Frostfall Island Cozy Mystery Bundle (Books 1-7)

Book 1: Murder at North Pond

When Anna St. James graduated college with a business degree, she never expected to find herself running a boarding house on a small island off the east coast. But life throws a lot of curves and Anna has certainly had her share of them. Now, settled into life as owner and landlady of the Moon River Boarding House on Frostfall Island, Anna couldn’t imagine living anywhere else or without the unique and somewhat eccentric tenants she considers family.

Anna would be perfectly content baking and keeping house but Frostfall Island, lovely, remote and somewhat wild, always manages to throw a curve of its own. Most of the time, Frostfall is a charming island with a busy fishing boat harbor and town that attracts summer tourists. But occasionally, quite occasionally, if that’s a phrase, there’s an unexpected murder. Without a dedicated police force, the locals look to Anna to solve crimes. She’s not entirely sure how she landed the role of amateur sleuth but she takes her side job seriously.

When a man dies in a pirate battle reenactment, Anna steps into gear. Only this time, she has a parallel mystery to solve. Her newest tenant, Nathaniel Smith, is quite the puzzle, a puzzle who came with a piercing blue gaze and a trove of secrets.

The sun winked at me from the horizon just moments before obliterating the peach colored streaks of dawn and erasing the perfect shadowy lighting from my work in progress. The sweet pepperbush would have to wait until tomorrow. Its deep green, toothy leaves seemed to relax as I packed up my watercolors as if it knew it had been sitting for a portrait. It was weeks too early for the plant's crowning glory, a tall, white spike of flowers, but I preferred to catch nature just before it went from inconspicuous to glorious. It was like spotting and admiring a movie star long before anyone else noticed their potential.

I snapped shut the tray of watercolors and tucked my paper pad under my arm. "Well, Huck, guess it's time to head back." The dog tilted his head side to side trying to decide whether the all important word 'cookie' had come up in my last few words. Deciding I hadn't mentioned one, he trotted on ahead of me, his bobbed tail pirouetting behind him as if he sported a long, fluffy tail.

Huck was such an odd mix of breeds. His rough, mottled coat and amber eyes gave him the look of a feral dog, one that belonged somewhere in the Australian Outback or African Serengeti rather than on an island. Michael and I laughed when we spotted the dog at the rescue. It was love at first sight… for me at least. Michael took some convincing. But Huck, already two at the time and on his third home, knew how to warm his way into Michael's heart, greeting him joyfully after a long day on the water, resting his head in his lap whenever Michael was feeling down and even, on occasion, bringing him one of his special doggie treats. Michael would pretend to eat it so as not to disappoint Huck. The dog understood that he had to do things right this time, another family, another month at the shelter waiting for someone to fall for him and take him home was out of the question. He needn't have worried though. For me, the attachment was so instant, so profound, I knew Huck had finally found his forever home.

Huck pounced into some shrubs and scared a pair of robins from their shelter. Robins, with their marmalade colored bellies, were always the first to arrive. Spring was just starting to peel back the dreary layers of winter. It wouldn't be long before Frostfall Island burst to life with all the critters lucky enough to call it home.

Frostfall Island was one of those elusive places no one could find on a map. It was neither north nor south, east nor west. It wasn't too close to the equator and was still far enough from the North Pole. Frostfall wasn't lush and humid like a tropical island. At the same time, it wasn't a mass of frozen tundra like Iceland. The island's mood was fickle, depending on the weather and where you stood. If you peered across the moors on the northeast corner during a frosty fog, you could half expect a dark and brooding Heathcliff to wander out of the gothic mist. But on the sunny, westernmost edge of the island, a bike ride and a double scoop of mocha fudge marble seemed more in order. Most people, even on the Atlantic coast, had never heard of Frostfall Island, and we liked it that way. Michael used to say Frostfall was like that small Hawaiian island that no one could remember the name of but that was far more beautiful than its popular sisters, Oahu and Maui. There were numerous islands off the eastern coast, some that were too rocky and wild to inhabit and some with real estate in such high demand only the wealthy could afford it. Frostfall was somewhere in between. It had its own little place in the Atlantic universe, and once I'd landed here, I knew I, too, had found my forever home.

Huck trotted ahead but stopped at the curve halfway along the trail. He knew I would stop there too, the same spot I paused at every time we hiked along Beach Plum Trail. My breath produced cloudy puffs in the early morning chill. The tin tray of watercolors had grown cold in my hand by the time I reached Huck.

The dog was staring off at the horizon, as if he was remembering that fateful day, the day that Huck and I stood to wave at Michael as his fishing trawler rounded the southern tip of the island. His glossy, yellow rain slicker glistened in the cloud-filtered sunlight as he waved to us from his wheelhouse. Huck and I stood on that same curve everyday for a year, no matter how thick and cold the fog or how brittle and sharp the wind. I'd blow Michael good luck kisses, and Huck would bark his goodbyes. Gosh, how Michael hated the sound of Huck's bark. "That dog's bark sounds like someone chewing on a mouthful of gravel," he would complain with a laugh. Michael's laugh was the thing I missed the most about him, along with a million other things like the way he buttered toast and poured coffee for me every morning and brought it to me in bed so my feet didn't have to hit the cold floor before I'd warmed myself with breakfast. Like the way he'd hold me as we stood out on the front porch listening to the springtime frogs or the fall crickets. Or the way he'd bring me something special, a trinket, a shell or a pretty tea cup from the mainland after he'd docked to weigh his catch.

That day, the day Huck and I watched Michael float off for the last time, there was something not quite right about my husband's smile. Even his wave seemed less exuberant. He never reached up to scoop my wind-borne kiss from the salty air.