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    A Founders' Day Death: Mt. Abrams Mysteries, #2
    A Founders' Day Death: Mt. Abrams Mysteries, #2
    A Founders' Day Death: Mt. Abrams Mysteries, #2
    Ebook124 pages1 hour

    A Founders' Day Death: Mt. Abrams Mysteries, #2

    By Dee Ernst

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    About this ebook

    Founder’s Day weekend was always a big deal in Mt. Abrams, and not even the discovery of along-buried skeleton in Emma McLaren’s garden was enough to cancel the yearly celebration.  But when a newly murdered corpse was found dumped in a rowboat the morning of the Founder’s Day Parade, everything came to a screeching halt

    Ellie Rocca was convinced the murders were connected, but how?  Detective Sam Kinali had taken the lead on the case, and politely but firmly told Ellie not to get involved.  But that was easier said than done, especially since Ellie and her friends know the killer won’t be uncovered until they found out who was buried in Emma’s Garden.

    LanguageEnglish
    Publisher235 Alexander Street
    Release dateFeb 2, 2016
    ISBN9780997051414
    A Founders' Day Death: Mt. Abrams Mysteries, #2
    Author

    Dee Ernst

    Dee Ernst loved reading at an early age and decided to become a writer, though she admits it took a bit longer than she expected. After the birth of her second daughter at the age of forty, she committed to giving writing a real shot. She loved chick lit but felt frustrated by the younger heroines who couldn’t figure out how to get what they wanted, so she writes about women like herself—older, more confident, and with a wealth of life experience. In 2012, her novel Better Off Without Him became an Amazon bestseller. Now a full-time writer, Dee lives in her home state of New Jersey with her family, a few cats, and a needy cocker spaniel. She loves sunsets, beach walks, and really cold martinis.

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      Book preview

      A Founders' Day Death - Dee Ernst

      Chapter 1

      Summer in Mt. Abrams was heaven for kids. The beach up at the lake wasn’t terribly big, so most kids spent the day jumping off the dock and swimming out to the large wooden floats off shore. What beach there was had happy toddlers running all over it, with a corner carved out for the sun-worshipping teen girls. There was sailing on the other side by the boathouse and fishing every morning in canoes and rowboats. Lake Abrams wasn’t big—barely one hundred and seventy acres—but it was large enough that the swimmers and the sailors and the fishermen never seemed to crowd each other too much.

      Of course, adults liked the lake too. In the summer, the clubhouse was open until eleven, and on its wide screened-in porches, mahjong and martinis reigned. Behind the clubhouse, on a slight rise, ancient maples provided shade that kept picnic tables and wooden chairs cool and comfortable, even in the humid New Jersey summers. Yes, it was practically perfect.

      But that was Mt. Abrams for you. Practically perfect.

      Small communities were like that, or at least that’s what the residents all said. Mt. Abrams had all sorts of things going on behind closed doors, the same sort of things that happened in the big cities, but it wasn’t talked about. And since no one was staggering down the street drunk or openly beating their kids, we could all pretend bad things didn’t happen here.

      But sometimes bad things had a way of raising their ugly heads and waving their broken arms, and no amount of looking away could make it stop. Like what happened in Emma McLaren’s garden.

      No matter how hard everyone tried to say otherwise, something bad had happened there. And it wasn’t going away.

      I’m Ellie Rocca. I didn’t live directly on the lake, but I did have a lovely view of it from the front porch of the house I kept after my divorce. I sat there every morning with my coffee and watched my ten-year-old daughter Tessa walk to swim practice. The summer had been a cool one, and I knew that the early morning lake water was brisk, but she loved it. She was like a little guppy, swimming like a mad thing, jumping and diving and coming out of the water only for food and bathroom breaks. All summer she was brown from the sun and wrinkled from being in the water, her fingertips looking more like raisins than anything else.

      I usually walked my spaniel, Boot, around the lake while she was at practice. Carol Anderson joined me most mornings before she headed off to open the library, and my best friend Shelly walked on the mornings she could slip away from her kids.

      I heard Carol coming up the hill before I saw her, because of the very lively discussion she was having with Mary Rose Reed, President of the Garden Club, and Emma McLaren.

      Every community had one. You know—the crazy cat lady. Mt. Abrams had more than one, because Mt. Abrams had a lot more crazy people in general than most small towns. Emma McLaren, however, was more than just a crazy cat lady. She was also a self-proclaimed witch. She lived in a tiny Victorian, built in 1901, with a side yard barely big enough for her Prius. But years before, the house next door to her had burned to the ground. She bought the double lot (most lots in that section of Mt. Abrams were barely thirty feet wide, just enough for a small cottage and a tiny side yard) put an eight-foot–tall stockade fence around it, and a little bit at a time, turned it into a large and quite fabulous garden. We could only speculate what was going on behind the tall battered fence, especially after she installed a lock on the gate after being vandalized a few years ago. But she opened it to the public during Founders’ Day weekend, and I never missed going in. It was a wonderful mix of practicality and whimsy, with beds of herbs and medicinal plants and berries of every kind, as well as zinnias, roses, and exotic vines growing up arches and over benches that were tucked in every nook and corner. There was still a rather wild-looking side to the garden, where the previous owners put in row of lilacs and nothing else, and Emma was content to let a few wild flowers and weeds grow there. It was an enchanted place, and if you were lucky, after your walk through she would read your palm and give you fresh-brewed mint tea.

      Every one loved Emma. She was always bringing tonics to sick children and bouquets of dried herbs to neighbors and friends. Even her cats were loved. Biscuit was the only outside cat, and she would often walk along with you if you happened to be going in a suitable direction. Rasputin, Frito, and Delphine stayed indoors, gazing out Emma’s front window as the world went by. She had lived in the same house for thirty-some years, long enough for her home to be called the McLaren house. She was one of the Mt. Abrams elite.

      She also had a long-standing argument with Mary Rose.

      Every year, the second weekend in August was set aside for the Mt. Abrams Founders’ Day Celebration. In the 1870s when Mt. Abrams was a small summer community owned and populated by Josiah Abrams and his family, the weekend was the unofficial end of the summer, and an excuse for the Victorian ladies to get all dressed up. Over the years, as the community grew from a tiny summer enclave to almost a full-grown town, Founders’ Day grew as well. Now, it lasted all weekend. There was a dance and carnival at the clubhouse for the kids and teens Friday night. Saturday morning started with a parade, and the rest of the day included a boat race, a fishing contest, and a sandcastle-building contest. Saturday night was a huge potluck on the lake, with fireworks and dancing for the old folks.

      Sunday was Open House Day; that wass what the argument was about. Mary Rose had, for years, been trying to corner Emma McLaren’s secret garden as part of the Garden Club’s paid tour. It was a major fundraiser for the Garden Club, and every year, hundreds of outsiders streamed into Mt. Abrams to tour the old homes and the tended gardens of the residents.

      Just as a point of information, my house was not on the tour. Neither was my yard. If you could see either of them, you would understand.

      Emma refused to be part of the tour, allowing anyone and everyone to view her garden. She was a hard nut to crack, but that didn’t mean Mary Rose didn’t try every year.

      Carol rolled her eyes at me as the trio climbed my porch. She was older than I by at least ten years, tall and lean, with a shock of silver hair cut short and four or five earrings in each ear. She was a lovely woman. Most of the time.

      Her mouth was in a thin line. Ready?

      I nodded, then smiled at Emma and Mary Rose. Are you ladies walking with us this morning?

      Mary Rose tightened her jaw and shook her head. No. What would be the point? Emma once again refuses to participate in a very important community function, putting the Garden Club, as well as the entire Founders’ Day fund raising effort at risk for possible dissolution.

      Emma was short, barely five feet tall, round everywhere, with white hair streaming almost down to her waist and washed-out blue eyes. Today she wore her hair was in a single braid down her back, and she sported a bright orange T-shirt over her jeans.

      Good Lord, Mary Rose, she said. Your Garden Club has managed without me on the tour for as long as there’s been a tour. Don’t try to guilt me, young lady. Go away before I curse your rose bushes.

      Mary Rose turned and stormed off. I looked at Emma and raised my eyebrows. Can you do that? Curse her roses, I mean?

      Emma smiled. No, but I can sneak in there at night and pour vinegar at the roots; the acid’ll kill them in no time.

      Carol finally relaxed and laughed. She followed us all the way up the hill and never stopped talking. That woman is a royal pain.

      Yes, I said. But she’s our royal pain. Let me get some bags.

      Boot tended to stop every five feet to pee. It was amazing how much her tiny bladder could hold. She also liked to spread her poop all around the lake. She was at least a three-bagger, and my pockets bulged with recycled shopping bags.

      How are you, Emma? I asked as we set out. I knew her, of course, but not well. She was more Carol’s friend. But she was always delightful company.

      She smiled. She was one of those people in a perpetual good mood. Good. Thanks to the cool weather, my arthritis had practically vanished, which is why I can join you ladies this delightful morning. The berries are doing well, and I have enough blueberries for quarts and quarts of jam. Would you like a jar?

      Of course, Carol and I said together. Emma’s homemade things were legendary.

      We rounded

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