Ellie Rocca is spending the New Year’s with Sam Kinali in a romantic Vermont inn for a murder mystery weekend with his law school friends. Practically perfect, right? It is, until a real dead body turns up. It’s pretty much an open and shut case. The killer has to be one of the inn’s guests, but Sam can’t get any of them to start talking.
Ellie and Sam find themselves working together to find the murderer, but just when they’re getting close, an arrest is made. Back in Mt. Abrams, both of them know the Vermont police have the wrong man. Returning to the scene of the crime takes them back into danger, but that’s the only way to find out which of Sam’s friends is a killer in disguise.
This novella is 25K words long, and is the fourth in the Mt. Abrams Mystery Series.
It’s great when you’re in a relationship with someone who has the same interests as you. I met my ex-husband, Marc, at my first job in a well-known publishing house in New York City. What we shared at first was a love of words, books, and reading. We could talk for hours about favorite authors, bits of beautiful dialog or unforgettable scenes. Any book lover out there will know what I’m talking about, and how powerful it is to have someone share your passion.
Sam Kinali, on the other hand, did not share my love of books. Sure, he was well read, but mostly non-fiction. He devoured biographies and history. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just not the same as sitting across the table from someone who can tell you the exact moment they became a fan of Elizabeth George or Lee Child.
But Sam and I had something else in common.
Sam did it for a living. He was a police detective. It was his job.
For me, Ellie Rocca, it was something of an obsession. Sure, editing mysteries and thrillers as a freelancer let me vicariously solve all sorts of devious crimes. But the past six months had put me in situations where real people had been murdered, and I had figured out who had done it and why.
It was pretty exciting. It also put my life in danger, and Sam, as well as my ex-husband and daughters, strongly suggested that my hobby had become too dangerous. I had to agree. I pledged to keep myself out of any similar situations, and I had managed to keep that promise. Mostly.
So when Sam suggested a New Year’s Eve getaway to a bed and breakfast in Vermont that featured a king-sized bed, and roaring fireplace, and a murder-mystery weekend, it seemed too good to be true.
Me, a sexy man, and a murder.
How could anything get more perfect?