It’s Christmastime in Cabot Cove, but there’s more homicide than Christmas is not an easy time to sell a house, but in Boston tycoon John Bragdon, Cabot Cove Realtor Eve Simpson has found a buyer for the old Jarvis homestead. Unfortunately, Eve gets a lump of coal in her stocking in the form of Kenny Jarvis, who has been missing for years and presumed dead but has now come back to stop his sister from selling their childhood home. Eve presses on, organizing a welcome dinner for Bragdon and his wife, Rose Marie, to meet the leading citizens of the town, including Jessica Fletcher. Dinner is interrupted by an uninvited guest--not Santa but Kenny, who threateningly promises Rose Marie she will When Rose Marie is found dead a few days later, Kenny is the natural suspect. But Jessica isn′t so sure he′s on the naughty list . . .

Autorentext

Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who has a knack for stumbling upon real-life mysteries in her various travels. Award-winning writer Terrie Farley Moran coauthors this bestselling series.

Leseprobe
Chapter One

It was a gloomy Monday morning ten days before Thanksgiving, and my clock radio woke me to the tune of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." They could at least wait until the day after Thanksgiving, I thought grumpily as I threw back the bedcovers and slipped into my flannel robe.

I opened the curtains and was pleased to see that the snow that had been forecast to fall overnight had turned out to be less than predicted. Powdery white flakes dusted the grass and the bare tree branches just enough to glisten against the rising sun. Still, I was glad that I had accepted the invitation of my friend and our town's favorite doctor, Seth Hazlitt, to pick me up and drive me to our breakfast date at Mara's Luncheonette, a warm and comfy restaurant that sat high on the wharf bordering the inlet that gave our town, Cabot Cove, its name. I could see ice patches on the street, which was certainly not encouraging for bike riding, my usual method of transportation.

Forty-five minutes later, Seth turned the corner onto Candlewood Lane just as I opened my front door. I scurried into the car and was grateful he had set the heater to high.

We spent the short ride to Mara's talking about the weather, which was a topic that anyone who lived in coastal Maine would agree was always worthy of discussion, and in a matter of minutes, Seth was opening the door to Mara's and ushering me inside, where the smell of fresh coffee and the sizzle of bacon on the grill welcomed us.

Dan Andrews, editor of the Cabot Cove Gazette, and our town sheriff, Mort Metzger, were sitting at our usual table, which was toward the middle of the long room, in the first row of tables alongside stools occupied by fishermen and other local folks who wanted to sit at the counter so they could catch any gossip someone happened to bring in with their appetite for breakfast or a thermos to be filled with hot coffee.

As soon as our hellos and good mornings were over, Dan immediately started a conversation that could lead the four of us to the kind of idle gossip and speculation we usually left to Mara's other patrons. Dan asked if any of us had received an email from our town's mayor, Jim Shevlin, asking that we attend a meeting concerning this year's Christmas festivities.

Mort said he had received it, but then he immediately slipped into still another holiday subject. "Yep. It was at the top of my email list this morning, right above the Thanksgiving special sales notice from Charles Department Store. And right up top, that notice had an ad for an eleven-piece set of Cuisinart professional-grade pots and pans. Wouldn't that make a dandy Christmas present for someone who loves to experiment in the kitchen as much as Maureen does?"

Seth shook his head and began a loud and lengthy chortle. "As long as I was married to Ruth, I only made that mistake once. I bought what the salesman assured me was the newest, most up-to-date vacuum cleaner on the market, and he insisted my wife would absolutely love it.

"After she unwrapped her present, Ruth took one look at the box, which had a picture of a lady, complete with apron and a huge smile, hugging a vacuum, and she reminded me in no uncertain terms that she was my wife, not my housekeeper. She immediately ordered me to return the vacuum cleaner and buy a more suitable Christmas present. I got myself out of trouble with a necklace that cost twice the price of the vacuum but was worth every penny for the peace it brought. Comes to Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, I warn you to never, ever buy your wife something for the house." Seth shook his head to emphasize the warning. "I guarantee you will get more grief than you can imagine."

Mort shifted his eyes to me. I nodded. I was in full agreement with Seth but smiled to soften the blow. "Best to follow the doctor's orders."

"With your backing Doc up, Mrs. F., I'm convinced. I'll go and scan the adverts for something better," Mort said.

Mara came to our table, coffeepot in hand, and filled my cup, then Seth's. Then she offered Mort and Dan refills. Mort gladly held up his cup, while Dan shook his head and placed a hand over his, the universal signal for "No, thank you." Done pouring, Mara took a step back so she could see all four of us. "Hmm, cold morning, a bit of snow on the ground . . . Let me guess-four short stacks of blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon each for Mort and Dan."

"Ayuh, Mara . . ." Seth began, but Mara cut him off.

"I know, Doc, delicious as my pancakes are without it, you always want extra butter on your stack." That was Mara's way of reminding us that her blueberry pancakes were consistently lauded all over Maine and in our neighboring states of Vermont and New Hampshire. She'd won so many prizes at county fairs that there was barely a smidgen of space left to display any more awards on the wall next to the front door.

Oblivious to Mara's exhibit of frustration with his constant reminders that he wanted extra butter, Seth gave her a satisfied grin and a brief nod.

While we waited for our pancakes, Dan again brought up the email he'd received from Mayor Jim Shevlin. "I don't understand why we are meeting again. I thought we'd already finished ironing out who will take care of what. It's not like we've never done this before. I am the new kid in town, and even I can recite who does what and when they do it. Hasn't changed an iota since I got here."

Although I hadn't checked my email that morning, I assumed that if Dan and Mort got a meeting notice, I did as well, so it didn't strike me as odd when Seth said he'd received one.

"I'm with you, Dan," he said. "I thought we met simply to reaffirm everyone's assignments for the pageant play as well as the Christmas Day parade. I, for one, am mighty glad that all I have to do is pick up Clara Wizzenhunt from her assisted living center, drive her to the parade site, and settle her in the Founders' Carriage before the parade starts. Then I will dash to the finish line to help her alight from the rig and escort her to the basement of the Presbyterian church, where parade participants will enjoy a celebratory breakfast. Once I return her to Shady Willows, my contribution to the Cabot Cove Christmas festivities will be done."

I could see that a worry had crossed Seth's mind, because he furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, and then he said, "Oh, I forgot to ask Mara if she will be making her blueberry pancakes this year. A few years back, she went to visit some relatives in Bangor for the holidays, and, well, the post-parade breakfast just wasn't the same."

I looked up and saw Mara heading our way, carrying a tray filled with plates of blueberry pancakes, each with steam twirling from the top. Before she could assure Seth that there was a sid…