Death by Rocky Road

Anna St. James is having a great summer. Her newest tenant is working out fine, the weather on Frostfall Island is fabulous and the tourists have returned. (Although Anna wishes there were a few less of them.)

The island is hosting a massive romance reader event complete with big name authors, cover models, enthusiastic readers and best of all ice cream sundaes. Anna’s sister, Cora, and their eccentric housemate, Opal, are anxious to attend so they can meet their favorite authors. Anna decides to tag along to see what all the excitement is about. And excitement is definitely not lacking. When one of the most popular authors winds up dead, it is up to Anna to find out which of her many enemies was pushed far enough to commit murder.

The sun was still lazily sitting off the horizon in no apparent hurry to sprinkle the island with its glow. A layer of gray that hovered somewhere between mist and clouds held back the much anticipated dawn. Michael was late. All week he'd been dawdling like a young child getting ready for school. The fishing had been disappointing for the last month, and he worried about our finances.

I glanced back at Moon River. Huck was standing on the muddy bank deciding whether the fish swimming past were worth him dipping his feet in ice cold water. "Huck, let's go."

The dog looked back at me over his shoulder, but he was still torn between a treat in the warm kitchen or an icy dash through the river to chase fish. I headed up the steps of the old Victorian lady, the charming house Michael had inherited from his grandparents. A light was on in the kitchen, which meant Michael had started coffee. He insisted on making the coffee, claiming that my brew was so weak it could moonlight as tea. I slipped my rubber boots off and placed them on the tray next to Michael's fishing boots. The size difference always made me smile.

I expected the rich aroma of coffee as I opened the door but only the familiar musty, sweet scent of the old house wafted along the narrow hallway. Michael's broad shoulders were rounded as he braced his hands on the edge of the counter.

"Are you all right?" I asked, slightly alarmed at his stance.

It took him longer than expected to acknowledge my question. He lifted his hands off the counter and turned back to me. Worry lines creased his forehead but he forced up a gentle smile. "I slept too late. I'm going to skip coffee."

"But you never skip coffee," I reminded him unnecessarily. I walked over and took his hand. Just like the boots, the size difference amused me as my small hand got lost in his. "Michael, what is it? This whole week you've been quiet, distant."

He pulled his hand from mine. It wasn't done angrily or deliberately, but it still hurt my feelings.

I brushed it off as all part of his concern about the bad fishing. "I made you three sandwiches. One has that meatloaf from last night. I layered on lots of mustard and red onions, just the way you like." I was talking airily, smiling, hoping that some of my positive energy would rub off on him. Fishermen, I learned soon after marrying one, were big on superstitions. Many, Michael included, had full morning routines that could not be broken before leaving the dock. Whether it was drinking exactly one and a half cups of coffee or buttoning their rain slicker from the bottom up or tapping the port side of the boat three times before heading out to sea, every captain had their ritual. Michael's routine included tying his lucky blue bandana around his neck and putting his rain hat on once, shifting it around, taking it off and putting it on again for good. Lately, I'd noticed less and less of his quirky routine. This morning he'd left behind the bandana.

I picked up his lunch pail and began to fill it with the sandwiches. "Maybe your luck has run out because you haven't been following your routine." As a woman who had spent most of her post college years in the no-nonsense world of business, I thought the routine was amusing. Since it gave Michael comfort, confidence to take his old trawler out on the choppy, unpredictable Atlantic, I never questioned it.

"That's all just a bunch of nonsense anyhow." He reached for the lunch box not even lifting his eyes to look at me.

I placed my hand over his before he could take it away. He finally lifted his gaze to mine. For a second, I froze, not certain of the face I was looking at. For that fleeting moment, he wasn't the husband I adored, the man I fell head over heels in love with, the man I dropped everything for to start a life with on Frostfall Island. For a brief splash of time, he was a stranger. Someone I'd never met before. Then he smiled and the odd, cold feeling washed away.

"I'm looking forward to the meatloaf sandwich." His deep, warm tone had returned.

"Michael, I could always take a job in the city. The commute by ferry would be fun, like an adventure," I added with a light shrug.

He was shaking his head no before I finished. "It would get tiring fast. I don't want you to work. You said it yourself, your career was sucking the soul out of you. And don't start about the boarding house either. The last thing I want is a bunch of strangers living in my house." The deep, warm tone vanished. He spoke curtly and just as quickly realized it. "I'm sorry, Anna. I just want you to be happy. It'll work out. All of it will work out."

Huck barked at the front door.

Michael leaned down and kissed me lightly on the lips. It was longer and warmer than his usual goodbye kisses. Huck barked again, louder.

Michael straightened with a scowl. "How did you manage to adopt a dog with such an irritating bark?"

I looked up at him. The warmth of the gentle kiss was long gone. "We adopted him," I reminded him. "He's our dog." I had no idea why I felt it so important to remind him of that, especially after the unsettling morning, but the way he said it made me feel suddenly as if we were two separate entities and no longer a couple.

* * *

Huck barked again startling me out of my thoughts. The dog sat beneath the glossy green leaves of a maple tree staring up at a squirrel. The squirrel stared down at Huck, chattering angrily at the dog for disrupting its morning. It was a new summer day on Frostfall Island, and it promised to be a beauty. I'd spent the morning with my watercolors and a very cooperative trumpet vine. Its bright orange blossoms dangled from green vines like ornaments on a holiday tree.