Hound on the Sound

A Legal Beagle Cozy Mini-Mystery

Jessa Archer

Archer Mysteries

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Excerpt: Scales of Justice (Legal Beagle Cozy Mystery #1)

More Jessa Archer Cozies

About the Author

Hound on the Sound

Pepper Sullivan is dying to jettison her job at the big city law firm, so when she finds a house on the water at an amazing price, she grabs it . . . only to discover that most of the folks in her old hometown believe the place is haunted.

Once back in Misty-on-the-Sound, Pepper has to contend with her old boyfriend the sheriff, her nosy mother, and the town’s shady lawyer. All this while starting her own law practice and trying to find time for her original passion—singing.

With the help of her trusty legal beagle, Mr. Woogles, can Pepper figure out what’s going on before the house turns on her?

Don’t let Jessa’s next release be a mystery to you! Sign up for Jessa Archer new release alerts and cool freebies (via email newsletter or Amazon) on JessaArcher.com.

Chapter One

As the gavel fell and I became the proud owner of a house on the water—at least, I would be in thirty days—I looked over at the lawyer representing the bank, Roger Winthrop. He had a smug smile on his face as he walked over to shake my hand.

Ew. It was clammy. Fortunately, I didn't say that out loud.

“Congratulations, Ms. Sullivan. And welcome home. I understand you grew up here in Misty.”

“Thanks. Yes. In fact, my mom still lives here.” I pulled my hand away from his, hoping it didn't look too hasty. I stepped back from his nasty bad breath at the same time.

“Well, I hope you'll be very happy in the house. It's a great property, with a lot of local history.” He gave me one of those fake smiles that looked more like he was baring his teeth, and I politely bared my teeth back at him.

I signed over the deposit check, relieved that I had just gotten paid. It was a bank check, of course. It would be really tacky for an attorney to have her down payment check bounce. Especially one who was about to open her own law practice in a little town like Misty-on-the-Sound. It occurred to me that I could have mentioned my business plans to Roger Winthrop, who was currently the only lawyer in Misty. But I didn't see any reason to give him an early warning that I'd be his new competition.

Not too many people in Misty remembered me, and those who did probably thought of me as a kid. I needed to change all of that if I was going to get enough business to support my ridiculously huge new house. It wasn't really that big, but coming from a minuscule Manhattan studio, it seemed that way.

Not for the first time, I wondered why I had gotten no competition for the property.

As I walked out of the room, I noticed an older woman with white hair and a friendly smile passing in the hallway. She turned to me and her fragrance carried a hint of cinnamon.

“Are you the young lady who just bought the house at 22 Waterview?” she asked.

“I am,” I said. I had to smile at the fact that she called me a young lady. I was halfway between thirty and forty, and I probably did seem young to her.

“Such a lovely property.”

Misty was a small town, but I was a little surprised that she would know that I'd bought the house. Especially within minutes of my handing over the down payment. But still, she seemed friendly enough. “Thank you,” I said. “Do you know the house?”

She nodded. “Oh yes. My family has had a great interest in that area for many years.” She touched a hand to the loose bun at the nape of her neck. “Please pardon my manners, dear. My name is Elizabeth Cantwell.”

“I'm Pepper.” Deciding I should be more formal, just in case this lady ever needed legal representation . . . or knew anyone who did, I added, “Pepper Sullivan. I'm going to be opening a law office at the house.

She nodded. “Ah yes. I believe I know your mother. Didn't you grow up here?”

There seemed to be a lot of interest in my background today. “I did. I grew up in Misty with my mom, but then went off to college at eighteen and didn’t look back. At least, not until now.” I gave a little laugh.

“As young people do,” she said, smiling. “Well . . . welcome back, dear.”

“Thanks!” I spotted a clock and figured I had just enough time to walk Mr. Woogles on the beach before heading back to New York City and my soon-to-be former job. I nodded goodbye. “Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Cantwell.”

“And you.”

I was walking away when I heard her call my name.

“Pepper?” I turned back. “Please be careful. If you're kind to the property, it will be kind to you.”

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just smiled again and gave her a little wave. It wasn't until I got back New York that I thought about her last name. Cantwell.

Wasn't that the surname of the woman who was hanged as a witch in Misty some . . . three hundred years ago?

Chapter Two

I gazed down the long stretch of beach, thrilled at the idea that I was going to wake up to this view every morning. Of course, I'd grown up here on the Connecticut side of Long Island Sound, but that was in one of the small tract homes miles from the water. I’d never imagined that I could afford one of the beautiful old houses right across the street from the bluff over August Beach. But it looked like it was about to be true.

Today was gloriously warm, with enough early spring sun to make everything sparkle. Mr. Woogles raced around beside me, thrilled to be off his leash. He loved the beach, and I brought him out with me to Misty whenever I had the chance to get away from the rat race that was my law firm job in Manhattan.

Back in law school, I had imagined that the life of a big city lawyer would be glamorous and full of exciting legal challenges. But the reality turned out to be repetitive drudgery punctuated by anxiety about how I would scrape together my rent each month.

I'd only recently had the urge to chuck it all and open my own private practice here in Misty. Or as it was currently known, Misty-on-the-Sound. The “on-the-Sound” addition was some tourism official’s brainstorm to spread the concept of a charming New England village that time forgot. And it had worked. When I was growing up here on the poor side of town, this was a little blue-collar hamlet. Now it was a place where city dwellers could get away to their “cottages” on the water.

I was still trying to figure out why the house I was buying was such a bargain. There was a funny vibe whenever people talked to me about it. But I was loath to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Mr. Woogles barked in excitement as he ran rings around me. He rushed into the water to splash it with his paws, then retreated as the waves started to engulf him. Backing safely off into the sand, he growled at the water, still chilly this early in the spring.

It was the perfect day to be wandering the beach and contemplating my new life. I had it all planned out. I would turn the formal dining room in my new house into a law office, and the front foyer into the waiting room. Soon I'd have clients begging for appointments and oodles of fascinating legal challenges . . . I could do the interesting part instead of being at the beck and call of senior partners who treated me as one of many interchangeable young law associates.

Inspired by the salty air and the gorgeous day, I burst into “Blue Skies,” one of my favorite tunes from our high school jazz band. As the featured singer, I’d been flattered when my Misty High buds urged me to go pro. So I went up to Berklee College of Music in Boston to study jazz and got a degree in music.

But after a year trying to survive on the occasional musical gig, I got cold feet. A career as a singer seemed crazy and impractical. Who was I to think I could beat the odds? That's when I applied to law school . . . and I’d been bored ever since.

Pulling off my sandals, I let my toes sink into the warm sand. I was still belting out the chorus when I spotted a figure jogging toward me far up the beach. Well, it was safe to keep singing for a little bit, with this section of sand all to myself.

It was a delicious feeling to know that I would soon have the beach and the water so close, available for strolling, swimming, or just gazing across the Sound as the light played on the water. Every day a different view. Every moment bringing gentle waves, a sailboat floating by, or a glorious sunset right across the street from my house.

I had bid on the old Victorian with great jubilation—apparently the former owners had defaulted on the mortgage—and I was keen to restore it to its former glory. I was determined to bring the miniature mansion into the current century with new wiring, spacious bathrooms, and a modern kitchen. As soon as I could afford to . . . which wouldn’t be very soon.

The house stood on an unusually large plot of land for this little town. Misty was tucked away on a section of Connecticut close to I-95, the crowded interstate artery that fed the East Coast corridor between Boston and New York City. It was located beyond a tiny airport that served primarily as a take-off point for private planes owned by corporations and wealthy individuals. Strangers attempting to find Misty often turned back, thinking there couldn't be anything out his far, past abandoned industrial buildings and lovely but stinky marshland.

The town's big claim to fame was the tiny but beautiful art deco concert hall, built in the 1920s as a movie theater, and recently refurbished. The theatre was very successful, finally—and everyone wanted to take credit.

In addition to Crystal Hall, little Misty had three beaches and a charming lighthouse. Everyone knew everyone's business, and what they didn't know they simply made up. For a town only five miles square, it saw a lot of action. Lots of (not-quite-legal) fires on the beach, lots of social events in the elegant old homes on the water—often hosted by Big Daddy Johnson and his wife Dolores, the Gatsbys of Misty-on-the-Sound. The Johnsons, of course, had been major backers of the concert hall, which was finally bringing Misty back into the limelight—where it should be, as everyone agreed.

I wanted to segue into another song fit for a gorgeous day like today, but the running guy was getting too close. In fact . . . as I squinted through my sunglasses I started to realize that I knew just who it was. Mr. Woogles certainly recognized him, because he started to wag his tail and bark with excitement as the runner approached.

“Hey Pepper!” Logan shouted out to me as he leaned over to pat my beagle, who had run up to greet him and was doing his best to trip this human friend. As usual when I came into contact with Logan Bateman, I got stupidly tongue-tied and my freckles disappeared into my blushing cheeks.

I couldn't help but notice that he was in great shape . . . since he'd conveniently stripped off his T-shirt and his chest was glistening in the heat. I also couldn’t help thinking to myself that his wife was a lucky woman.

I pushed aside the thought that if Logan and I hadn't split up back in high school, our story might have ended differently.

“Hey Logan. Beautiful day, isn't it?”

“Beautiful,” he said, smiling. Was it just my imagination, or was he looking at me when he said that?

Mr. Woogles ran back down to the water, rolled in the sand, and then came back up to spray us with a quick shimmy. I backed away. “Ack! Cut that out, Woogs!”

Logan laughed. “So what brings you out here to wander the beach during the middle of the day? Visiting your mom?”

I felt a big smile bursting forth as I answered. “See that house across the street? I'm about to own that.”

He looked up at it. “Oh wow. I heard somebody had bid on that house at the foreclosure auction. I didn't know it was you.” His brow furrowed.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” he said, answering too quickly. As if realizing that his response was suspicious, Logan looked back toward the house and then at me. “It's a great house. Tremendous view. I assume you have to pay Long Island Sound water-view taxes in addition to the usual?”

“Yeah, but it's not too bad, considering the bargain the house was.” I stopped and looked him in the eye. “Is there something I need to know about this house? I mean, it's gorgeous, but it's on a big lot and right across from the water. I really thought there'd be more competition for it.”

“No.” He shook his head and kicked at a nonexistent something in the sand. “I don't think there's anything wrong with the house, that is. It's just that . . . somebody died there.” He looked across the street again at the home that was about to be mine.

“Oh. Well, if that's all it is.” I shrugged. “These houses are old. People used to die at home all the time. That's not a big deal. Is that why nobody else bid on it?”

He shrugged in turn, and the beautiful muscles in his chest distracted me for a minute. “I guess so. Just superstition.”

“Right. Well, I'm not superstitious.”

Chapter Three

“Mom. Mom. . . !”

I had picked up the phone at my desk without looking at the number first, and was currently trying to get a word in edgewise. But that was tough, as usual.

“So I got a call from Liz Cantwell, Pepper. And she told me that you had bought a house here in Misty! You didn't tell your own mother that you bought a house?”

“Mom. I can't talk right now. I'm in the middle of work. And I’m sorry, but you know I’ve asked you not to call me on this number.” I gestured toward the mess on my desk, as though she could see the pile of work and the cramped office I occupied.

“You can't talk to your mother? Don't they give you a lunch hour at that place?”

“No. Actually they don't. This is a busy law firm, Mom. They make us write down our time in tenths of an hour . . . every six minutes has to be accounted for. I've told you this.”

“They don't let you eat? Well then, why aren't you skinnier?”

“Thanks a lot, Mom.” I sighed, but when I heard her take a breath to start talking again, I jumped in. “Of course they let us eat. But I usually eat at my desk because then I don't have to work for another half an hour at the end of the day.” I sighed again and resigned myself to not getting off the phone. “Anyway . . . I was going to call you tonight and tell you my big news. I bought a house.”

“Yes! That's what she said. Can you imagine how embarrassing it was for me that my daughter bought a house—right in my own town—and she told some stranger before she told me?”

“I didn't tell anyone, Mom, I promise. Or anyway, she knew. I don't how she knew. Everyone knows everything about everyone else in Misty.”

“Are you going to have a baby? Is that why you bought a huge house in Misty?”

“No, Mom.” I could feel my nails going into the soft part of my hand as I clenched my fist. “It’s not that huge a house. And no, I'm not going to have a baby. I don't even have a boyfriend. How could I have a baby?”

“You could use a turkey baster! That's what my friend Ruth told me the young girls do these days. That's what her daughter did, to make that cute little grandson that she's got.”

I looked up and saw Ginny, one of the other attorneys, standing outside my office but pointedly looking away. I dreaded the idea that she had heard me talking about babies and boyfriends. “Mom. I absolutely have to get off. I promise I'll call you tonight, after I get home. I'll tell you all about it.”

“What . . . you can't tell me now?”

I looked at Ginny and shook my head in apology. She gave an understanding shrug. “No. I can't. I have a meeting starting right now. But you'll hear all about it tonight.”

“Okay. All right. Because you won’t believe what I have to tell you about that house. And I don’t want you to worry, so please don’t. But the truth is, honey . . . that house? It's haunted!”

Chapter Four

“What do you think, Mr. Woogles?” He looked up from his spot in the front seat with a quizzical expression. It was always good to talk over my worries with Woogs. Somehow I knew that he could understand me.

“I don't know what the deal is with this house. I refuse to be intimidated into giving it up because other people are superstitious. You know what we're going to do? We're going do some research and figure out exactly what's going on.” He gave me a great big doggy smile in response, so I knew I was on the right track.

As I pulled the car up in front of the town hall I turned to him again. “Listen, I'm sorry, but you know I can't bring you in here. You just be a good pup and I'll be back in twenty minutes or less. It's not hot today, so you should be fine.” I grabbed my briefcase out of the backseat and walked around to open the door on his side. “Hop out for a minute, and see if you can find a tree or something, because I'm going to give you some water while you wait in the car and I don't want you getting uncomfortable.”

He jumped out of the car quickly and took care of his business just as though he could understand. Mr. Woogles is a very smart dog. After he hopped back in, I got out the small bowl that I kept for him in the glove compartment, and filled it with part of my bottle of water. “Do your best not to spill this, okay? I won't be long.”

I hustled up the stairs to the big double doors at the front of the Misty town hall, then made my way down the long corridor to the room where I knew I'd find the records, because I'd done a quick check on the title to the house before I put down my deposit. Explaining to the woman at the counter that I wanted to look at the property records for 22 Waterview Boulevard, I wasn't too surprised to see her perk up with interest.

“Aren’t you Myra Sullivan's daughter? I heard that you were buying that old house on Waterview. I'm glad somebody's taking over that white elephant. It’s been empty too long.” She nodded her head emphatically. “It’s a lovely home—I don’t care what people say about it! And you're a lawyer? Good. Somebody needs to give Winthrop some competition around here.”

I smiled, but inwardly I was wondering just how many people knew that I was buying this house . . . and why no one else had wanted to. “Well, I won't be moving in for another few weeks, but I'll be looking for legal business as soon as possible, so feel free to spread the word.” I might as well get some publicity out of the fact that everybody in this town was nosy. “I'll be hanging out my shingle and looking for clients who want wills, divorces, real estate transactions. . . .”

She raised her eyebrows. “Real estate? Well done. You definitely will be in competition with Attorney Winthrop.” She leaned in confidentially and looked around to see if there was anyone listening. There was no one else in the room, so it seemed unlikely. “Just watch out for him. He can be nasty when he doesn't get what he wants.”

I nodded. I needed to get started soon because I didn't want to leave Mr. Woogles in the car for any longer than I had promised. “So I'll just go ahead and find the property documents for that address. . . .”

“Sure, honey. Make yourself at home.”

I went into the small room where the old records were kept, and started flipping through the index to find the right address. I kept digging backwards until I got to the name of the original owner of the place, Josiah Wolcott. My house had been built in 1892. And there had been smaller homes on the property over the years, with deeds going back into the mid-1600s. Of course there was no indication in any of the real estate records as to who might have died in the house, or why.

And even if someone had died there, why was that such a big deal?

I closed the old record book with a sigh. What was my next step? At that point, I noticed the clock on the wall. Whoops. My twenty minutes were up. Time to spring Mr. Woogles from the car.

I thanked the woman at the desk and rushed out the front door. When I looked down the long driveway to where my car was parked, I was surprised to see a police car and a small crowd surrounding it.

Hustling down the street, I realized that the man standing by the passenger door with some kind of metal instrument—looking like he was trying to break into my car—was Logan.

“Logan! What's going on?”

“Pepper?” He turned to face me in confusion. “Is this your car?”

“Yes. That's my car, and that's my dog. What's the problem?”

“We had a complaint. That someone from out of state had locked a puppy inside their car and he was . . . injured. “

It was only then that I realized Mr. Woogles was clawing eagerly at the window. He didn't seem upset, just excited to come out and see all the visitors who had gathered around him. That’s when I noticed that his face looked very strange. What the heck was that? He was smeared with something that looked very much like dried blood.

Suddenly afraid for my beloved beagle, I scrambled around the bottom of my purse for the keys. I unlocked the door and Mr. Woogles jumped into my arms, shoving his face into my neck and getting the blood all over my shirt.

“What did you do, sweetheart? Are you okay?” I held him away from me to get a good look, and realized that my heart was pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears. And then I got a whiff of his dog breath.

“That's not blood. That's chocolate!” I was practically tearing up as I pulled him close to me again, figuring that my top was a lost cause anyway.

“You little rascal, Woogs. You scared me!” I looked back into the open door and saw that there was water all over the floor mat on his side, and crumbs of something . . . and then I remembered that I had dropped part of a brownie into one of the door pockets a few days ago. He must have stuck his snout down there when it was wet and vacuumed out all of the chocolate brownie bits that he could manage to pick up with his tongue.

Everybody but Logan had shuffled away by now, having concluded that a dog with chocolate on his face was not enough drama to hold their attention. I turned to Logan and gave him a sheepish look.

“Sorry to cause such a scene, Logan. As you can see, he stuck his wet nose into a brownie, and the crumbs all stuck to him. No injury.” I smiled and put the doggy down, where he promptly began rolling in the grass. “But you know Mr. Woogles. Didn't you recognize him?”

Logan shook his head. “I thought he looked familiar. But the car has New Jersey plates, and lots of people have beagles. It never crossed my mind that it might be your vehicle.”

“Right. I just bought it . . . I'll be moving out of the city in a few weeks, and I'm going to need a car now that I’ll be living here in Misty.”

Suddenly I felt shy in mentioning that I was going to be closer to Logan. But I had better get over it, because he was a happily married man, and living in the same town as him was not going to mean anything. To cover up my embarrassment, I changed the subject. “Who said there was a bloody dog stuck in the car?”

Logan gave me a wry look. “Roger Winthrop.”

“That guy.” Mr. Woogles growled a little at the name.

“Yeah. He's not very popular around here.”

“Why?” I asked, nuzzling my sweet pooch. “Other than getting me in trouble?”

“Uh . . . I'm not saying this in my official capacity as sheriff, understand?” He gave me a smile that lifted up just one side of his mouth, and for a minute there I could imagine we were fifteen again and he was trying to decide whether or not to kiss me.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“From what I’ve heard, Winthrop doesn't stick to his agreements. Always tacks just a little extra onto his bills after he's finished the work folks hire him for. And what are they going to do? He's the only lawyer in town.”

“Hmm. Well, we're going to take care of that, aren't we, Mr. Woogles? Winthrop won’t be the only lawyer in town for long.”

Chapter Five

“He was the boogie woogie legal beagle of Misty CT. . . .”

I stopped my wild dancing around with Mr. W in my arms when I heard the cell phone ring. I'd been singing him that 40s song since he was a puppy, sometimes with him howling along, but I had never quite figured out how to make the rhyme work.

I plopped my buddy down on the floor and grabbed my phone.

“Hi, Mom.”

“How's the packing coming? Because I'm expecting you for dinner.”

“Mom, It's really sweet of you to offer me dinner, but I'm not sure when I'm actually going to get out of here. I've still got a zillion things to pack, and it's a good two-hour drive out to Misty from the city at this time of day. And I still have to carry everything down to the car.” I sat down on a box, the only place left to sit. The furniture was all gone. “Plus, I'm exhausted. Why don't we make it this weekend, after I've had a couple of days to get myself settled?”

I heard a sigh coming from the other end of the line. “I wanted to welcome you home to Misty, honey. Why don't you let me bring dinner over to you? Especially because you'll be exhausted.”

I looked down at Mr. Woogles, who seemed to sense the offer of food. “Well, okay. I mean, I really do appreciate your taking care of dinner. But don't come over until I call you . . . all right? So the furniture guys will have some time to empty the truck. And don't wait your own dinner on me. I might not be able to call until after seven o'clock.”

“Okay sweetheart. I’m making your favorite. That chicken dish you love. And do you have food for Mr. Woogles?”

“Oh my gosh, I'm glad you said that. I don't. I meant to run out and get it this morning, and I've just been swamped. I have to get out of the apartment by four at the latest, so I can’t stop now. I just have to keep packing until I'm done.”

I looked at Mr. Woogles, who was staring straight at me. I leaned over and whispered to him, “I would have remembered, eventually. I would never let you starve!”

“What? Why are you whispering? I can't hear you!”

“Nothing, Mom. I was talking to Mr. Woogles.” I winked at him. He flopped down on the bare floor, and I grabbed his water dish and filled it. The apartment was hot, and my shirt was plastered to my back. I felt bad for him—he was probably thirsty and I hadn't noticed. “If you could get him a medium size bag of food . . . you know what he likes, right?”

“Of course I do. He's my granddog!”

I laughed as I set the water down on the floor in front of my beagle. “Thanks, Mom. You're the best. I'll call you when I get there.”

“Drive safely, Pepper. You know how people can be on I-95!”

“Yes, Mom. Bye, Mom.” I clicked off and looked over at Mr. Woogles. “We've got to get moving. Thank goodness we already got all the furniture out of here.” I checked the time on the phone. “Definitely time to hustle.”

I gazed around at what I still had to pack. Most of my clothes were gone, and all the heavy pieces. But there were lots of little things left and some odd shaped stuff from the kitchen. Luckily, I had a lot of boxes. What I didn't have was a lot of time.

I started singing “That Old Black Magic,” belting it out at the top of my lungs. I figured I didn't have to worry about the neighbors complaining anymore. Anyway, it was five o'clock on a Sunday night, and I wasn't likely to disturb anyone.

I started to throw things into boxes with wild abandon, working quickly, stopping only to wrap some delicate glass pieces in packing paper. Mr. Woogles was staying far back, and looking at me with some alarm. “It's such a shame you missed me when I sang this in high school, Woogs. I was pretty great. I think I scandalized half of Misty though, in that red dress. Not the kids, but the parents.”

For a moment my mind drifted back to seeing Logan in the hallway when the jazz band came out to greet audience members after our final concert senior year. I remembered feeling sexy and incredibly powerful. There was a whole lot of black kohl around my eyes and my lips were a deep red. I saw his face as I came down the hall . . . he was looking at me like I was some kind of goddess. And at the time, I felt like I was.

I had walked right up to him and given him a big hug. And then I saw his new girlfriend, Paula, behind him. She didn't look happy at all.

I shook off the memories and yanked my mind back to the present. Logan had been married to Paula for fifteen years now. The rest was ancient history.

To my surprise, my sudden spurt of energy had been effective. I seemed to be finished packing. I sat down on the last box and looked around the bare studio apartment.

“I think we're done, Woogs. Now all I have to do is schlep all this stuff down to the car. We should be there just in time to beat the moving guys.” I stood up and walked over to the window, taking one more look at the skyscrapers of Manhattan.

I lifted Mr. Woogles up to the window and told him it was time to say goodbye. “You stay here while I carry stuff downstairs. You'll come down with me on my last trip on the elevator.” I grabbed three of the special homemade doggy treats I knew he loved from a bag on the counter.

“These are for you. And you've got water right over there. So you guard the joint.” I looked around at the bags and boxes on the floor. “Not that there's much left to guard anymore. And then I'll be right back up.”

I picked up my suitcase and a box and locked the door behind me. I headed for the elevator humming the tune to “So Long, Farewell” from the Sound of Music.

Chapter Six

When Mr. Woogles and I pulled up to the house on Waterview Boulevard, I got chills. I parked quickly and opened the door to let him jump out. He did a couple of circles around the front yard, snarfing up all the good outdoor smells. I was dying to get to the beach, but first, into the house.

I walked up the three steps to the large porch and turned to look at the water across the street. It was a gorgeous day for June, with picture-perfect puffy clouds floating in a deep blue sky. Long Island Sound was calm, its gentle waves lapping the edges of the beach. Unlike the city, where everything felt stifling and hot, here the warmth was tempered by sweet breezes. I could smell the salt water in the air.

Mr. Woogles ran up to me, his tail wagging happily. I beamed down at him. “This is our new home, Woogs! We live here now.” I gave him a hug and then he pulled away to continue running around the yard.

I dug into my bag to get the key. It was an old one, tarnished a dull brassy shade. It couldn't be original to the house, though it sure looked ancient enough. There were a couple of different locks on the door, so I tried the oldest looking one first. The key went in, but when I turned it, the door wouldn't budge. I tried pulling it out again and turning it clockwise and then counterclockwise. It made a sound as though the lock was releasing, and yet no amount of force would get that door to open.

I realized that the other lock right above the doorknob, which looked like a deadbolt, was brand-new. Was I supposed to have another key? This old key couldn't possibly work in the upper lock.

As I stood there pondering whether it was worth trying the key in a back door, I heard a car pulling into the driveway. My friend Bryce was waving out of the open window. I shoved the key back into my pocket and walked across the lawn to meet him.

“Pepper, darling! Welcome to Misty . . . or should I say, welcome back!” He hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks. He was tall and perfect-looking, as always, in an aqua sweater that hugged him tight.

“Bryce. This is so sweet of you. I didn't expect a welcoming committee.”

“Well, you should have. You deserve it!”

He opened the side door and reached into the passenger seat to pull out a huge flower arrangement. “Sergio made this for you. He wanted to be here himself, but somebody had to see to the shop. Lots of custom orders to be arranged for tomorrow.”

I stepped back to admire the glorious blossoms. “Oh, that is gorgeous. You shouldn't have.”

“That's what I told him,” Bryce said, holding the heavy pot in his left hand as he hooked his right arm into mine. “I know we're good friends, but I told him he didn't need to give you every rose we had in the place!” And then he laughed. “I kid, of course. You are definitely worth it. And you need a big statement array of flowers for a beautiful house like this.” He pointed to the door, which we had reached. “Now are you going to let me in so I can put this thing down? It's heavy.”

“Oh I wish I could, Bryce. There's something very weird with the lock situation. They gave me a key, and it seems to turn the old lock. But there's another lock above it that I don't have a key for. I'm not sure what my next move should be. The bank will be closed by this time on a Sunday. I guess I should call Roger Winthrop to see if he knows what's going on. Otherwise, I'll have to camp out on the front lawn for my first night in this place!”

“Well, dear girl, you had better call him then. Because I want to see your new house!”

I pulled out my cell and stood there while it rang. I had to laugh when I saw Bryce carefully bending down to pet Mr. Woogles while avoiding getting any puppy prints on his knife-pressed pants.

“Attorney Winthrop here.”

“Oh, hi. This is Pepper Sullivan. I'm here at the house at 22 Waterview, trying to get in. Apparently you only gave me the key for the old lock? There seems to be some kind of a deadbolt lock on top. Do you have the key to that?”

“I certainly do, Ms. Sullivan. And I'll be happy to bring a key out. However, you won't be granted access to the house until you clear up your financial obligations.”

“Financial . . . what?” My throat went dry.

“You haven't satisfied all the contingencies.”

“What are you talking about? This house is paid for.” I couldn't believe he was telling me this now. “The mortgage came through. I've signed all the papers. What's the problem?”

“There was an additional outstanding lien on the property which has recently come to light.”

“Recently come to light? But I did the title search myself, and it was clear.”

“You know what they say. A lawyer who represents himself—or herself—has a fool for a client.” He chuckled.

It was all I could do to keep from growling. “I'm familiar with that quotation, Winthrop. But I'm standing out on the lawn, and all my worldly possessions are just about to show up on a truck. I'm sure we can clear this up later.”

“Not according to the bank we can't,” he said. I could hear what was probably ice clinking in a glass, and the sound of his gloating came out loud and clear. “I won't be handing over that additional key until you come up with another one thousand seven hundred dollars, Ms. Sullivan.”

“Seventeen hundred dollars? I don't have that!”

“Well then,” his voice had a smile in it, “you won't be getting into that house until you do.”

Chapter Seven

Just as I hung up from Winthrop, steaming, I saw the moving truck coming around the corner a couple of blocks away.

“What did he say to you, Pepper? You look as if you could strangle someone.”

“I could definitely strangle that guy,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “Winthrop says that I owe seventeen hundred more on the house. Some sort of lien that he claims I didn't find in my title search.”

“Oh dear. I presume you don't have that much available?”

“No.” I found myself rubbing my neck as if it would help. I stopped. “I'm totally tapped out, Bryce, between the house and the cost of the move. I'm waiting—hoping—to get my security deposit back from the apartment in New York, but you know how that goes. They always seem to find some reason not to refund it. Especially if you have a pet.” I reached down to scratch Mr. Woogles behind the ears, since he seemed to be taking that personally. “I'm barely going to have enough to tip the movers.”

“I'm so sorry, Pepper. When do you need to have the money?”

“Like . . . now.”

The moving van had pulled into the driveway behind Bryce's car and the two guys inside came across the lawn toward me.

Jim, the taller of the two men, nodded hello. “Well, we found you. Kind of out in the middle of nowhere. Beautiful place, though.”

“Great view,” the other guy said.

“Thanks.” I gave them a wan smile. “But unfortunately, at this point, all we have access to is the view. I'm afraid to say that I'm locked out. I'm . . . waiting for the key.”

Jim pulled his baseball cap off and ran his hand over his hair. “That's a tough one, because we charge by the hour. And if we can't unload your stuff, we'll have to keep it overnight. There's going to be a hefty fee for you, if we need to do that. Because of course this truck is set to load up again right after we deliver your furniture. So. . . .” He let his words trail off.

I heard a familiar voice yelling my name. “Pepper. Pepper!”

I looked down the street to where an old white Cadillac was rolling along. It was my mom, with her hair its usual unnatural shade of red. She was waving wildly. Rolling my eyes, I glanced at Bryce.

“Ah . . . just what I need right now. Mom.”

Bryce, who was still holding the gigantic pot of flowers, finally set it down at the top of the front stairs.

“So this is your mother? Isn't she sweet to come by. And I love her hair. Another redhead. She looks so much like you!” He dug his elbow into my side gently. “You should appreciate her more.”

“I do appreciate her. Really. I just could have done without one more guest at my lockout party.” The driveway was so full now that Mom's big old Cadillac didn't fit. She pulled over to the side of the road in front of the house. I winced as I saw how close she got to the wooden fence. Luckily, she stopped right in time.

She exited the car with tremendous energy for someone who was about to be seventy. “Yoo-hoo, dear! I brought dinner.” She pulled a picnic basket out of her trunk and pranced up the front walk. As she looked around at Bryce and the two moving men, I could swear she batted her eyelashes.

She plopped the picnic basket down on the lawn and gave me a big hug. “I can't believe my baby's finally back home. I'm so excited that you're going to live so close to me.” Then she leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Where did you get all of these handsome men, darling? I had no idea that this was going to be such a big event. I would have brought more food!”

Backing away, she turned and swept her arms toward the water. “How glorious this is. I don't blame you all for standing out in the front yard to look at the view.” She offered her hand to Bryce. “I don't believe we’ve met. Are you a new friend of Pepper's?”

I thought her face would split with the wideness of her smile. But if my mother thought that Bryce and I were an item, she was going to be disappointed.

Bryce shook her hand elegantly. “I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting, no. I'm Bryce Dunn. I own a florist and gift shop in town—The Secret Gardeners—with my partner Sergio. Perhaps you've heard of us?”

“Oh yes. I've heard people talk about how wonderful your flowers are.” She turned to me. “I guess you were keeping Bryce a secret from me, darling. Hence the name of his shop!” She laughed at her own joke, while I turned pink and Bryce gave me a serene smile. Apparently his reference to his partner had gone right over her head. Which was probably just as well.

“And these are. . . .” She continued, turning to the movers. Considering their business, they were dressed less fashionably than Bryce was . . . but then again, no one was ever dressed as fashionably as Bryce. I imagined that's why my mother picked him out as the guy she hoped I would be dating.

Rushing in to keep her from saying anything more, or inquiring about how many potential dates I had standing on the lawn, I introduced her to Jim and Greg. As soon as she got the picture, she mercifully stopped looking at them as though they were also potential sons-in-law.

“Well why don't we go in? You must be starving, darling! And I'm sure these men want to get the furniture delivered and be on their way.”

“Unfortunately, we can't get in, Mom. I'm waiting for Roger Winthrop to bring me a key for the top lock.” I looked around. “Where's Mr. Woogles?”

I heard furious barking coming from somewhere behind the house and I started to head back there, followed by Bryce and my mom. The moving guys were marking time with a couple of cigarettes, and they didn't seem inclined to follow.

When we got to the back, I saw Mr. W digging frantically in front of a huge old tree. I went to him. “What's down there, boy? Are you looking for something?”

Bryce had stopped a ways back from the tree. “This is a pretty amazing specimen. I'm surprised to see something as grand and ancient as this tree still living so close to the water. Maybe there was more shoreline in earlier times.”

I nodded absently and then realized that we were only steps away from a door tucked into the corner of the house. It wasn't the official back entrance, which led to an enclosed porch, but some small old door that I hadn't even realized was there.

I walked up to it and saw that the screen was badly ripped, and even though the handle wouldn't give from the outside, I could reach right through the loose screen and unlock it. Looking at the wooden door inside, I recognized the same kind of lock that was at the front of the house. I pulled the key out of my pocket and it slid smoothly inside. I turned the knob and we were in.

Chapter Eight

Once we got the front door unlocked from the inside, the moving guys delivered and arranged the furniture in less than half an hour. Since I'd come from a tiny studio apartment, my collection of stuff looked pretty meager in the big house. But at least I had a bed.

I had just thanked the movers and handed them my last fifty bucks when I heard a stentorian voice outside the door.

“What are you doing inside this house?” Roger Winthrop strode in, his face red and his breath smelling of booze. “You have no right. You owe me that money before you are allowed to occupy this place!”

The movers looked quickly from him to me, then the tall one nodded as they scooted out of there. I saw him give a glance at Bryce, just to make sure that I was going to have a male protector in case things got ugly. I had to grin at that. Not that Bryce wouldn't stand up for me, but my mother and my dog were likely to be fiercer defenders.

I raised myself to my full height of five foot four and looked straight at Winthrop. “This is my house. If you, or the bank, have a problem with the purchase arrangement, you'll have to take it up in court.”

My voice may have sounded confident, but I wasn't really sure how clear my rights were. Real estate law wasn't yet my field, and in an attempt to save money, I had done the title search myself. Could I have missed something? At this point, however, I was so tired that I figured I’d just try to bluff my way through.

“You don't own this house,” Winthrop said, glowering. “I could have you, your furniture, and your dog thrown out into the street right now.”

At this, Mr. Woogles started to growl. “Get that mutt away from me,” Winthrop demanded.

I resisted smiling. Apparently he was afraid of little Mr. Woogles. I was so proud of my dog.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Try to get us thrown out.”

My mother pushed her way in front of me. “You're a mean man, Roger Winthrop, and nobody in this town likes you. My daughter's not going anywhere. And neither am I.”

Bryce chose this moment to stroll dramatically away from Winthrop and lounge on my sofa. “I like it here, myself. I'm staying.”

Winthrop pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I'm calling Sheriff Bateman.”

Chapter Nine

“Logan Bateman. Do you mean to tell me that you're going to let this guy kick me out of my own house?” I was really glad to have a bunch of rooms now, because it made it possible for me to stand in the kitchen glaring at Logan without Winthrop—and my mother—watching. At this point I was so angry I was almost in tears.

“Believe me, Pepper,” Logan said, his own voice full of frustration, “I'd like nothing better than to boot this guy out of here. But my hands are tied. He has a legal document from the bank saying that you can't take possession because the title wasn't cleared.”

“But he can't do that. We signed all the documents. He signed on behalf of the bank. I bought this house!” I struggled to keep my voice from breaking. “It's the seller’s responsibility to make sure that all of the contingencies are satisfied, or speak up if they’re not.”

Logan put his arms across his chest. “Look. You're the legal expert. And I'm definitely not. But I don't want to get you in more trouble by letting you stay here. I think it's wiser to just spend the night at your mom's house, and figure all of this out tomorrow.”

“I don't want to sleep at my mother's house. I want to sleep in my house.” I knew I sounded petulant, but it was the best I had. And I was spitting mad. I was not going to let Winthrop push me out.

Now it was my turn to cross my arms. “I'm not leaving.”

Logan looked at me. “You know I'm not going to put you in handcuffs and force you out of here.” He laughed grimly and shook his head. “I guess your only alternative is to come up with the money.”

I took a deep breath. “I'll give him a check tonight. But I'll see to it that I get that money back in the end.” Turning on my heel and stomping out of the kitchen, I headed right for Winthrop, who was standing in the middle of the living room gazing out at the water. Bryce and my mother were glaring at him with so much heat I thought he might melt.

“All right, Roger,” I said, facing him. “I'll give you a check for the seventeen hundred dollars. But don't think you're going to keep that money.” I grabbed my purse from the coffee table and reached for my checkbook.

Winthrop looked at me, and I swear for a minute he looked like the evil rich guy from all the old movies I'd ever seen. “I'm sorry,” he said, smiling. “I'm afraid that won't do. I would need to have a bank check for that amount of money.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Naturally, I can't be certain that your check would clear. And remember that I am representing the bank here.”

Caught between rage and despair, I fought hard to keep tears from forming in my eyes. It didn't help that he was getting painfully close to the truth . . . my bank account did not have $1,700 in it at this point, and I had been counting on depositing that amount before he could actually cash the check. Which was a bad move for anyone, but particularly for an attorney.

I turned around again and headed into the kitchen. I had to get away from him before I exploded one way or the other. Sitting at the tiny table that I'd bought for the studio apartment—a table that looked silly in this generous space—I put my head in my hands.

I heard Logan's footsteps behind me.

“I feel awful that he put you in this position, Pepper. I wish I could help you out with the money . . . unfortunately, I'm in a bit of a financial bind myself right now. My wife and I. . . .”

“The last thing I want to hear about right now is your wife,” I said, regretting it even as the words left my mouth. I knew Logan didn't deserve to be the butt of my anger, nor my envy that he and his lovely wife were doing the happy marriage thing while I was alone, practically destitute, and now homeless, to boot.

“Sweetheart.” It was Bryce’s voice, speaking quietly as he came into the kitchen. I turned to look at him, wiping a tear off my cheek. I felt ridiculous sitting here pouting over something that was really just a temporary inconvenience. It would get sorted out. But it was infuriating to have Winthrop holding this over me.

Bryce pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I'm going to call Sergio and ask him to go through the store and see how much cash we have. I doubt it will be enough for the full amount—so many people use only credit these days—nevertheless, I'm sure we can put a dent in it.”

“Bryce. That's so kind of you, but I don't want to put you in that position. . . .”

“Don't be silly, darling. I know you're good for it. If nothing else, Sergio and I will get you to put on a concert in return for the loan.” He was smiling as he said it, but I could see the sympathy in his eyes, and it almost made me cry for real.

He stepped away, and I heard him speaking softly to Sergio about the money. It was nice to have friends.

My mother came in and gave me a pointed look. She leaned down and whispered into my ear. “I don't tell this to anyone, but I keep a thousand in cash under my mattress . . . because you never know. I'll go home and get it.”

I pulled back and stared at my mother. “You do?”

“Shh,” she said. “Tell no one.” She looked around at Logan and Bryce with great suspicion and then pranced out of the room. I shook my head as she left.

“What was that about?” Logan asked.

“She said to tell no one, so I guess I can't tell.” I was struck with the irresistible urge to laugh, so instead I went over to one of the cabinets and pulled out a glass. Filling it with water, I took a sip.

Bryce was off the phone by now, and he turned to me with a smile. “Well, we can't quite come up with the full amount, but Sergio has raided the cash registers, the petty cash in the office, and his own wallet, and we can contribute about eleven hundred. So that's progress.”

I stood up and hugged him, and I was amazed to see that Logan looked jealous. That actually made me smile. “Okay . . . it seems like I'm going to be able to sleep in my own house after all tonight. I have to swear you both to secrecy, but my mother tells me she keeps some cash around the house, and she'll be able to pay the rest.”

“That's wonderful,” Bryce said, and he hugged me again. Logan definitely looked as if he wanted to get in on the hugging, but didn't dare. Mr. Woogles did, though. He started barking happily, wagging his tail, and trying to jump up on me and Bryce.

Bryce backed away, discreetly brushing his pants leg off, as I grabbed Woogs and pulled him up into my arms. “We've been saved, Mr. Woogles!”

I walked back into the living room carrying my doggy just as I heard my mother's noisy Cadillac come back into the driveway. Winthrop looked intimidated by the beast in my arms. Apparently he was afraid of my sweet little beagle, who was doing his best to act fierce by emitting a low growl.

At that point the door burst open and my mother arrived back, ushering in Sergio and looking as though she wanted to eat him up.

“Pepper, honey. I had no idea that you knew so many charming young men here in Misty. You should have told me. I would have been happy to invite your friends over for dinner when you visited. Of course,” she laughed happily, “now that you have a home of your own, you can entertain them privately.”

My mother had linked her arm through Sergio's, who looked a bit surprised. I rescued him by pulling gently on his other arm until Mom was forced to relinquish her grip.

“Mom, this is Sergio, Bryce's partner. Sergio, this is my mother, Myra Sullivan.”

Sergio turned, clearly relieved to be able to address my mother by name. “So very nice to meet you, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said, giving his usual elegant small bow and taking her hand.

“Oh please.” My mother shook her head. “Call me Myra.”

“Of course. Myra.”

I blushed on my mother's behalf. I looked at my friends.

“Won't you please join me in the kitchen? But not you, Roger.”

I set Mr. Woogles down right in front of Winthrop. “Woogs? I'm counting on you to make sure Attorney Winthrop doesn't take anything. I’ll be in the other room dealing with the money—with my friends—because we’re going to pay him off in cash.”

I looked at Winthrop. “And I’ll be requiring a written receipt from you.”

Chapter Ten

I was standing in the moonlit front yard with Logan, the air still warm and comfortable, when I realized how happy I felt.

We had just waved goodbye to my mother, and then to Bryce and Sergio, after sharing an excellent champagne toast together in celebration of my new home. Apparently my florist friends kept champagne at their shop for whenever the need arose—and Sergio had grabbed a bottle when he came with the cash.

It was kind of stunning to have people to surround me with support when I needed it. That was something I had missed in the city. I had friends there, but not like these friends. I walked back into the house with Logan and Mr. Woogles, feeling a buzz that was inspired more by contentment than alcohol.

“I guess I should get going myself,” Logan said. He seemed reluctant, and I wasn't sure what to make of that. But there was no question that his leaving was the right thing to do.

“Thank you so much for your help, Logan.”

“I don't know how much help I was. I'm sorry I couldn't contribute to the amount you owed—”

“Don't worry about it. My taking money from the town sheriff wouldn't have been appropriate anyway.” I could think of even more inappropriate things to do with him, though, and I took a step away from Logan to make sure they weren't showing on my face.

Mr. Woogles was sitting on the floor gazing at me. I didn't fool him at all. I hurried to continue. “You probably should take off. I wouldn't want your wife to worry.” I gave a little laugh, and it sounded as awkward as it felt.

“My wife. . . .” Logan swallowed, and I could see his Adam's apple bob up and down. “Actually, Paula and I separated about six months ago.” His eyes looked downward for a moment and then back up at me. “It's been a long time coming.”

My sudden feeling of hope startled me. That was bad. First of all, I shouldn't be happy to hear about someone else's marriage breaking up. And I shouldn't be letting my thoughts leap immediately to whether there might still be something between us. My face was flushed, but I tried to ignore it. “I'm so sorry to hear that, Logan. You two have been together for years.”

“Yes.”

I stood there for a minute, wondering what to say after that, when Mr. Woogles helped me out by whining gently and heading for the front door. “Oh, you poor puppy. You need to go out.” I opened the door for him, realizing that we had just been outside for our goodbyes to the others, and he would have taken advantage of the front yard already if he'd really needed to.

Logan and I followed Mr. Woogles outside. To my surprise, he trotted around to the back of the house. I followed, and saw him heading to the same tree he’d visited earlier. He started digging at its base.

“What's down there, Woogs? What do you think you’re going to find?”

“Do you always talk to him that way?” Logan asked, looking at me with that half grin I remembered from high school. “Does he understand you?”

I was glad he hadn't insisted that Mr. Woogles couldn't understand me. “Sometimes I think he does,” I said. Right now I wasn't thinking of Mr. W and his digging. I was thinking of the beautiful night, and the moon, and the man in front of me.

I looked away to avoid gazing into Logan's eyes. I was resisting the urge to ask him to take a walk on the beach with me. Because I knew that would only lead to even more powerful urges. Funny how quickly I was able to shift from the notion of him as a married man who was off-limits to the guy I dated long ago and had perhaps never quite gotten over.

I almost thought I felt the same sort of attraction coming from him. But it didn't make sense to pursue anything with Logan, even if he was interested. I shook myself, surprised at the powerful feelings that had sprung so quickly back to life.

“Are you sure you're going to be okay here overnight by yourself?”

“I'm not going to be by myself. I have Mr. Woogles.” At that, my sweet doggy stopped searching the dirt beside the tree and came back to sit beside me. “We'll be fine.”

“Well, please make sure you lock all the doors, Pepper. And promise you'll call me if you have any problems. I'm less than ten minutes away.”

“You live on Surf Street, don't you?” We headed back around to the front of the house and he walked me up the front steps to the porch.

“Not anymore. Paula lives there.” His voice sounded serious but not unhappy. “I've got a small apartment near the station. I'm on High Street now.” He looked over toward the water, which was dark with a path of moonlight shimmering along gentle waves. “I'm actually glad to be alone. After a lot of thinking, I've decided that my marriage to Paula was built on a shaky foundation from the start.”

He looked at me with great intensity and I thought . . . wow. Logan’s about to kiss me. I thought about what his lips would feel like after all these years. I got ready.

And that's when he put out his hand to shake mine. “Good night, Pepper. Please do call me if anything comes up.”

I nodded, feeling both letdown and foolish. “Right. Good night, Logan.”

He headed down the stairs and into his car, and I walked into the house with Mr. Woogles, closing and locking the old door. I leaned against it for a minute feeling my heart racing and my face cooling.

I scrunched down to hug my pup. “Thank goodness I didn't make the first move and try to kiss him. That would have been embarrassing.”

I jumped when I heard a knock on the door. Opening it up, I was surprised to see Logan again.

“Sorry. I guess I left my cell.” His hands were in his pockets, and he looked sheepish. I stepped back to let him in and he walked over to the coffee table where his phone was sitting along with the collection of empty champagne glasses.

As he came toward me again I pasted a small smile on my face and got ready to say goodbye for a second time. But he reached out and pulled me gently toward him and into a soft and short kiss. A kiss that promised more if I wanted it.

“I've been thinking about kissing you all night long, Pepper” he said, his voice husky. “I'm sorry I couldn't resist.”

“I'm not,” I said. We looked at each other for a minute, two adults, knowing there was something of our old attraction still very much alive.

I pulled back, very consciously deciding it was the wise thing to do. We said goodnight again, and this time we both meant it. I closed the door after he left and leaned against it for the second time.

“Wow.” I said to Mr. Woogles, and to the house, and to the universe.

“We'll clean up in the morning, won't we, Woogs?” I waved airily toward the glasses and made my way up the stairs to the bedroom I had chosen for myself. In the morning I knew it would be filled with sunlight—especially since there weren't any curtains—and I would have a beautiful view. But for tonight I was going to have a peaceful sleep dreaming of my new life in Misty.

I brushed my teeth and climbed in under the covers with Woogs at my feet, settling in for a wonderful first night in my new home. In a minute, my pup was snoring. How lovely to be snug in bed and see a bit of moonglow over the water through the open windows.

It seemed as though I had just drifted off when I heard a loud banging from upstairs. I sat up in bed, feeling around for Mr. Woogles. He wasn't there.

I threw off the covers and felt around in the dark for my slippers. “Woogs? Where are you?”

When I stepped into the hallway, the light from the moon cast weird shadows along the wall. “Mr. Woogles!” I shouted. There was more banging. Was it above me or down the hall?

I could feel my heart starting to beat harder. I heard a low humming. It could have been anything. The old refrigerator down in the kitchen, the wind in the trees outside . . . or my imagination. I stopped walking, momentarily too afraid to move a step further.

And then I heard the sound of Mr. Woogles running, his nails clicking across the old wooden floor.

“Where are you, Woogs?” For a moment there was nothing.

When I finally heard his barking coming from the floor above, I had a rush of relief. “I’m coming, Mr. Woogles!” I shouted.

I felt carefully along the wall in the hallway, looking for a light switch. “Thank goodness,” I said as I found one. But no light came on. Had we lost power? I looked across the landing at the window that opened onto the lawn between my house and the next one. There seemed to be lights on in other homes.

Cursing myself for not getting a flashlight set up before I went to bed, I walked slowly back to my bedroom to grab my phone. I powered it on and turned on the light, then followed it to the stairway. “Mr. Woogles! Are you okay? Where are you?” I started climbing.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I practically tripped over him. He was sitting there looking perfectly calm, and staring at me with great intensity. I had no doubt he had something to tell me. If only he could say it.

“What were you barking at, sweetheart? You scared me.” I sighed and sat down beside him on the top step, patting his soft head. My heart was still pounding. “Well, they did warn us that this place was haunted. Do you think there’s something up here?”

His only answer was to bark once more.

Chapter Eleven

On Monday morning, I headed off early to see what I could find out at the local Historical Society. It didn't surprise me in the least when Mrs. Baldridge, who had been my history teacher in high school, teased me about buying the house.

“You know why you got such a good bargain? People think that place has a ghost,” she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I gather you don't believe in that sort of nonsense.”

“I . . . I don't.” I fought the urge to cross my fingers behind my back.

I didn't, right? Despite the banging and last night's barking incident. Woogie could have made all those noises himself. And he could have been barking at anything, or nothing. A squirrel running across the roof, or a mouse in the wall.

He did seem obsessed with digging around that tree in the backyard. But it was probably just some critter with a strong scent who shared the yard. And since nothing else had disturbed me for the rest of the night—which I was very sure of, because I hadn't slept a wink after the strange knocking—I was working hard to convince myself there was nothing to worry about.

I smiled at Mrs. Baldridge. “Of course I don't think it's haunted. That's ridiculous.”

“Good girl,” Mrs. Baldridge said, patting me on the shoulder and making me feel like I was fifteen years old again. “Nevertheless, we have some absolutely fascinating history concerning the property. Or at least the land that it stands on. I think your house was built circa 1890 . . . am I right?”

“You have a good memory Mrs. Baldridge.” I followed her into a room with shelves of old books. I sneezed immediately, and she pointed to a box of tissues on the little table in the corner.

“I have to apologize for the dust. It's a perennial problem for keepers of historical documents. Now I'm going to have to ask you to put on gloves when you handle the antique books. Even a little bit of oil from hands can damage such old paper.” She pulled out a chair for me and brought me a heavy book titled History of New England. “This will give you a good summary of this area.” She turned to leave. “You're probably going to want to keep the door ajar to get some air in here. Have fun.”

After putting on the gloves that she'd placed in front of me, I opened the front cover of the book. The large tome had been published in 1823, and it had an illustration in the front of what looked like someone’s notion of a typical Connecticut scene. There were colonial people in antiquated suits and long dresses interacting with Native Americans who had bare chests and feathers in their hair. It looked more peaceful than I imagined most such encounters had actually been.

I turned to the table of contents and immediately saw that one of the chapters had been underlined. It said “Historical Description of the Crime of Witchcraft and Excerpts from The Tryals of Witches in Connecticut, 1692, anno domini.”

I felt a shiver ran down my back when I saw those words. I flipped to that page and the book fell open easily.

Connecticut's Code of 1650 included witchcraft as one of the crimes for which one could be executed. The first woman executed for such in the colonies was hanged in Wethersfield in 1647. In the next decade, there were several witches charged, tried, and executed in Fairfield.

Misty used to be part of Fairfield, as I remembered from Mrs. Baldridge's history class. I turned to the next page, where there was a chart naming those accused of witchcraft and the verdicts rendered.

And then I saw it.

1652, Fairfield, Connecticut - Goody (Goodwife) Mary Cantwell - Convicted of Witchcraft and Hanged by the Neck until Dead

Chapter Twelve

Woogie and I had nearly reached Liz Cantwell's cottage. She didn't live far from me, so I’d decided to walk along the beach. It was a slower way to go, but Mr. Woogles needed the exercise, and I needed to clear my head.

“What do you think, Woogs? Are we going to see any ghosts tonight?” I reached down to touch his silky ears. “It's a little scary for me being in that big house all alone.” He gave me a reproachful look. “Excuse me. Of course I'm not alone. I have you, don't I?”

He looked satisfied. He trotted on happily ahead of me, stopping from time to time to bark at the tiny sand crabs that skittered across the beach. When we got to the house, we climbed up onto the grassy bluff beside the sand and crossed the street. It was a miniature place, but painted a cheerful shade of yellow. I walked up to the front door and gave the knocker a thump. No answer. I should have called first, but I had wanted to get going. And the truth was, I really needed to get out of my own place.

As I was thinking about knocking again, Mr. Woogles ran right around the side of the house and disappeared into the thick hedge. I walked over to the bushes, but they were too dense for me to get through.

“Woogs!” I called loudly to him, standing on my tiptoes so that my voice might carry. “Come back, buddy.”

“Don't worry,” came an answer through the hedge. “If you're looking for a dog, I've got him.” It was the voice of Mrs. Cantwell. “I'll walk him back through the house and let you into the front door, okay?”

In a minute, I heard the latch open and Mrs. Cantwell emerged onto the porch with a very satisfied looking Mr. Woogles beside her. She leaned down to pet him. “You found me, didn't you? You knew just who your mistress was looking for.” Mr. Woogles licked her on the face, and to her credit, she didn't grimace.

Mrs. Cantwell looked up at me. “Hello, Pepper. What a sweet dog you've got here.”

“His name is Mr. Woogles. I hope we're not interrupting you, Mrs. Cantwell.”

“Not at all! Just doing a bit of garden work. And please call me Liz. I'll call your little friend here Mr. Woogles,” she said, scratching the belly he had just rolled over to present to her. She looked up at me. “So how are you settling in to your new house?”

“Well. . . .” I stopped. It seemed silly to mention that my dog had barked in the middle of the night and I was afraid that it was a ghost.

Sensing my hesitation, she smiled. “Where there any unusual noises? Slamming of doors, or anything like that? I understand that the last owners left the place in the middle of the night.”

“They did? I knew they took off and the house went into foreclosure, but I didn't realize it was under cover of night.”

“Well, it might've had as much to do with their inability to pay the mortgage as with any mysterious psychic happenings. They didn't live here very long.” She stood up after Mr. Woogles left her to go snuffle around the yard for a bit. “But my goodness, what am I doing making you stand out here? Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea?”

“That would be nice.” Mr. Woogles and I followed her back into the house, where she set me up with some nice chamomile tea and him with a dog biscuit. “Do you have a dog?”

She shook her head. “Not right now. But I have neighbors with pets, so I keep some treats handy at all times.”

Mr. Woogles looked up at her hopefully, his tail wagging. Clearly he was pleading for a second. She laughed and reached into the box for another treat.

“But I'm being serious, Pepper. There have been rumors of strange goings-on in that house for as long as I've lived here—which is my whole life—so don't feel embarrassed if you were a little nervous about sleeping there.”

I smiled at her in appreciation. “Well, I definitely heard the typical creaks and groans of an old house—having lived in New York City for the last five years, I'm more used to sirens in the middle of the night than ancient noises. But at some point in the wee hours I heard a bunch of loud banging. Mr. Woogles was gone from the bed when I woke up. I found him upstairs on the top floor—he was barking up a storm. I don't know if he was responding to the bangs or was the cause of them.”

“That would certainly keep me awake.”

“It did.”

She nodded and looked thoughtful. “I'm not sure what to say about that. But it might be helpful if you knew the history of that land. At the very least, I ought to tell you the story that our family has passed down. You've heard of Goody Cantwell?”

I leaned over the table, wrapping my hands around the warm tea. “I just read about her. I went to the Misty Historical Society—”

“Ah yes. Cecilia Baldridge.”

“Right. She was my history teacher.”

“Cecilia is my second cousin. Her grandmother was a Cantwell. The Baldridges and the Cantwells go back a long way in Misty.” I saw her eyes move to the window and gaze out across the street to the water. “So naturally, you came to ask me if I'm related to the witch.”

I couldn't help but notice that hint of cinnamon around her again. Of course we were sitting in her kitchen, which was no doubt full of spices. I could feel my cheeks getting pink. “I . . . guess. I mean, it's not really my business. . . .”

She smiled. “Why not? That's what everyone wants to know. And the truth is that I am related to Goody Cantwell.” Now she sighed. “Many generations back, of course. Something like nine 'grands' before me.”

“That's creepy.” As soon as I said it, I clapped my hand over my mouth. “I'm so sorry. That was insensitive of me. She was a real relative of yours.”

She nodded, and her white hair glinted in the sun as she moved. “Yes. A real relative. But not a real witch.” She took a sip of her tea. “I'm not a direct descendent. She wasn't old enough to have children. Well, she could have had them, but she didn't. She was only seventeen.” Her voice had gotten quieter, and I leaned in to listen.

“She was a servant in the house of a very wealthy man who had a very jealous wife. The family lore says that my great great great etc. aunt, Mary Cantwell, had grown up in the country and had always dreamed of working near the ocean. So she got a job here in Misty—then a part of Fairfield—and started to work for this fine family.”

I noticed that Mr. Woogles had settled down on the floor beside her chair and was lying across Liz's feet. She smiled down at him.

“Because young Mary had been raised on a farm, she knew a lot about plants and herbs that were natural remedies. The man of the house, John Brighton, was sick, and he kept getting sicker. He had been very kind to Mary, and so she brought him some herbs that she thought would help.”

She continued to gaze out the window at the water as she told me the story and stirred her tea absentmindedly. “It seems that Olivia Brighton, who was a young, second wife—a lot of women died in childbirth in those days, and he already had a big family of seven children—had started out as a servant in the house herself. A rich widower like Mr. Brighton was a precious commodity, and Olivia, who was already there cooking for him and taking care of the children, made it her business to snag him as a husband. But after two years, she hadn't conceived a child of her own, and I guess that worried her.”

She took a sip of tea and went on. “So Olivia was jealous. It seemed all too possible that the newer young servant, Mary, might take her place. At first she tried to get her dismissed.”

“How do you know all of this?” I asked. “I don't mean to suggest that it's not true. . . .” I found myself blushing again.

“Well, this is the story our family has passed down orally for more than three hundred years. As to how accurate it is, I couldn't say. But one of the reasons people in my family have always paid attention to the land that your house is on is because that's where the Brighton family lived. In a dwelling that's long gone, of course. One of the things we've searched for is John Brighton's signet ring. Young Mary was accused of stealing it from him on his deathbed, and she insisted that he had given it to her as a thank you . . . for all her tender care.”

Liz looked out at the water again, seeming to look back to a different time. “She offered to give it back if she wasn't believed. But by that time, she couldn’t find it to return. The signet ring had disappeared, and one theory is that the jealous Olivia Brighton took it from Mary’s room and hid it somewhere, so it couldn’t be produced.” She sighed. “It may have been true that he was a little bit in love with my aunt. But I'm quite sure she didn't kill him.”

I took a sip of my tea, which was cool by now but still tasted sweet with the local honey she had added. “So what happened?”

“When her husband died, Olivia claimed that Mary had poisoned him through witchcraft.”

I heard Mr. Woogles growl as he lay on the ground beneath Liz. I didn't blame him. “How do you prove that someone performed witchcraft?”

“You don't really prove it at all . . . because of course she wasn't a witch. It was a kind of hysteria that swept through New England during that era. Dozens of supposed witches were hung, and a few were drowned. One man, who refused to confess to anything, was actually crushed to death by stones.”

I cringed at the thought. “So the wife . . . Olivia . . . just announced that Mary was a witch? And that was enough? “

“That was probably the start of it. Then other people had to testify to the same thing. But Olivia was the heir to much of John Brighton's wealth, and suddenly became a really attractive marriage prospect herself. Our family has always presumed that one of the clergy members who verified her claim that Mary was a witch later married Olivia. A pretty good payoff for condemning someone to death.”

Liz looked at me, her gray eyes direct. “I have told this story many times over the years, and it still makes me sad.”

“Oh my gosh. I didn't mean to cause you pain—”

She waved me away. “Don't be concerned, dear. I think it just hit me hard right now because you're such a good listener.” She gave a wan smile and stood up. “So, if you'll forgive me. . . .”

I stood up too. “Of course. Thank you so much for your hospitality. And for sharing all of this tragic history.”

Mr. Woogles had gotten up and still leaned in close to our host's leg. “Liz. Is there anything that can be done after so many years? I mean . . . has anyone ever tried to clear Mary’s name legally?”

“Actually, there have been requests in the recent past to the Connecticut legislature to formally rescind these convictions, and to apologize to the descendants of the individuals who were executed on the grounds of witchcraft. But I think the official position is that there’s no mechanism for undoing such a thing.”

“That’s a shame,” I said. “And you know . . . I’m surprised I never heard about a house by the shore being ‘haunted’ when I lived in Misty as a kid.”

“I don’t think there was too much gossip about the supposed ghost in that house until recently—when the last owner suddenly vacated the place under cover of darkness. That stirred the local imagination. People love to have something to talk about.”

I nodded. “That’s for sure. Still, I wish there were something I could do.”

Liz smiled gently. “I’m just happy to know that you’re in that house on the land where Mary Cantwell lived. I think she’d like you, Pepper.”

Chapter Thirteen

The sun was going down by the time Mr. Woogles and I headed back to my house. I lingered on the beach for a bit, watching the clouds turn from soft white to pink and then orange as the sun set on the water. I knew we had to go in, because my pup needed his dinner, but it was so gorgeous that I couldn't leave the sand and the view just yet.

“You hungry, Mr. Woogles?” He barked a loud yes and ran a circle around me, spraying sand behind his paws as he went.

We started toward the house. This was my home, and I was going to have to make peace with it. Maybe tonight we could skip the banging. I hoped so.

I gave one more glance back at the sun-glazed water. It was going to be lovely to have the beach available every day, right across the street from my home, but I'd still need to get work done. And hopefully, I'd have some work to do . . . now that I was here in Misty, it was time to set up my legal practice and get some clients. That mortgage wasn't going to pay itself.

I'd just stepped inside when the phone rang. My cell showed the name of the bank that I had purchased the house from.

“Hello. This is Margaret Crenshaw at Premium Savings. I'm calling for a Ms. Pepper Sullivan.” A very formal voice.

“This is Pepper Sullivan.”

“I understand that you called earlier today inquiring about a lien on the property at 22 Waterview Boulevard. Something that Attorney Roger Winthrop is handling?”

“Exactly. He claims that there is an outstanding debt of seventeen hundred dollars on the home that wasn't cleared before closing.”

“Well, I've looked through the file, and I do find something in that amount, but it's an old construction lien that was paid off in 2017. It shouldn't be of concern any longer.”

“Really?” I could feel the tension release from my shoulders. I sat down on the sofa. “Attorney Winthrop was here at the house last night to collect that amount in cash. So obviously I'm owed that money back.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Hmm. I'm not really in a position to give you legal advice on this matter.” She didn't sound unfriendly, just cautious. “I would suggest that you consult an attorney.”

I gave a short laugh. “I am an attorney.”

“Then I suppose you're well equipped to handle this matter yourself.”

“Will your bank be refunding me the seventeen hundred dollars that I was charged in error?”

“I'm sorry to say, Attorney Sullivan, that we have no further information on this matter. I looked up these records only as a courtesy to you, because you have an account here.” I could hear the finality in her voice. “The issue of the money is now between you and Roger Winthrop.”

I thanked her as politely as I could manage and clicked off the phone. Mr. Woogles must have heard the frustration in my voice, because he came over and sat beside me. I leaned down to caress his silky ears.

“Can you believe it, Woogie? He cheated me out of that money, and I bet he put it right in his own pocket. What a jerk.” I shook my head, thinking about how I had to find the cash to pay back Bryce and my mother. “I can pretty much swear it's going to be a challenge to get him to cough it up, too. If he really knew that lien was cleared, he's in big trouble. I could bring a complaint to the bar association.”

I went into the kitchen to get Mr. W his dinner. “Here you go, buddy. You must be hungry. I know I am.” He got right down to the serious business of eating.

I opened the refrigerator, which held some of the leftover chicken my mother had brought over. Pulling out a leg, I grabbed a plate and sat at my teensy table.

“What do you think, Woogs? I mean, Winthrop’s behavior is outrageous—I would lay odds he knew the lien had been satisfied.” I chewed on the chicken leg with great passion. “I definitely could lodge a formal complaint about him, but that's not really a good look for a new attorney setting up her own practice in the community. Maybe . . . I'll just bide my time and see whether I might have a use for that piece of information at some point in the future.”

Mr. Woogles looked up, having finished his dinner. “I'm going to have to think about how to approach this.” He barked at me, no doubt agreeing.

The moon started to rise over the water across the street, big and bright and nearly round. All at once I thought about the fact that I was going to be sleeping here alone again tonight.

“There's nothing to worry about, is there, Mr. Woogles?” I said to my pup. He came over to sit beside me and I leaned down to scratch between his ears. “Wasn't that a terrible story that Liz Cantwell told us today? How awful for Mary.”

I shuddered thinking about a seventeen-year-old girl who was executed because of the jealousy of another woman. If spirits could be restless, that one would surely be.

Mr. Woogles went over to the kitchen door and sat, looking back at me pointedly.

“You want to go out, Woogs? Okay.” I opened the door and patted my pocket to make sure my phone was there. The moon was nearly full, but it wasn't very high in the sky yet, so I figured I might need the flashlight.

Mr. Woogles headed right for his favorite tree. “What is it about this spot, Woogie?” I asked, following him. “Does it have some good animal stink on it?”

Was it my imagination, or did he turn around to look at me with a hint of disdain? He did his business and then started scratching again underneath the tree. He seemed even more determined than usual to get deep into the dirt.

I looked back at the house, lighted up on the bottom floor and dark on the upper two levels. Was there anything up there? What was that banging last night—and would we hear it again tonight?

I wanted to love this house, and feel comfortable in it. And so far I was anything but comfortable. I sighed. What would it take to satisfy this spirit—if there was such a thing?

For a moment I wondered how it would feel to be hung. I shivered at the thought and looked away from the house, at the moon that was getting higher in the sky every minute. When I turned back to Mr. Woogles, I heard his nails hitting something. There was a dull glint under his paws in the dirt. “What have you got there, Woogie?”

Feeling for the phone in my pocket, I squatted down and turned it to the flashlight setting. It looked like he’d uncovered something metal. I reached down and touched the surface I could see. It was small, and chilled from the earth. Mr. Woogles started barking at the thing excitedly. I put my hands into the ground so that I could get underneath the soil and pull the object out.

It came up as a thick clump of dirt, and I set the flashlight down to illuminate what I had. As I tried to clear the damp dirt off it I realized that it had to be a ring. I used my pinky finger to shove out the clod of soil that was filling the center, and as I did the ring slipped onto my finger.

It was a man's ring, and far too big for me. The thing was so covered I couldn't see what it was made of.

I stood up, grabbing my phone and keeping my hand in a fist to hold onto the ring. “Come on, Mr. Woogles. Let's get a look at this.”

We went back into the kitchen and I held it carefully under running water in the sink. The dirt was coming off, and I could see that it was made of heavy silver, tarnished to near black in some places, but giving off a dull shine in others. The metal was far thicker and more primitive looking than any ring I'd ever seen. It looked as though it had been shaped with hand tools. The top had a flat section with a letter B carved into the silver.

I turned to Mr. Woogles. “This is amazing! Woogie—my incredible beagle buddy—did you actually dig up the missing ring Mary Cantwell was given?”

I grabbed a kitchen towel and dried it off, then sat down at the table and slid the ring onto my thumb. A much better fit.

“I bet that nasty Olivia buried it so that she could blame Mary.” I gazed at the ring. Could it possibly be that old? How much of the ancient story I'd heard today was accurate?

“Woogs. I know what we should do. We should show this ring to Liz! Maybe she’ll know if it could be the one Mary lost.” Mr. Woogles barked in response. “We'll bring it to her tomorrow, early in the morning.”

As I said it, I could almost feel the house relax around me. Surely that was my imagination. Did I smell cinnamon?

I picked up my sweet beagle, wrapped my arms around him, and looked out the window at the moon shining its magical path across the Sound. Nuzzling his neck, I spoke quietly, in case there was some other kind of spirit in this house.

“Maybe if this is the ring, we won’t hear any more bumps in the night. Right, Woogie?”

He looked at me wisely and gave me a lick. Up the stairs we went to bed.

Chapter Fourteen

I didn’t stir until the bright sun awakened me through the window. Woogs was still snoring contentedly at the foot of the bed when I opened my eyes.

I stretched and yawned, amazed that it was already morning. What a wonderful night! No bangs and no barking. I was deliciously rested.

Mr. Woogles jumped up when he felt me move and headed straight to my pillow for a sloppy morning dog kiss. The sun was streaming in, and there seemed to be a new serenity in the house.

I looked at my pup as he cuddled beside me in the bed. “What do you think, Woogie? Should we go bring that ring to Liz Cantwell?”

He barked once and thumped his tail hard against the bed.

“Let’s do it!” I hustled out of bed, brushed my teeth, and pulled on some shorts. I was so excited to bring the ring to Liz that I forgot about eating breakfast. Which was convenient, because I hadn’t managed to bring any food into the house yet.

Fortunately, my mom had brought over a bag of doggy chow for Mr. W, so I gave him some. I figured I could make it to Liz Cantwell’s cottage without fainting from hunger . . . and on the plus side, she would probably make me some tea. That thought cheered me, and so I grabbed Woogie’s leash and we headed across the street and onto the beach.

Mr. Woogles was particularly frisky, racing back and forth along the sand and barking at the small waves that hit his paws. I was in a great mood, knowing that the old ring had been found and keeping my hand in my pocket just to be certain that it wouldn’t get lost again.

As usual, being on the empty beach brought out my urge to sing. I belted out the beginning of “Who Will Buy This Wonderful Morning?” from the musical Oliver! It seemed a perfect accompaniment for the way I was feeling today.

I took Woogie off his leash and let him run free. When I stopped singing, he started to bark and run ahead. I could see that somebody was heading toward us, and in a moment I recognized Liz Cantwell. I broke into a trot to reach her. As usual, Mr. W was happily munching on one of her treats.

I gave her a quick hug, sensing a hint of the sadness that she carried after yesterday’s conversation about her ancestor.

“Liz! How wonderful to run into you. Mr. Woogles and I were just coming over to visit.”

She laughed. “And I was just coming down the beach to visit you two! I felt so bad about how we ended our talk yesterday. I certainly didn’t mean to burden you with that ancient tragedy, Pepper.”

Woogie had started running circles around the humans, barking excitedly and throwing sand up into the air as he raced.

“I was honored that you shared your family history with me, Liz. And that’s the very reason I wanted to see you today. I think Mr. Woogles has made a discovery that will help put some closure to the story.”

Liz raised her arms in defense as my beagle pal tossed up another shower of sand. She was laughing. “He certainly seems to have something he wants to communicate.”

I pulled my hand out of my pocket, holding the ring. “Mr. W and I have something for you, Liz. You’ll never guess.” I put my hand behind my back as if it were a child’s guessing game.

Liz gave me a serene smile. “And I have something for you.” I noticed that Mr. Woogles was sniffing with great interest at the bag she carried. “I brought you some freshly baked muffins, still hot from the oven. I figured you probably haven’t had time to stock your pantry yet.”

“You’re a lifesaver. I’m starving. There’s nothing in the house but the cold chicken left over from when my mom brought it two nights ago.”

Liz tilted her head. “And what do you have for me?”

There was something about the twinkle in her eye that made me swear that she actually might know. I brought my hand out from behind my back and opened it to show her what Mr. Woogles had dug up.

Her mouth opened in a small “o” and she took a step back. “That’s it. That’s the ring.” She reached out slowly. “May I?”

“Of course.”

She took the ancient object and slipped it onto her finger. There was a calmness that seemed to settle around her at that moment, and she gazed at her finger for what seemed like a long time.

“Where did you find it?” She shook her head, turning the primitively shaped silver to one side and then the other in the sun, looking at the rough B carved into the ring.

“Woogie found it,” I said. He had stopped running around and was sitting beside us on the sand. He gave a loud bark, looking very proud of himself.

“Liz, are you sure that this is actually the ring that was lost when your ancestor was . . . hanged?”

She nodded slowly, her white hair moving in the breeze. “I saw a drawing of it once. Somebody several generations back, who may not actually have seen it, but had heard it described, drew a picture. I think my grandmother had the sketch. Even the drawing has been lost now. But I’m quite confident this is the ring.”

She brought her hand to her chest as though to bring the signet closer to her heart. “And where, exactly, did you find it?” She looked at my pup. “Or maybe I should ask where Mr. Woogles found it?”

“In the backyard, under that grand old tree he kept digging around. He definitely knew something was going on there. I couldn’t keep him away from it.”

Liz’s eyes got that faraway look again. “Mary Cantwell, rest her soul, would be so pleased.” She reached down to pet Woogie. “Thank you so much, Mr. Woogles, for finding this. The Cantwell family will always be grateful.”

Mr. W gave a brisk bark and turned back to head toward our home. “I think he’s telling us where to go,” I said, laughing.

“He’s a smart doggy. Why don’t I come back with you and we can break into these muffins. I know you’re hungry.”

“Perfect.” Liz and I followed Woogie as he led us down the beach, across the road, and to my front porch.

After I unlocked the door, Liz stepped across the threshold behind me. She held up the hand that bore the ring as though to show it off.

“Mary—if you can see this, you’ll be happy to know that your ring has found its way back to the Cantwell family, courtesy of Pepper and her wonderful pup. And your name has been cleared at last.”

Naturally, Mr. Woogles gave a loud howl to add his voice to the announcement. And I could swear that I heard the smallest sound of silvery bells from somewhere upstairs.

“Pepper,” Liz said, turning to me. “I believe that Mary Cantwell is finally at peace.”

* * *

Next up:

SCALES OF JUSTICE (Legal Beagle Cozy Mystery #1)

Turn the page to read the first chapter for free!

Pepper Sullivan is in trouble. The only other attorney in Misty (and the guy everybody knows she hates) has fallen off a balcony and died—or was he pushed?

Pepper digs down deep to solve the mystery with the help of her sweet doggy Mr. Woogles, her very dear friend the sheriff, and her outrageous mother. Along the way, she deals with a cantankerous old house, wacky clients, and the hot Italian doctor who buys the place next door.

Don’t let Jessa’s upcoming release be a mystery to you! Sign up for Jessa Archer new release alerts (via email newsletter or Amazon) on JessaArcher.com so you don’t miss SCALES OF JUSTICE, the first full-length book in the Legal Beagle Cozy Mystery Series.

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Mr. Woogles and I are going to be in for a lot of scary/fun adventures, and you won’t want to miss them. Sign up now to hear about all the great stuff Jessa offers subscribers—giveaways, excerpts, and new release notifications. Woogs and I will see you on the list!

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Excerpt: Scales of Justice (Legal Beagle Cozy Mystery #1)

Chapter One

Here I was—the hired singer at the social wedding of the year, getting ready to warble my first notes—notes I hoped would come out loud and strong. I could feel my pulse racing while a tiny trickle of perspiration slid down my neck.

Practicing law was easy for me. Getting up and singing in front of a crowd was harder, even though I loved doing it. That was my eternal dilemma... to balance my twin vocations as businesslike attorney and flashy performer.

I smoothed down the pale silk of my dress and hoped my sweaty palms didn’t leave a stain. The accompanist was finishing up a Bach chorale, and she looked up at me expectantly. From my vantage point beside the minister, I could see that the other end of the huge tent was clogged with bridesmaids in frothy pink gowns. Behind them I spotted the top of the bride’s shellacked blonde hair and her crystal crown bobbing beside her father’s shiny bald head.

One rousing rendition of “Amazing Grace” from me, and Trixie Johnson—soon to be Trixie Johnson Dingle—would march down the aisle on Big Daddy Johnson’s arm, past four hundred of her closest friends and enemies, straight into the waiting arms of her beloved, Farnsworth “Buddy” Dingle... the Fifth.

I was so nervous you’d think this was Broadway. On some level, it might as well have been. This was my musical debut in front of everyone who was anyone in Misty-on-the-Sound, a town as snooty as its name implied. My years of voice lessons and hours spent practicing scales when I could have been brushing up on the law were all on the line. Crack a note, go flat, and no one was going to be harder on Pepper Sullivan than Pepper Sullivan.

The pianist pounded out a theatrical finish to the Bach piece as well as she could on the electric keyboard. She turned to me, and I realized that it was my moment, so I stepped out to face the crowd sitting in the rows of stiff-backed chairs. Fluffy gowns filled the back as the army of bridesmaids was marshaled into place by Ivan, the wedding planner.

“Amazing Grace” wasn’t actually a wedding song, though it was the bride’s favorite hymn, so I’d been instructed to sing the first two verses, at which point the pianist would launch into “Here Comes the Bride” for the processional.

The song was more appropriate for a funeral. But hey, to each her own. This wasn’t my wedding day. I took a deep breath, and the notes poured out of my throat, sweet and full and rich... and perfectly on key.

Amazing grace! how sweet the sound...

At the back of the tent, a sudden flurry erupted among the attendants. The bride’s tiara was bouncing around wildly, crystals flashing in the sunlight. Ivan was waving his arms, and the father of the bride was turning his head one way and then the other.

I launched into the verse.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear...

The eyes of everyone in the place were on me. I started to really put my heart into the words, and a few folks out in the chairs began singing along.

For some reason the flurry among the attendants had morphed into a tornado of tulle. As I watched from the front, singing to the crowd, the bridesmaids formed a kind of phalanx. On Ivan’s signal, they picked up Trixie’s twelve-foot train and appeared to dash outside, disappearing from my view, apparently heading in the direction of the Krystal Kleen portable sanitation trailer Daddy had rented at a rumored cost of $12,000 for the day.

From the back of the tent, Ivan waved to me and pantomimed stretching taffy. I saw him mouth “Keep singing.”

Okay, then. The bride must have personal business to attend to, and it was my job to keep the crowd entertained. I turned to the accompanist and made the same stretching motion. She nodded. I launched into the second chorus. Even more guests joined in.

And then I recognized the sound of Mr. Woogles, my sweet beagle, barking. Loudly. I wasn’t sure what was going on back there, but his participation wasn’t helping. Leaving Woogie at my house across the street had seemed like the best solution, since most of Misty was here at the wedding.

Now I felt bad for him, stuck in the living room, sniffing the scents, hearing the sounds, and missing all the excitement. Probably trying his best to stretch up and see out a window. Tomorrow I would have to make it up to him.

Nothing I could do about it at this point, though. I carried on with the hymn, getting ever louder in an attempt to cover up my doggy’s enthusiastic reactions to the brouhaha.

It was going well! People were turning to each other, smiling, singing along. I felt wonderful. I was a good singer, maybe even a great singer. Too bad Jared, my new almost-boyfriend, wasn’t there. I would have liked him to hear me sing.

I took a deep breath and began the chorus again, just for good measure. It was glorious to be singing on the bluff right above the beach and Long Island Sound, a gentle breeze at my back. I could smell salty air, while the strong sun was kept at bay by the canvas of the huge tent over my head. The music flowed in measured tones from my throat, effortless and beautiful.

Amazing grace! how sweet the sound...

At that moment, the chapel was filled with the sound of a woman’s piercing scream, and then a long howl that was definitely coming from the beagle in my living room.

* * *

Want more? Available now at Scales of Justice: Legal Beagle Cozy Mystery #1.

More Jessa Archer Cozies

Legal Beagle Mysteries

Thistlewood Star

Hidden Harbor Tea Shop

Knitting Mysteries

Hand Lettering Mysteries

Canterbury Golf Club

Coastal Playhouse

About the Author

Jessa Archer writes sweet, funny, warm-hearted cozy mysteries because she loves a good puzzle and can't stand the sight of blood. Her characters are witty, adventurous, and crafty in the nicest way. You'll find her sleuths hand lettering inspirational quotes, trying to lower golf handicaps, enjoying a scone at a favorite teashop, knitting a sweater, or showing off a dramatic side in local theater.

Jessa's done many things in her long career, including a stint as a journalist and practicing law. But her favorite job is spinning mysteries. She loves playing small town sleuth and transporting readers to a world where the scones are delicious, wine pairs with hand lettering, and justice always prevails.

www.jessaarcher.com

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Copyright © 2019 by Jessa P. Archer

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover Design: Amy Queau

Hound on the Sound/Jessa Archer. — 1st ed.