Chapter One

     How many times have I heard, “Felicity, it’s going to take a brilliant mind like yours to solve those murders.”? And I’m not the only one who tells me that. My friend Dooley encourages me as well: “Don’t give up, Felicity. Keep searching for clues.” And I do. I uncover new ones every day and try to share them. But my neighbors scream, “Shut up, you crazy old bitch! We’re trying to sleep!” A bunch of dumb-asses, my neighbors. If they’d let me, I could teach them plenty. I know secrets; dark and dangerous ones, the kind that can get you killed. But you already know that. That’s why you’re here. Question is, how much have you been told?

     As a kid, I witnessed some very naughty things, including murders. Was nearly murdered myself, or so they tell me. Didn’t hurt me though, seeing those things. On the contrary. Those experiences heightened my senses. I’m able to divine information unavailable to most people. For example, you know those little paper umbrellas, the ones they stick in fancy-assed cocktails? They’re poisoned, soaked in cyanide. The CIA knows all about it, but they don’t drink those drinks, so they don’t care. Besides, agents are issued special poison-protection underwear. No worries for them. If you knew half the things that are poisoned, you’d never open your mouth. Sporks. They’ll take you out in a nanosecond. Flashlights. Tofurkey. Pushup bras. They’re all... what... was I talkin’ about? Never mind. I’ve told you too much already. Though I am willing to share one last little secret. Promise you won’t tell? Okay. I love Caverly, Vermont, truly I do. It’s my home sweet home. But lately, my mind’s been drifting to warm, exotic places. I see myself walking a beach, holding a big, curly, pink shell to my ear, listening for voices, the kind that tell you what to do. Could have left this stony icebox years ago. Why stay? All my people are doornail dead. And after all, it’s the people that make a place home. Right?

     Doubt you noticed, but my house... it’s a genuine period colonial. I’ve been petitioning the National Register of Historic Places for dog years. Who do I have to choke to get a plaque? Was built by my ancestors, this house. Dates back to the Revolution, most of it. Not the garage, of course. It’s a 30s add-on, planted deep in a slope so as not to compromise the authentic profile of the house. Has no windows, my garage. When I’m showering down there—all hosed down and lathered up—Jumo, my favorite light bulb, makes me glow like a harvest moon. Light bulbs have a life span, just like humans. When the light goes out, they’re dead. The least I can do is name them and see to it they get a decent funeral. It’s while I’m garage-showering that I figure out what to feed my guests. Most folks are scared of crazy people. But they’re just people, like you and me. I entertain a batch of them, every night.  In a few hours, six of my craziest neighbors will arrive for a dinner meeting. Actually, I’ve already decided on tonight’s menu: tomato bisque, rack of lamb slow-roasted over apple wood, a reduction sauce laced with raspberry puree, pumpkin gnocchi, a medley of baby vegetables. Bread, I’ll make bread and a delicate herb and watercress salad. Shit! I just remembered, that stupid kid I hired to pick herbs never came back. And—God help me!—I’m out of wine! Such a pity Grandfather’s exquisite French burgundies are stored so deep in that old wine cellar. Strictly off limits, that cellar. No way I’m going to risk seeing that obscene dancing hand again. That’s a thing no one should ever see. Not unlike my plumber’s butt-crack. Although, I have to admit, when I see that, I can’t look away. Prurient is a delightful word, but in his case, it doesn’t apply. Suspense, that’s what keeps me riveted. How far down are his pants going to slide? How can he not feel a draft? And his ass, it’s so much lighter than the rest of him. How much paler can it get? And similarly, suspense is what kept me watching that obscene dancing hand. Although, unlike my plumber’s butt-crack, seeing that thing left me severely traumatized. No. No more wine cellar visits for me. I’ll order something domestic and have it delivered.  Not up to my usual standards, but those losers won’t know the difference. I’ll distract them with a chocolate soufflés. But none of this is going to happen until I haul my ass down to the garage. It’s shower day!

     Until recently, I was forced to use ancient, rickety wooden stairs to access my garage. Terrifying, those stairs; matchstick-fragile, original to the house. Not long ago, I had them replaced. But not before I spent serious time planning how I wanted the new ones constructed.  That was time wasted. My idiot contractor completely ignored my design. He screwed my new steps up—royally. The ones he built are so steep and narrow, I’m forced to climb down sideways. He did fortify the handrails like I told him to. But halfway down, he was supposed to provide a landing, a place where I could stop and catch my breath. Oh, he built one all right, the size of a slice of pie! And the flip-down seat he installed snapped off the wall the first time I used it. Sent me plummeting ass over tea kettle. I fell all the way to the bottom of the stairs. Landed with my leg twisted over my head, so contorted, I couldn’t breathe! Thank God I had my cell phone on me. Though it took at least an hour before those moron paramedics came to my rescue. There I lay, suffocating, and that jerk of a 911 operator, Marsha-with-the-Barry-White-voice, decides to lecture me on “…the illegality of false alarms.”

     “Is this a genuine emergency, Ms. Stark?  Do I have to remind you that unnecessary 911 calls are against the law?”

     “Listen, you freak-of-nature! I’m on the floor, my foot’s jammed in a goddamned railing and I’m freezing my ass off! Get somebody up here—now!”

     “Are you wearing your muumuu, Ms. Stark?”

     “Since when are my fashion choices any of your goddamned business?!”

     “Are you wearing anything?  It’s not going to be like last time, is it?”

     “That was a legitimate emergency! I had a thong-burn!”

     I have never abused 911. I’ve called only a few dozen times and one of those times was when I saw that obscene dancing hand. And let me tell you, that was an emergency of the most urgent and terrifying kind.