The Spring at Moss Hill

by Carla Neggers

  Too restless to sit for long, she got to her feet, yanking off the lightweight jacket she’d worn into town. She kicked off her shoes and walked in her stocking feet to her worktable. She’d been working on Little Red Riding Hood for only a few days. It was the third in a series of fairy tales she was illustrating. She’d finished Hansel and Gretel and Sleeping Beauty.

  She knew it would take some effort to get her into the world of a clever wolf, a dark forest and an adventurous girl with a picnic basket.

  Kylie sank onto her chair, feeling unsettled, strangely out of her element. Had she made a mistake moving here?

  But she knew she hadn’t. As fantastic as it was, the house she’d rented had made her think about what she didn’t have. This place worked fine, given her solitary ways and her bad luck with men.

  * * *

  She lasted twenty minutes at her worktable.

  She was working on the perfect tree to go in front 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 contract with your daughter that you can get your house back if you hate La Jolla?”

  “There is nothing to hate about La Jolla, Daphne,” Julius said.

  Russ admired Julius’s patience. After ten years working with her, Juli
us was used to Daphne, and he considered her a friend. Russ did, too, although he’d only known her a few months, and today she was testing him.

  “I’m not quitting Sawyer & Sawyer,” Julius added. “I’m not going to abandon you.”

  “Will your daughter invite me to coffee on your deck?”

  “When have I ever invited you? You just show up.”

  Daphnee pursed her lips, clearly fighting back a smile. “You’re the devil himself, Julius Hartley. But now I have my young PI, Colt Russell. How do you like Los Angeles compared to San Diego, Colt?”

  Julius gathered up his pile of debris and threw it over the deck into his backyard without a word. Russ picked up his coffee mug. He didn’t correct Daphne. She knew his name. She was trying to get a reaction from him. He wasn’t irritated, amused or concerned. This was just part of his new life.

  “You’re so serious,” she said. “You remind me of Liam Neeson in Taken.”

  Julius joined them at the table. “You told me the other day he reminds you of Mark Harmon as Gibbs in NCIS.”

  “Gibbs was a marine,” Russ said. “Neeson was CIA.”

  “And you were navy,” Julius said.

  Daphne waved a hand. “Whatever. Liam Neeson and Mark Harmon are both older than you, Russ, I mean Colt, but you have that same kick-ass look. I like it. I’ll bet you can kill people with your left thumb.”

  “Easier with my right thumb.”

  Russ could tell Daphne didn’t know if he was serious. She got to her feet. “Well, I like knowing you’re in my corner as I prepare for this class. You know I’ve never taught a class, right? I don’t even like to speak in public. Ava and Ruby O’Dunn were very persuasive in getting me to say yes. They appealed to my ego and my desire to help and encourage young designers. I fell for every bit of it.”

  “You’ll be great,” Julius said.

  Daphne kept her green eyes on Russ. Finally, she sighed. “Well? Aren’t you going to agree?”

  “Agree with what?” Russ asked, mystified.

  “That I’ll be great.”

  He wasn’t as good at client care and reading the cues as Julius was. “Sure,” he said. “You’ll be great.”

  “You’re both awful men and total liars,” she said with a cheeky smile. “I could stink up the room on Saturday, and you’d tell me I had the crowd in the palm of my hand.”

  “I never lie to you,” Julius said. “Sometimes you choose not to hear what I’m saying, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lied.”

  “Well, I give you permission to lie on Saturday, because it won’t matter. Whether I stink or I’m terrific makes no difference. Either way, I am never, ever, ever doing this again.”

  “That’s nerves talking. See how you feel after you get through this thing.” Julius rubbed the back of his neck, looking awkward. “I’ve been meaning to tell you... I can’t be in Knights Bridge on Saturday, Daphne. I’m sorry.”

  “Your wife again. La Jolla. This move. Next, you’ll be telling me you’re volunteering at the San Diego Zoo.” Before Julius could respond, Daphne swung around to Russ. “I suggest packing bug spray. It might be black-fly season in Massachusetts.”

  With that, she bid them goodbye and trotted down the stairs, back to the peppy little car she drove. She lived in Hollywood Hills herself, but she operated in a different social circle from Julius—a different world altogether from Russ.

  The slider into the kitchen opened, and Loretta Wrentham, Julius’s bride of one month, stuck her head out. “Is the coast clear?”

  Julius grinned. “You want me to go downstairs and make sure?”

  “It’s all right. I have nerves of steel.” Loretta came out on to the deck. She was in her fifties, slim and fit, with short, graying dark hair. She wore tight-fitting jeans, a white shirt and sandals with three-inch heels that didn’t seem to bother her. She set her ever-present glass of sparkling water with lime on the table and sat next to her husband. “That woman gives me hives.”

  “I thought you liked her,” Julius said.

  “I do, in small doses. She’s fun, generous, interesting and a little nuts. She loves having you two at her beck and call.”

  “No one has Russ at their beck and call. Me, yes. Russ, no.”

  “You just play along better than I do,” Russ told him.

  “My point is,” Loretta added, “Daphne will run you ragged if you let her.”

  Russ smiled. “It takes a lot to run me ragged.”

  “No doubt.” Loretta grimaced as if the entire conversation about Daphne Stewart pained her. “She loves the idea of having a rugged, good-looking investigator show up in Knights Bridge as her advance team.”

  “Hey,” Julius said, “Russ is going east, not me.”

  She rolled her eyes, but Russ thought she looked less tense. She and Julius had only met last summer, but now it seemed as if they’d known each other forever. “Daphne knows her stuff, I’ll say that for her.” Loretta swept up her water glass and took a big drink. “She warned me the first dress I picked out for our wedding wouldn’t work. Although this was my first—and only—wedding, I didn’t want to do the whole white-dress thing. I found a cute cocktail dress I liked. I thought it was cute, anyway. Daphne told me I would hate my wedding photos if I wore it. I’d look sallow and sad. Her words. Sallow and sad.”

  “And you were neither that day,” Julius said.

  “She’s also responsible for the two of us meeting. Now I really do feel like a heel for avoiding her.” Loretta nodded toward the plants Julius had trimmed. “They look great. This is such a nice spot. I’m glad it’s staying in the family. We can come for brunch. Your daughter makes a great frittata.”

  Russ was out of there if they were going to talk frittatas.

  But Loretta had narrowed her dark eyes on him. “Julius has told you about my connection to Knights Bridge, hasn’t he?”

  “Dylan McCaffrey and Noah Kendrick.”

  She gave the smallest of smiles. “That cuts to the chase. Dylan and Noah are best friends. They grew up together in LA and got rich together. Dylan in particular is involved in several new ventures based in Knights Bridge. Adventure travel, an entrepreneurial boot camp and an inn of sorts.”

  “Not to mention goat’s milk soaps,” Julius added.

  Loretta kept her gaze on Russ. “The soaps and the inn are Olivia McCaffrey’s ventures, but, of course, Dylan is involved. Olivia is the local woman he married on Christmas Eve. Noah is engaged to Phoebe O’Dunn, the former Knights Bridge librarian and the eldest sister of Ava and Ruby, the twins who put together Daphne’s master class. NAK, the company Noah founded and Dylan helped launch, is based in San Diego. They both have homes there, but Knights Bridge—” she sighed “—it’s home for Phoebe and Olivia.”

  “Are they involved in Daphne’s class?” Russ asked.

  “She’ll be staying at the Farm at Carriage Hill, Olivia’s inn. I don’t know if either Olivia or Dylan will be at the class. Olivia’s a graphic designer, so she might be interested. Noah and Phoebe are at his winery at the moment.”

  Russ downed the last of his coffee. “Two friends from California fall for two women from Knights Bridge. Great, but I’m not seeing a role for me here.”

  “Loretta worries about Dylan and Noah,” Julius said. “They’re like surrogate sons to her.”

  “Dylan’s a longtime client,” she said. “I started working with him when he was a defenseman in the National Hockey League. That he’s now worth at least a hundred million and Noah over a billion...well, yes, I do worry about them. Knights Bridge is a small, idyllic New England town. It’s easy to be lulled into thinking it won’t attract people who might not wish Dylan and Noah and the people they care about well.”

  Russ got to his feet. “What are you asking me to do?”

  “Have a lo
ok at their lives in Knights Bridge from your point of view,” Loretta said. “Talk to Dylan. See what you think. You have more experience with security than either Julius or I.”

  “Is Dylan expecting me to talk to him?”

  “He will be by the time your flight lands tomorrow. I’ll call him myself. Noah, too. He won’t be there, but Dylan won’t make a move on anything that concerns Noah without talking to him first.”

  “All right. I’ll let you know. I’m not sneaking around, just so we’re clear.”

  “No problem,” Loretta said.

  “And my first priority on this trip is Daphne.”

  “Of course.”

  “Even if it’s a waste of time,” Russ added, half to himself.

  Julius brushed a bit of plant matter off his polo shirt. “Be glad the O’Dunn twins are putting you up at Moss Hill instead of their mother’s place. She has dogs, cats, chickens and over a dozen goats. That’s where Olivia gets the milk for her goat’s milk soap.”

  Russ stared at his friend and colleague. “Goats, Julius?”

  “Nigerian Dwarf goats.”

  “I have to admit they’re adorable,” Loretta said.

  “Have you ever seen a goat, Russ?” Julius asked.

  “I have.”

  Loretta inhaled sharply. Her husband winced. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

  “Both. I doubt I’ve seen a Nigerian Dwarf goat, though. Nothing wrong with raising goats, but if I have to stay in this town for more than a few days, I’m going to want hazard pay.”

  Russ left Loretta and Julius smiling—and looking relieved—and took his coffee mug into the house. The sliders opened into the kitchen, which the daughter who’d bought the house was already planning on renovating. Russ put the mug in the dishwasher. He took spiral stairs in the adjoining hall to one of two upstairs bedrooms. The main living area was located on the middle level of the hillside house, and a master bedroom and bath were on the ground floor. Russ had moved into the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms in March while he figured out what came next for him.

  He’d never, not once in his thirty-three years on the planet, imagined working investigations for a Beverly Hills law firm.