The Spring At Moss Hill. Carla Neggers

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ of the grandmother’s house in Little Red Riding Hood. She was doing sketches by hand, on paper. She stared at the last one. Not good. It looked more appropriate for a story about zombies than a classic fairy tale.

      She balled it up and tossed it into the recycling bin under her table, on top of the other discarded sketches. She debated switching to her computer and drawing on her art board, but she knew from experience that wouldn’t work, either.

      Her tree needed more time. It wasn’t there, and working harder and longer wasn’t going to make it be there.

      Also, she was distracted.

      She noticed Sherlock Badger tucked at the base of her task lamp and smiled. She’d put him together with bits of fabric, dryer lint, a few notions she raided from discarded clothes, a needle and thread and glue.

      Now here was a guy, Kylie thought.

      Never mind that he was only four inches tall.

      He was a law enforcement officer in a series of picture books for young readers she’d created. He wasn’t in all the books. He didn’t live in Middle Branch, the fictional town where his Badger cousins had a house and a veterinary clinic on a river.

      Kylie pointed her finger at him. “Not a word about my Little Red Riding Hood tree. Not. A. Word.” She tossed her sketching pencils in their basket, one she’d picked up in Paris, before that ill-fated bottle of wine with the sculptor. “I’m not stuck. I’m just thinking.”

      She picked a piece of lint off Sherlock. He had a square jaw and a tough look about him, but he was solid, trustworthy and brave.

      What would Sherlock do if a private investigator came to Middle Branch?

      It would depend on what people had to hide, wouldn’t it?

      Kylie felt her throat tighten. She sprang to her feet, restless, uncertain. Three years ago, when she’d had the idea for The Badgers of Middle Branch, the first book she would write as well as illustrate, she’d decided to work under a pseudonym and keep Kylie Shaw separate.

      She’d chosen Morwenna Mills as her alter ego.

      A year later, when the Badgers had debuted, they had been an instant hit with young readers. More Badger books followed. Instead of telling everyone she was Morwenna, Kylie had kept it to herself. Even her family didn’t know. Lila didn’t know.

      Would Russ Colton, PI, want to know?

      He didn’t have to want to know. All he had to do was start asking questions about the only resident at Moss Hill, and he could complicate her life.

Two

      Russ Colton had considered all the ways he could get out of this trip to Knights Bridge, Massachusetts, but he was stuck. He had to go. Right now, he was on the deck of the hillside Hollywood Hills home owned by his friend Julius Hartley, also an investigator with Sawyer & Sawyer. Russ was trying to savor the last of his coffee, but he had Daphne Stewart eyeing him from across the hexagon-shaped table.

      Finally she sniffed and sat up straight. “I know what you’re thinking.”

      Russ looked at Julius for help. When Julius had heard Daphne coming up the stairs from the street, he’d suddenly developed a driving need to pick dead leaves off his multiple potted plants. He didn’t meet Russ’s eye now. Thrown to the wolves, Russ thought. More accurately, wolf, in the form of petite, copper-haired Daphne Stewart, a diva in her early sixties.

      “What am I thinking, Daphne?” Russ asked her.

      “This trip is a waste of time.”

      “It is a waste of time. You don’t have to read my mind. I told you.”

      “You gave me your professional opinion. I get that, but I have a bad vibe about my return to Knights Bridge. I’ve learned to trust my vibes. They’re not always right, I admit that, but they’re not always wrong, either.” She sniffed. “I’m willing to pay for my peace of mind.”

      She settled back in her chair, eyeing Russ as if daring him to argue with her. She wore a close-fitting top with a deep V-neck and slim pants, both in the same shade as her dark green eyes. Even early on a Saturday afternoon, she had on gold earrings, a bunch of rings and gobs of makeup. But she pulled it off. She looked good. She always did. As a costume designer, she’d told Russ, she felt she should make an effort with her attire whether she was running out for a quart of milk or attending the Academy Awards.

      Julius piled more plant debris onto the deck rail. He was in his fifties—twenty years older than Russ—and newly married to a San Diego attorney. He had on expensive golf clothes, his usual attire these days. He had two grown daughters by his first marriage, both Los Angeles attorneys. The younger one was buying his house, now that he was moving into his wife’s La Jolla home. Russ figured he could afford a Harry Potter cupboard in either La Jolla or Hollywood Hills.

      “Why is this place called Moss Hill?” Julius asked Daphne.

      She shuddered. “I hate that I know the answer. It’s at the base of an actual hill of that name.”

      “Is there moss?”

      “I don’t know. Honestly, Julius.”

      He tackled a fernlike plant, grabbing a handful of brown matter. “Was it always called Moss Hill?”

      “Yes. Sort of. It was called Moss Hill to distinguish it from the other Sanderson mills in the area. They’re all gone now, most of them demolished when the reservoir was built.”

      Russ tried to control his impatience. He didn’t care what the damn place was called. It was in this nowhere-town, and he had to get on a plane tonight, fly to Boston and drive there in the morning.

      “My great-great-grandfather, George Sanderson, built the mill in the nineteenth century,” Daphne said. “It produced straw hats until sometime after World War I.”

      “Like the straw hat Dick Van Dyke wears in Mary Poppins?” Russ asked.

      Julius and Daphne both raised their eyebrows. Julius held his clippers in midair. “You’ve watched Mary Poppins? Seriously?”

      “Marty and I watched it on a snow day back when our father was stationed in upstate New York,” Russ said. “I was six. Marty was eight. I’d sing the chimney-sweep song to taunt him.”

      Julius snorted. “He didn’t throw your ass in the snow?”

      “No, he did. It had no effect.”

      Daphne shook her head. “I have a hard time envisioning you and Marty as little boys. You shouldn’t run into snow in Knights Bridge this late in April.”

      “If it snows on me,” Russ said, “I’m quitting.”

      “Oh, no, you’re not,” Julius said. “You can’t quit this week. I can’t fill in for you. I’ll be in La Jolla planning my new office in the poolside guest room.”

      “I can’t believe you’re moving down there.” Daphne snorted with displeasure. “Do you have a clause in your sales СКАЧАТЬ