, my hangover was finally retreating and life was looking up. Sure, my boyfriend was off doing mysterious government things, and sure, I’d been dragged here instead of eating pancake towers, but free fancy desserts were free fancy desserts.
A Grand Marnier crème brûlée was calling my name when my mouth went completely Sahara. All that sugar, no drinks. The champagne bottles on the table looked about as appealing as battery acid. Flat, warm champagne was nobody’s friend, especially someone nursing a hangover.
“Water,” I croaked to Lucky, who was now wearing macaron crumbs like a beard.
I remembered seeing waitstaff disappearing through what I’d thought was just wood paneling during last night’s party. Sure enough, when I pressed on a section near the window, it swung inward revealing a narrow corridor.
“Servant passages,” I told Lucky, who’d followed me over. “These must lead to a secret kitchen somewhere.”
The passage was dim, lit by a few emergency exit signs. It smelled like old wood and furniture polish. My footsteps echoed on the worn floorboards as I searched for what had to be a staging area somewhere.
A light at the end of the very long tunnel opened up into a kitchen. I opened the fridge and found more champagne, the one thing I absolutely did not need more of in my life right now.
I found a glass in the dish drainer and filled it with tap water, downing it like I’d been lost in the desert for a week. I tried offering some to Lucky but he was distracted by something fascinating outside the window. He was making weird little kitty clicking noises and swiping at the glass with his paw.
“Hey little buddy, did you find a bird?” I bent down to his level and looked around at the terrace outside.
The Duvall family hadn’t done anything halfway. The terrace stretched out like something from a Gatsby party, all limestone balustrades and marble tiles. The whole thing overlooked Clover Creek Harbor.
On the far side of the terrace, sat the Neptune fountain. It was a full-on Roman extravaganza of Neptune himself rising from the waves, trident in hand, surrounded by dolphins and what I think were supposed to be sea nymphs but looked more like mermaids having a bad hair day. The base alone had to be fifty feet across, with multiple tiers of pools that would cascade water during warmer months. Right now it was drained for winter, which made Neptune look less like a sea god and more like he was stuck in a really expensive empty bathtub.
A fat chipmunk was sitting on Neptune’s trident, cheeks bulging with what looked like leftover cocktail peanuts. Lucky was having a complete meltdown. His tail had gone full bottle-brush mode.
“Do you want to go outside and say hi to your little friend?” I pushed open the side door.
The crisp winter air woke me up. Lucky shot out to the end of his leash, practically dislocating my shoulder. The chipmunk, clearly a veteran of cat encounters, casually hopped behind the Neptune fountain.
Lucky dragged me forward, determined to defend his honor as a predator.
“Aww, I guess your friend has somewhere else to be,” I told Lucky, stumbling after him in my chocolate-stained volunteer t-shirt.
The chipmunk was gone. But something else was behind the fountain. Something silver and sequined caught the winter sunlight in all the wrong ways.
My brain struggled to process what I was seeing. That sparkly silver gown I’d complimented Maggie on last night. She’d been so pleased, doing a little twirl by the champagne table. Now it was pooled in the snow all wrong, like she’d simply folded to the ground.
“Maggie?” My voice came out tiny, uncertain.
That’s when I saw it. The dark stain spread out beneath her, too dark for wine, too thick for water. The morning sun caught the sequins around a small tear in the fabric, right over her heart, and my knees went liquid.
Lucky pressed hard against my leg, a low growl rumbling in his tiny chest. His fur stood on end and was all puffy.
The champagne and petit-fours in my stomach lurched violently. I couldn’t breathe right. There were little gasps that didn’t bring enough air. My phone. I needed my phone. But my hands shook so badly I dropped it twice before managing to hold it.
The French doors burst open before I could dial. Mrs. Hardison rushed out, followed by two other Clover Leafs.
“Ava, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Hardison’s voice cut off sharp. The other two Clover Leafs screamed in shock. “Ohmigosh. Is she?”
I took a deep breath, bent down and checked for a pulse. Nothing but a very frozen wrist. I looked back at Mrs. Hardison and shook my head. Her hand flew to her mouth. Behind her, the other Clover Leafs let out choked sobs and gasps. Mrs. Hardison was already dialing 911, her voice steady but her free hand gripping onto the terrace railing.
“Ava? Mom?” Ruby joined us on the terrace from the side door. She took one look at me, one look at Maggie, and sighed like I’d just tracked mud on her white carpet.
“Oh, Ava. Not again.”
End of Excerpt
