The Spring At Moss Hill. Carla Neggers
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moved into one of its four loft-style apartments five weeks ago. So far, she was the only tenant. She accepted that the other three apartments wouldn’t stay empty, but she hadn’t ever—not once—imagined a private investigator moving in, even temporarily.
She missed what Chris said in response to Ruby. Ruby went on about wild mushrooms, artisan cheese and artichokes, but Chris finally told her to focus on basics. “Put a six-pack in the fridge,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”
Ruby muttered something Kylie couldn’t make out, and Chris left, apparently with a six-pack of his own.
Kylie placed the champagne in her basket. She’d promised herself she would take time to celebrate once the daffodils were in bloom, and they were definitely in bloom. The last time she’d come up for air and tried to celebrate had been in August. She’d ended up at a Red Sox game with a negative, burned-out carpenter who complained for seven innings. She’d been relieved when the game didn’t go into extra innings and had told him she’d had a call from her sister, a veterinary student at Tufts, to get out of going back to Knights Bridge with him. Before that, she’d split a bottle of wine with a condescending sculptor in Paris, celebrating her first children’s book as both author and illustrator. These little children’s drawings you do are sweet, Kylie, but... He’d shrugged, leaving her to imagine the rest of what he was pretending to be too polite to say. She couldn’t make a living as an illustrator, they weren’t real art, they weren’t any good, anyone could do it. It had been that kind of but.
She headed to the cash register with her basket. She could always have her champagne alone on her balcony and toast the stars and the moon, with gratitude.
Maybe invite the Beverly Hills PI.
That’d be the day. She didn’t plan to do anything to invite his scrutiny.
Ruby was lifting a basket off a stack by the register. Kylie had met all four O’Dunn sisters around town—the country store, the library, the town offices where their mother worked—but didn’t know any of them well. She’d moved to Knights Bridge last summer and kept telling herself she wanted to get to know people there, but so far, they remained acquaintances, not friends. Ruby and Ava, fraternal twins and the youngest O’Dunns, were theater graduate students, Ava in New York, Ruby in Boston. A natural redhead like her three sisters, Ruby had dyed her hair plum-black and tied it back with a bright pink scarf. She wore a long black skirt, a white T-shirt and a denim jacket, with black boots and no jewelry.
“Oh, Kylie, hi,” Ruby said. “I didn’t see you back there.”
“I couldn’t resist the wine sale.”
“Ah. Champagne, I see. Excellent. Did you hear Chris Sloan and me talking just now? A private investigator will be here from California tomorrow. He’ll be staying in the apartment across the hall from you.”
“What’s he investigating?”
“One of his clients is giving a master class at Moss Hill next Saturday,” Ruby said. “Daphne Stewart—she has roots in town.”
“She was here last September for the vintage fashion show at the library,” Kylie said. “Hollywood costume designer. I remember.”
“Did you go?”
“No, I didn’t.” She’d been fiddling with a project ahead of hitting the Send button. Work was always her excuse for not being more social. “I heard it was a great success.”
“The fashion show raised a lot of money for the library and the historical society.” Ruby hooked her basket on one arm. “Daphne’s a character. Russ Colton—the private investigator arriving tomorrow—is making sure everything’s set for her arrival. It’ll be Moss Hill’s first public event. You should come, Kylie. You’ll be right there.”
“Thanks. I’ll give it some thought.”
Ruby held up her basket. “I need to fill this up. I should get moving. Good to see you.”
“You, too,” Kylie said, but Ruby had spotted someone she knew and taken off down the canned-goods aisle.
Kylie set her basket on the counter.
A private investigator and a respected, longtime Hollywood costume designer on their way to town—to Moss Hill.
Just what I need.
She held back a groan. If she couldn’t fake excitement, best to be neutral.
She unloaded her groceries. In addition to the champagne, she’d picked up plain yogurt, cheddar cheese, flax-seed bread, coffee and mixed spring greens, all local to her quiet part of New England, west of Boston.
After paying for her groceries, she stepped outside. The beautiful April afternoon greeted her like a warm smile from a friend. She took in the quaint, picturesque village center. She was standing on Main Street, opposite the common, an oval-shaped green surrounded by classic houses, the library, churches, the town hall and a handful of small businesses. The long winter had released its grip. The grass was green, the trees were leafing out, and daffodils were in bloom. She had been working nonstop for weeks—months—and getting out into the warm spring air felt remarkably good, almost as if she’d come to life herself.
She noticed dark-haired, broad-shouldered Christopher Sloan farther down Main Street. He was the fifth of the six Sloan siblings, with four older brothers. She couldn’t imagine having five brothers. She didn’t have any brothers. The O’Dunns and the Sloans and other families had lived in Knights Bridge for decades, even for generations. Ruby and Chris had grown up together. That created bonds and a familiarity that Kylie couldn’t pretend to have in her adopted town.
Or want.
Not now at least.
She arranged her groceries in her bike bags, aware of a vague uneasiness about the arrival of a private investigator at Moss Hill. It wasn’t just that she wasn’t thrilled about it. She’d worked hard not to draw attention to herself during her months in Knights Bridge.
But it would all work out, she told herself as she climbed on to her bike. She had champagne, food and coffee. If she so much as sensed this Russ Colton was going to cause trouble for her, she could hide out in her apartment for days, content in her world of evil villains, handsome princes and daring princesses.
* * *
Moss Hill was quiet even for a Saturday afternoon. Kylie’s mud-spattered Mini was the only vehicle in the parking lot, so new it didn’t have a single pit or pothole. She could feel the ten-mile round-trip ride in her thighs as she jumped off her bike. She’d relished the slight breeze and the fresh scents of spring in the air on this warmest day of the year so far.
She grabbed her groceries out of her bike bags and gave them a quick check. Somehow she’d managed not to break or spill anything. She started to slip her phone into her jacket pocket but saw she had a voice mail.
Her sister, Lila, three years younger, still hard at work as a veterinary student in Boston. Also still a chronic worrier who was convinced her only sibling was turning into a recluse.
Kylie listened to the message, smiling at its predictability. “I hope you’re not answering because you’re off having a great time with friends. Call back whenever. Just saying hi.”
Lila had known at four that she wanted to be a veterinarian like their father. She’d never wavered. Kylie had always been more interested in drawing pictures of the animals that came in and out of the Shaw clinic than in operating on them.
She hadn’t been out with friends. She’d missed her sister’s call because she’d turned off her phone while she was on her bike.
She’d call Lila back later.
Kylie left her bike on the rack by the front entrance and followed a breezeway to the residential building, the smaller of the two brick-faced structures that formed the mill, or at least what remained of its original complex. Built in 1860 to capitalize on the burgeoning market for palm-leaf straw hats, the renovated mill was situated