Chapter 1

Constable Rouge and Will Rees rode south on Surry Road, past the Shaker community, until they reached the entrance at the southern end. They pulled into the small clearing and Rees parked his wagon. When he had first gone to town for supplies, Lydia needed both flour and sugar, he had not intended to join the constable in his search for a missing man. But, hearing of the disappearance, Rees’s curiosity had driven him into joining Rouge in the search.

“I still think we should have questioned the Shakers first,” Rouge said critically as he dismounted and tied his bay to a nearby tree. “On Sunday, Mr. Bergin told his wife he was going to Zion. He might still be there.”

“Was he planning to join the Shakers?”

“No,” Rouge said with a grin. “Hardly. He came to Durham because he heard that the Shakers danced naked, and he wanted to see the ‘fair white forms’ of the women.” Rees could hear the quotation.

“Huh,” Rees said. Although aware of the scurrilous slander concerning the Shakers, he could not understand why anyone would be foolish enough to believe it. The Shakers were a modest, quiet and industrious people. “The gullibility of men constantly amazes me.”

“You should hear what I hear at the tavern,” Rouge muttered.

“Besides,” Rees continued, ignoring the constable’s aside, “if there had been a problem at the Shaker community, wouldn’t someone inform you?” Rouge shook his head. After a moment, Rees reluctantly nodded in agreement. Maybe not. The community was notoriously insular and tried to handle any issues themselves. During the smallpox epidemic last year, the one that had sickened Rouge and left him severely scarred, they had refused all offers of assistance.

“We may have to speak to them,” Rees agreed. He was not enthusiastic. Elder Jonathan was beginning to display some irritability towards Rees and his frequent requests for help. “Since you were told by Mr. Bergin’s friend that he rode this way, I suggest we begin our search here, in these woods. Maybe his horse threw him. Or,” he added, looking at the muddy track across the road, “he might have taken the lane across the street back into town?”

Rouge shook his head. “Mr. Bergin did not return to town. I’m certain of that. We looked.”

“It’s unlikely he disappeared on that path,” Rees said. It was just past midday, and the sun felt warm on his shoulders and face. They were at the end of April. Although snow from the last storm still lingered on the shadowed down – slopes of the hills and under the trees, he could see bright spring green beginning to fringe the trees. “Farms line both sides of that little road and all the farmers will be out in the fields now, beginning the spring planting. If something happened to Mr. Bergin, and his body was dumped there, most likely someone would have seen it. He disappeared during the day, yes?” At Rouge’s nod, Rees paused a moment, thinking. “Did his horse return?”

“No. That’s gone too. Of course,” Rouge added cynically, “Mr. Bergin might have

continued riding south, hoping to find a new life. His disappearance does not mean he was murdered.”

“Someone was here,” Rees said, pointing to a relatively fresh pile of horse dung. “And recently too.”

“So, Mr. Bergin stopped here,” Rouge said. “Close to Zion.”

“It wasn’t necessarily Mr. Bergin. It could be another visitor.” Rees hoped that was so but feared the constable was correct. It was still too early in the spring for many visitors.

Rees squatted to examine the soft slick mud underfoot. Although his wagon wheels had cut across the older tracks, he could see the horseshoe shaped indentations left by a shod horse. “Whoever rode in here,” he said, pointing out the marks to Rouge, “he tied up over there. See?” He pointed to a tree. “There are boot prints where the rider dismounted.” Rouge crossed the dirt and stared down at the impressions.

“Look at the toes,” he said. “Riding boots.”

“Yes. And here are the nicks left by the spurs,” Rees agreed, pointing. “Did Mr. Bergin wear riding boots? Could they be his prints?”

Grimacing, Rouge nodded.

“You were right.” Rees looked at Rouge. “Mr. Bergin went into Zion.” Rees followed the tracks to the bridge that went to Zion’s main street. When he crossed the bridge, he saw the same footprints on the other side. But, a few yards in, the riding boots were met by farmer’s boots. The riding boots turned around and returned to the other side of the bridge. “One of the Shaker Brothers prevented him from entering the village,” he said.

“He walked back out to the road.” Rouge said. “Here are the marks of those boots

here.”

Taking care to avoid the boot impressions, Rees jumped across the soft earth. He misjudged his landing, and his right foot went into a deep puddle. Cold muddy water began seeping into his shoe. Rouge laughed.

“It’s not funny,” Rees said, lifting his foot to shake it. Water flew in all directions.

“Hey,” Rouge complained, jumping back.

“Serves you right,” Rees muttered but without malice. He was too focused now on following the tracks.

The riding boots went to the road where they were joined by another pair of shoes. The soil on the edge of the road was drier, more solid, so the imprint was shallow and harder to see. “I think these are ordinary shoes,” he muttered to himself. “Do you see any signs of another horse?” he called out to Rouge.

“No,” the constable replied, adding sourly, “But I am not the great tracker you are.”

“He met someone who walked here,” Rees said.

“One of the Shaker Brothers, then,” Rouge said with the air of a man who has solved the problem.

“Perhaps not,” Rees said. He was well used to Rouge’s propensity for jumping to the easiest and most obvious solution. “The second fellow could have tied up in the lane and then walked across the street to meet him here. Or,” he added quickly to forestall Rouge’s objection, “he could have even walked down the lane.” Rouge eyed Rees for a few seconds and then nodded.

“Yes, all right. He could have seen Mr. Bergin from the lane,” he agreed. “It would have

taken no time at all to cross Surry Road from town. But then where did they go?”

Rees did not reply. Instead, he began following the tracks made by the riding boots south along the Surry Road and away from Zion. From the impressions, it seemed the man was walking slowly. Not running, not afraid, just ambling along. Every now and then, Rees spotted a footprint or two produced by the other boots. It seemed the two men were talking as they followed the road.

He found the spot where the two people paused. But when he walked further down the road, he discovered he had lost the trail. There were no discernible footprints. He turned and walked back to the last spot he had seen them. This time, when he looked around, he saw scuff marks through the leaves descending the slope into the forest.

“Here,” said Rouge, pointing to a downed tree several yards in. Muttering under his breath, Rees followed the constable further into the woods. Rouge’s path had obscured the marks left by the two men. But when Rees fought his way through the brambles and the stand of small fir trees, he saw why Rouge had summoned him. Right in front of the downed tree was a mess of overturned leaves, where the feet of the two men had disturbed them.

“They sat down to talk,” Rees said, staring at the disordered leaves on the ground. He was beginning to believe these two men had nothing to do with Mr. Bergin’s disappearance and that this entire search had been a waste of time. The absence of the horse also made him wonder if Rouge was correct and Mr. Bergin had simply chosen to disappear. Rees was disappointed. Without really articulating his desire to himself, he had been hoping for something more serious. After several months spent inside at home, he was ready for some excitement. With a sigh, he examined the disturbance in the leaves. It looked as though one of

the men had risen to his feet and begun pacing.

But, as he neared the thicket, he smelled the barest whiff of the coppery rotten smell of old blood. The odor was so faint he wondered if he’d imagined it. Pausing, he lifted his face and took a deep inhalation into his nose.

“What are you doing?” Rouge asked, staring at Rees in fascination.

Rees threw him a glance but did not reply. Instead, he plunged forward, following the disturbances in the pad of last year’s leaves. Although the oaks and maples were just beginning to show the first bright green new leaves and the sun shone through the bare branches, the tall pines kept the ground below in shadow. Rees tracked the trail around tree trunks and through slick muddy patches. But he was halted by a large expanse of flat granite. He could not tell which way the trail went: straight down the slope or to one side or another.

As he stared at the rock in consternation, Rouge toiled up behind him, puffing. “Why have you stopped?” he asked, panting for breath.

“Not sure which way to go,” Rees admitted. Nodding, Rouge joined Rees on the rock slab and for a moment they were silent.

“Wait,” Rouge said, holding up a hand. “Listen. Do you hear it? A horse.”

For a moment Rees listened. Yes, he heard the faint whickering of a horse. The sound came from below them, but he couldn’t tell exactly in what direction. Rouge started forward, moving so quickly on the muddy and leaf strewn slope that he fell. “Damn,” he grumbled, staggering to his feet and continuing down the hill.

Rees glanced at the steep gully, the bottom slick with trickling snow melt, and turned to the bare rock. He started across the granite, angling down the slope toward the distant creek. The rock was not uniformly flat. As Rees clambered over a ledge, stepping down to the slab below, he saw streaks across the gray. Dark brown streaks. Rees knelt beside them and lightly touched the stain. Blood.

***

Excerpt from The Long Shadow of Murder by Eleanor Kuhns. Copyright 2025 by Eleanor Kuhns. Reproduced with permission from Eleanor Kuhns. All rights reserved.

Day 1 – early evening

One

Heat from the Mobile Data Transmitter radiated onto Zoey Kozinski’s arm. The interior of the patrol car cooked, muggy and close. September brought the hottest weather to the central coast of California, anxiety about fires flaring as the oak leaves curled and undergrowth crisped. Thankfully, Officer Austin kept the windows of the patrol car open even as the sun started to set.

“Must be boiling with your vest.”

“Better to sweat than bleed.” Austin’s profile was sharp angles, pointed nose, strong chin.

“How much does that thing weigh?” Zoey already knew, but the officer didn’t seem talkative. She needed to crack the façade and dig out some grist to apply to Officer Horne, the character in her book. Her stalled, barely-started book.

“Six pounds.”

Officer Austin rolled along Scenic Drive, a main thoroughfare through Playa Maria County. Zoey wished they could listen to music, something to go with driving on a sultry evening, maybe Ella Fitzgerald’s “Summertime.” Instead, the police radio spat information, filling awkward silence. Zoey jotted down that a list of stolen cars was tucked on the left side of his dash. She’d chosen a night shift, hoping for a modicum of action but nothing on the radio stirred Austin’s interest.

“How do you feel about ride-alongs?” She flipped her legal pad and the printed-out opening pages of her manuscript winged to the floor. All two of them. A whopping three hundred ten words. She bent down to retrieve them.

“It’s part of our Community Policing.” Austin kept his focus forward. “To increase civilian awareness of what police work entails.”

She didn’t bother to write down the canned response.

Austin must be a rookie to receive the crappy assignment of hauling a ride-along, but he didn’t look like one. Silver highlighted his short hair. Older than her fictional Officer Horne. Her protagonist Horne should be young, freshly free of his training wheels, a more credible character to rush toward a terrible mistake after witnessing the shooting of a fellow officer.

In the margin of the legal pad, she scribbled: A hot-head. Temper=hubris. Too eager to prove himself?

Then she wrote Stan and put a question mark after it. The name of the murdered officer in her manuscript had appeared in a magician’s puff of smoke, typed by her fingers before she was conscious of a choice. Not a common name for guys of her generation, the lost kids born between Generation X and the Millennials. The name had merit—easy to pronounce, but not overly used. Why had it popped into her head?

She slipped her pen through her tangle of red hair and scratched her scalp.

Austin shot her a glance, maybe thinking she didn’t know she was using the ink end.

“Writing off the top of your head?”

She smiled slightly. Witty for a police officer.

He quirked a brow. “Making headlines?” His tone was dry. No smile. Was he being funny or busting her balls?

Zoey tapped the legal pad. Her next question wasn’t on it, but Austin’s age and his quips begged for it.

“What did you do before becoming a law enforcement officer?”

Long fingers curled around the wheel, maneuvering the vehicle through the rush-hour clog of Scenic Drive. He scanned the lanes of traffic and sidewalks long enough that she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“I was a teacher.”

“Really?” Her voice squeaked with unveiled surprise. Heat rose up her face. With her coloring, there was no playing off a blush. When she was a kid, her Grosse Pointe classmates had pinned her with the nickname Tomato.

“High-school history.” In the parking lot, he’d offered a firm handshake and introduced himself formally as Officer Austin, although he’d added with a trace of humor ‘at your service.’ Over six-feet with ropy muscles, he was a bit old for her, maybe forty-five, but a hottie, nonetheless.

“That’s a strange career trajectory.”

“Not really. In both jobs you deal with a lot of young punks.”

As part of the outreach program, he probably was not supposed to refer to members of the community as punks. She was making progress.

“In policing I bet you have more flexibility about how you deal with punks?”

His lip curled, but he didn’t respond.

“So why the career move?”

“In teaching, the more you work, the less you’re paid,” he said. “Police work offers time-and-a-half for overtime. Ten-hour shifts and four-day work weeks. More money and time for my family.”

“Kids?”

“Three.”

She felt a twinge of disappointment. Her sex life had been reduced to her Magic Wand, and Austin wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, so a bit of fantasy had slipped under her normally guarded door. Since she didn’t want a relationship, a hot cop could be the ticket. Married killed that idea.

And three kids! With the world’s exploding population and global climate change, that was self-indulgent. One of her least favorite character flaws—in reality. In fiction, it was a great character flaw.

“My wife’s the one who should have made the career move to cop,” Austin volunteered. “She’s a tiger. Can outshoot me.” He shook his head in admiration.

Another twinge. She had a serious weakness for men who complimented women in absentia.

Zoey touched the cool metal of the AR15 propped in front of the passenger seat. “This is some serious fire power.”

The creases in his uniform lifted infinitesimally, a hint of a shrug. “You should see what they have on the street.”

She ran her finger down her list of questions. Nothing so far had gotten the juices flowing. “What kind of handgun do you carry?”

“Smith & Wesson. Officers with more seniority get Berettas. The most senior officers have Glocks.” Jealousy tinged his voice. “But if you want a better gun, you can buy one. I’m looking at a Glock.”

The crackling voice of dispatch relayed a report of a middle-aged black male dealing drugs in Playa Maria Park.

Austin swung off Scenic onto a street that cut along the seedier edge of downtown, where the homeless population dwarfed the number of university students. He slowed at the park.

Dusk had sifted into darkness, but streetlights illuminated the perimeter of the grass. Young men played basketball in a well-lit court. A lone man leaning against a light pole straightened at the cruiser’s arrival. Austin put the windows up, parked the car, and plucked a wood baton from the base of his door. “Remain in the vehicle.”

Another patrolman rolled up and joined him. She noted details. Suspect’s dreadlocks glisten in bluish light. Tan pants bag around skinny legs.

Austin questioned the man, while the other officer patted him down and dipped into the pockets of his army-fatigue jacket. With the window closed, Zoey sweated.

In the end, the man bumped away and swaggered toward the basketball court.

Talking together, the officers watched him, then turned in the direction of the vehicle. Austin nodded. The other man laughed. They were talking about her. The inside of the cruiser steamed like a sauna. Austin was letting her marinate in a patina of sweat.

Zoey opened the passenger door, which prompted Austin to step toward the cruiser. Before he plopped into his seat, he thunked his baton into its spot.

“I asked the suspect if we could search him and he said no,” he started before Zoey even asked. “But he has a Search Clause.” Austin cleaned his hands with foam sanitizer. “That’s a bargain he made for probation. He relinquished his right to probable cause.”

She scribbled the information. This was good stuff, strengthening her knowledge of the law.

“But you didn’t find anything?”

“Maybe he sold out.”

Dry humor. Deadpan delivery. Her favorite. To curtail a blush, she cast her eyes to the pocket of his door.

“Don’t most officers these days carry whip-batons?”

He gave her a look.

Amazing eyes—way greener than her own. He yanked the baton from its spot and held it across his lap, the top grazing her thigh.

Phallic symbol, for sure. The air inside the car shifted subtly.

“See all those nicks?” he said. “My T.O. gave this to me, said the riff-raff on the street notice the dents. They’re mostly from getting in and out of the car, but hey,” he returned the baton to the door pocket, “they don’t know that.”

He gave his hand a second squirt of the sanitizer. “I tell you one part of this job I don’t like. The grime. You’d have to get up close to appreciate how much that guy . . . how grubby he was.” Austin started the car. “Tell you the truth, I’m more afraid of an accidental needle poke than a gunshot.”

“Was he dealing?”

“I imagine.” Austin put down the windows. Fresh air rushed into the compartment. “He doesn’t have any other means of income.”

The radio called Austin to roust a panhandler near the entrance to the freeway. Civilian complaint. Austin zoomed back up to Scenic. At the intersection before the freeway entrance, he stopped at a red light with the rest of the traffic. The girl panhandling on the median spotted the cruiser, folded her sign, and meandered down the sidewalk.

Austin turned and rolled along the street across from the girl. In spite of a curvaceous figure packed into tight jeans, with her wavy brown hair hitched into pigtails she looked all of fifteen. The girl ignored them.

Zoey twisted toward Austin. “Are you going to stop?”

“She’s not doing anything illegal now. She didn’t even jaywalk.” He sped up. “We got her off the median.”

“Yup. Sure did.” He knew, and she knew, that as soon as they were out of sight, the girl would return to her spot.

How do they negotiate spots? She wrote. First come, first served?

If she asked Austin about the girl—did he know her—what was her story—she sensed he’d blow off the questions. The police department had picked the wrong officer to give ride-alongs. Austin lacked a gregarious, empathetic personality.

Zoey tried to unpack how she’d arrived at this conclusion. Maybe because he’d chosen policing over teaching. Police work had to be more frustrating than high school teaching, certainly less rewarding.

She shook her head. Don’t assume. She asked about the girl.

“Espie Gonzales.”

“You know her?”

“Yeah.” His forefinger tapped the steering wheel a few times. “She lost her baby in that shooting.”

“Oh, that’s her.” Zoey strained to see the girl disappearing into the darkness. Her tragic case had dominated the front page.

“Hell of a way to start this job.” Officer Austin looped around the block back to Scenic Drive. Rush hour traffic had thinned. “I was there earlier when they arrested her piece-of-shit boyfriend, too.”

She was sure Officer Austin was not supposed to say that. Zoey chewed on her pen and scribbled an idea: Stan dies b/c he harbors a secret? She doodled hashtag symbols on her paper.

Maybe Austin recognized zoning-out behavior from all those past students because he volunteered, “As a mystery writer, you’re probably looking for something more exciting. Let’s see if I can find a car to pull over.”

Within two minutes, he pointed out a white sedan. “Burned-out taillight.” He unclipped his seatbelt.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Your car is your coffin. Cop training 101. If someone jumps out of a vehicle, you don’t want to be fumbling with a seatbelt.”

She unlatched her seatbelt, too. He didn’t object.

He called in the license plate, citing the letters phonetically. “Old model white sedan. Make unclear. One male.” He concluded the call with their location and lit up the patrol car.

The driver continued along Scenic toward the outskirts of town. Austin tapped his airhorn. The silhouetted head, wearing a hat, lifted as though checking the rearview.

The dispatcher reported back on the license plate. No red flags.

Austin used the airhorn again. But the white sedan tooled along. The number of businesses thinned. Traffic dwindled.

Muscles jumped in Austin’s jaw.

Zoey jotted. Wants authority obeyed! No wonder high school kids drove him crazy. Austin like Camille? Camille, her mother, was a first-class control freak.

He eyed her notepad and frowned. Closing the windows, he put on the siren and left it on, wailing, but this could hardly be called a chase. They were traveling thirty miles per hour.

“Why isn’t he pulling over?”

Austin didn’t have an answer, at least not one he could utter with her in the vehicle. Finally, he said, “Could be absorbed in his cell phone.”

That was not the reason. She was an eagle at spotting drivers using a device and, in this case, the hat would have accentuated any dip of the head. He was not using his phone, and his actions were sure to piss off a cop, especially this cop—an authoritarian personality with an audience to impress. Zoey planted her Keds against the cruiser’s floor and stretched her torso, staring at the car ahead, anxiety percolating up her legs.

“His car could be sound baffled.” Austin’s voice tightened as he offered the flimsy possibility.

Rationalizing. Even if the driver couldn’t hear, he could see the cruiser lights. The situation reminded her of the pursuit of the Bronco carrying O.J. Simpson up the 405. That day in June, 1994, she’d come into the house after swapping mix tapes with her middle school friend. Her mom, in impossibly white Capris, so raptly watched the television that Zoey popped one earbud of her Walkman in the middle of Warren G’s “Regulate” to see what was up.

She heard the song now in her head as the white sedan left Playa Maria proper. Scenic Drive opened onto coastal highway along the Pacific, an empty stretch of dark two-lane highway. The driver put on his blinker. She sighed in relief. The car crunched onto the steeply-graded gravel shoulder.

Austin pulled in behind it. She slouched down in her seat, taking notes on the pad propped against her thighs. Her heart hammered. A routine traffic stop, but it felt off. Austin pissed. She drew an anger emoji. And he had not called for back-up.

Too macho? she wrote.

She shrank in her seat as Austin approached the sedan, his hand on his weapon. She scribbled details. The car’s window glided open. The man stuck his head out, glancing back.

At the turn of the driver’s head, Austin crouched and drew. A gun muzzle appeared out the window opening.

Three pops split the silence.

Austin collapsed onto the asphalt.

Zoey’s stomach lurched. The white car roared to life. Its tires spat gravel and squealed onto the pavement, the back-end fishtailing. She opened the passenger door, her pulse throbbing in her head, the world awash in swirling blue and red. Her shoes skidded on the gravel. She caught herself by grabbing the door. With the tilt of the car, the door continued to fly open, whirling her toward the drainage ditch.

Regaining her balance, she crept forward, the night so quiet she could hear the distant whoosh of the ocean. Or was the whoosh inside her head?

Officer Austin lay splayed on the edge of the pavement. He’d landed so the exit wound faced her, the back of his head a bloody pulp.

She swallowed bile and recoiled behind the cruiser. There was no way he was alive.

Her body felt floaty, unreal, tethered only by the pain of pebbles under her knee.

A red sportscar passed headed toward town. The driver slowed. Hope surged in her. Help had arrived. She started to rise on wobbly legs.

The car zoomed off, leaving her.

She forced herself to draw a breath but couldn’t get it beyond her throat. Austin had been hit close range with something high caliber. Leaving the cruiser door gaping open, she leaned across the seat divider and grabbed the police radio, her hand shaking wildly. She tried another breath, but air kept going in and out in sharp jags.

The radio would be faster than her cell phone, skirting any telecommunicator and going directly to dispatch. Officers in the area would hear the transmission. She wanted someone to come right now.

The radio suddenly squawked to life in her hands. Her heart slammed her chest.

“555 are you 10-4 on your stop?”

Hell no. Nothing was 10-4. She keyed the mic.

Another set of headlights zoomed toward her. Maybe when she’d gotten out, the killer had spotted her and was returning to take care of loose ends. Her whole body shook. Shrinking down, she identified herself to the dispatcher.

“The ride-along?” the suspicious voice snapped. “Where’s Officer Austin?”

“He’s been shot!”

An intake of air. A tiny pause.

The car in the opposite lane sped by. A white car! Its bright lights were blinding, the driver in too big of a hurry to be bothered with the odd appearance of a lone police vehicle at the side of the road, overhead lights flashing. Or maybe the driver didn’t slow down because he already knew what was there.

“Where are you?” the dispatcher’s voice steeled into all business.

Zoey wished she had the dispatcher’s nerves, hoped she could get through her report before fainting or puking. Sweat slicked her palm. “Edge of town on the coast highway headed north, about a mile past where Officer Austin called in the stop.”

“Help is on the way. Stay put.”

As though she were going to do what? Run up the deserted, dark highway? The white car that had sped by flipped a U-ey and roared back toward her, skidding to a stop behind the cruiser.

The sedan’s lights remained on bright. Her stomach shriveled. A man strolled toward the cruiser.

Maybe she should run.

***

Excerpt from Crime Writer by Vinnie Hansen. Copyright 2025 by Vinnie Hansen. Reproduced with permission from Vinnie Hansen. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

It seemed like a simple request. Find a packet in the attic.

It wasn’t simple.

And it wasn’t safe.

I gathered a crew and scheduled the search for Thanksgiving week so I could wrap it up with a grand feast. Now that this oceanfront house on North Carolina’s Outer Banks finally felt like home, I wanted to celebrate it with friends.

Kip Hawkins had the longest drive—six hundred fifty miles—but he’d insisted on helping. His father and mine had been joint caretakers of a dodgy property called Dacretown near Concord, Massachusetts. Kip’s dad, Gregory, had been murdered for his trouble. Mine, Lang Hunter, had contracted a neurological debility. Just before these blows, they’d discussed that place in this house. Then Dad had vanished, leaving his house to me.

I’d pieced this all together when I’d finally located him. However, our reunion was brief. Before Dad left to work on a cure for his Dacretown blight, he’d asked me to look for a 6x9-inch white envelope. He thought it was in the attic. “It has a wax seal,” he’d said. “It’s private. Please don’t open it. Just tell me when you find it.”

I’d concurred...but I hadn’t promised.

I knew Dad might be dying. He’d grown ill from experiments he’d tried to stop. His “vanishment,” as he calls people gone missing, had robbed me of five years with him. Growing up, he’d been my anchor in a home full of shifting winds. He’d left my mother when I was a teen, but his advice from a distance had kept me on track. I could grant him this small favor. At least, I thought I could. To be fair, he hadn’t adequately warned me.

I’d already seen the multiple boxes, notebooks, and stacks of papers from Dad’s years of vanishment research. Locating a single envelope, I knew, would be like finding a one-eyed ghost crab on our beach. Doable but not quick.

Recently, Kip had pushed to complete this task, so I’d scheduled the quest. In Concord, he and I had started on the wrong foot, but a common mission involving my dad had pulled us together. It made sense to include him.

Two days before Thanksgiving, I stood at my picture window watching the wind push white caps toward the beach. Layers of cobalt and azure clouds hinted that rain was on the way. I hoped Kip would beat it. I expected him within the hour.

Natra Gawoni, my case manager, strode in. She tugged on the long brown ponytail that draped over her shoulder and gestured for her Doberdor, Mika, to come. The dog padded over to me for an ear rub.

“Coffee’s fresh,” Natra said. “The unit’s ready.”

“He’ll like it. Gives him privacy but also access to us when he wants it.”

We’d prepared the largest of my two rental studios on the ground floor. Off season, they weren’t used. My personal living space was on the second floor, adjacent to my great room conference area in the center of the house. Natra’s apartment was on the other side. My two-car garage sat below us, between the rentals.

A chime sound. A car had entered the driveway.

I gestured toward Natra’s unit. “Can you put Mika in her room? Let’s let Kip get settled.”

Natra took the dog out.

Kip knew this house. He’d been here with his dad two months before Gregory had died. I thought it might be rough for him to return. Just sixteen then, Kip hadn’t said what he’d witnessed, but he believed he knew what we were looking for.

I opened the sliding glass door to the balcony. A cold gust blew past me to ruffle papers inside. Kip stood below, next to the white Range Rover my father had gifted him, a long wool coat protecting his slender frame. A breeze jumped the backyard dune to ruffle his dark wavy hair. He looked up and waved. That afternoon, under a darkening November sky, I couldn’t have guessed at the perilous burden this young man bore…and brought to my door.

Chapter Two

Kip gestured toward the back of his SUV. “Got a full car. More files from Kate.”

He meant from Kate Gardiner, the lawyer handling my late grandfather’s complicated estate. I pointed to my right. “Pull in over there. We’ll get that stuff later. You’ve had a long drive.”

At twenty-one, Kip was the oldest of three brothers. His legal name was John Kinney Hawkins, named for an outlaw killed by Billy the Kid. He’d adopted ‘Kip’ on his own. It fit him. Tall and lanky with brown eyes and a headful of dark curls, his demeanor suggested a burdened soul. He’d protected his brothers while solving his father’s murder. He now worked for his cousin in a home restoration business, carving marble and restoring woodwork. He was quite the craftsman. I’d hired him to work on Dad’s Concord properties. In a convoluted way, Kip was family.

When he came level with me on the balcony, I hugged him. At just over six feet, he was taller than me by at least six inches. I ushered him into my living/dining/conference area, which has the best views in the house. From the large window facing the ocean, we watch sunrises and storms, dolphins and pelicans.

“Coffee?” I asked. He accepted. I gestured toward a wraparound leather couch. “Please, have a seat.”

He snorted. “I remember that couch. Fell asleep on it a few times.”

“Dad had good taste. I kept the furniture.”

“All of it?”

I nodded. “Pretty much. I made this room a conference area and installed more tech, but till last month I always thought he’d come back. Most of Dad’s things are still how he left them.” Kip’s face showed a flash of relief. That seemed odd. “You stayed in Philadelphia last night?”

“South of there. Saw a friend. Helped break up the trip.”

Natra came in. “Hi, Kip. Nice to see you in person.”

They’d talked thus far only by video. He shook her hand. “Thought you had a dog.”

“I do. You like dogs?”

He nodded.

“I’ll get her later. She made a big fuss over not greeting you.”

“Let ‘er loose.”

I brought over the coffee pot. Kip accepted a mug and sat down. “Is your daughter here?”

“My ex has her this weekend. Kamryn’s in South Carolina.”

I sat opposite Kip while Natra took a seat on the other side of the couch. She’s the observer. I count on her for a second opinion.

Kip looked around. “Seems like you’ve settled in.”

I picked up my mug. “It wasn’t easy, despite the impressive location. I didn’t move in right away. Each time I came, I just felt empty and sad.”

He nodded. “I get that.”

“It took almost a year, but I finally saw an advantage in the extra space. That’s when I started our PI consulting.” I gestured toward Natra. “I brought in Natra after we worked a case together. She named us the Nut Cracker Investigations.”

“Annie likes complicated cases,” Natra explained. “Nuts that are hard to crack.”

Kip raised an eyebrow. “I noticed.”

Natra flipped her hand. “The name’s unique, so people remember it. In just three years, we’ve gained a solid reputation. Not many investigators are also psychologists.”

I smiled. “Ayden was next.” Kip had met him in Concord. “He tricked me into hiring him as my PI. He used a case I couldn’t resist and proved his talent. Plus, he’s an artist and, as you know, he does carpentry on houses around here. Then there’s our part-time digital examiner, Joe Lochren. He’s been increasingly valuable, although he has a demanding career in cyber security. He helped me set up my podcast, Psi Apps, and I’ve developed a network of forensic consultants. Jackson Raines—you’ll meet him on Thursday—has become our go-to legal counsel. My executor’s fee from my grandfather’s passing last month helps with the bills.”

Natra pointed at me. “We need that, cuz she’s drawn to cases that don’t pay.”

“Spoken like a business manager.” I leaned toward Kip. “Have you made plans for joining Lang in Scotland?”

Kip shrugged. “He’s been ill. Bedridden. Hasn’t communicated in a week.”

I felt a stab of jealousy. I wished I didn’t, but there it was. My dad had taken to Kip like a son he’d never had. During the five years Dad was “missing,” he’d secretly worked with Kip and his brothers in Concord. They’d been privy to his darkest secrets, partners in his work, the recipients of his attention. Kip had been his main point of contact. For me, that left an aching gap. I’d had only a few days with Dad in October before he left again. He’d urged me to give Kip some maternal guidance. I wasn’t old enough to be his mother, but I could offer a sensitive ear.

“I’m so glad you came,” I said. “When I first got this house, I couldn’t go through Dad’s things. I made a start but always stalled. Dad wasn’t organized and there’s a lot to go through.”

Kip nodded like he knew Lang’s habits. He’d probably spent more time in the attic than I had. More to the point, he’d been a witness to multiple important transactions that bound our families.

“We’ve got you set up in the studio suite downstairs,” Natra told him. “Same one you had before but nicely updated.”

Kip smiled. “Good thing. I remember the shower not working.”

As he talked, his left hand, scarred from stonework, rubbed the side of the mug, perhaps the way he caressed a piece of marble to evaluate its challenges for carving. A heavy insignia ring adorned a finger on his right hand.

Kip turned to me. “I’ll help with whatever you need, but I have a reason for coming. I’m looking for something myself. Dad brought several things here I’d like to retrieve. Lang didn’t want them. They argued when they thought I was outside. It was pretty intense.”

I leaned toward him. “What things?”

“First, that envelope Lang asked you to find.”

I shook my head. “No, that’s something Dad—”

“I know which envelope he means. It’s white. Stamped with a wax seal. I told Lang my dad left it here. That made him angry. He meant to come back to get it.”

Natra cocked her head. “What’s in it?”

“A communication Dad got from someone they both knew. I think it’s a threat. Dad wanted Lang’s help. I remember Lang saying, ‘You can’t do this. It’s too risky.’ But Dad left it here, anyway. I saw him take it up to the attic and come down without it. Besides that, there’s a package, a couple inches thick. That’s in the attic, too. I think it holds a binder that has some records. On the way home, I asked Dad about it, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said he had to protect us, me and my brothers.”

I squinted. “You saw this binder?”

“Yes. It’s a leatherbound three-ring binder with lined note pages, like an accounting ledger. It has transparent sleeves for maps and pictures. I saw it at home when I was ten or eleven. I tried to look through it, but Dad grabbed it. He told me to never touch it. After he died, I looked for it but couldn’t find it. I think it might be in that packet.”

“Sounds like we’re on a scavenger hunt.”

“Sort of. The binder’s distinct. Shouldn’t be hard to spot.”

I cleared my throat. “So, you’re not here to help me get this envelope for Lang.”

Kip shook his head.

“Does he know?”

“No.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is this a secret you want me to keep?”

Kip clutched the handle of his mug. “I hope you won’t have to. I didn’t tell him I was coming this week. Only my brothers and Kate and Mark Gardiner know I’m here. She’s your Concord attorney and Mark’s my boss. Lang wants to burn this stuff, but it belonged to my dad. I have the right to decide its fate.” He lifted his chin.

I drew in a breath. “What if he asks if you’re here? What do you expect me to say?”

“He’s ill, Annie. He hasn’t communicated since last week. He won’t like what I’m doing, but…” He glanced over his shoulder toward the window. “Whatever disturbed our dads, it’s still out there.”

***

Excerpt from You Can't Hide by Katherine Ramsland. Copyright 2025 by Katherine Ramsland. Reproduced with permission from Katherine Ramsland. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

The Regression Strain

As the cab rounded the corner behind the service buildings, the full bulk of the ship rose into view, a floating city gleaming white and blue against the gray Baltic sky. The Paradise would be Peter’s home and workplace for the next month.

His shoulders tightened. Had he forgotten to pack anything? It was too late now.

The taxi ejected him into the cool summer of Copenhagen—heaven compared to the stifling heat of Texas. He checked in at the terminal counter, cleared security, and joined the stream of chattering passengers traversing the covered gangway to board the vessel. Most of them spoke in English and a few in Spanish. Others conversed in German, French, or Scandinavian tongues. They seemed affluent and confident, not at all like his impoverished patients in Houston’s Fifth Ward. That guy in front—his Rolex probably cost more than Peter’s Outback.

Peter wheeled his suitcase through a colonnade of clapping crew members and across the threshold of the grand atrium. Its rich wood paneling and glittering chandeliers were as opulent as the brochures promised. He fused with the crush of passengers piling up in front of the diagrams posted near the elevators. Living quarters for the medical crew were on the lowest deck, conveniently adjacent to the clinic.

Amid the throng, a woman was fussing over a teenage boy in a wheelchair. She leaned in and whispered something in his ear, then tousled his thick mop of brown hair. With one hand cranked tight against his chest, he lolled his head back and rewarded her with a crooked smile. Her haggard face lit up. Now that was one tired mama.

“I like his shirt.” Peter pointed to the graphic of Thor wielding his massive hammer.

“You hear that, Calvin? He likes it.”

Calvin’s nose crinkled above the sparse stubble dotting his chin. She retrieved a ChapStick from her floral fanny pack and slathered Calvin’s lips first, then her own.

She offered the tube to Peter with a glistening smile. “Want some?”

He cringed. That was weird. “Uh, no thanks.”

“Want him?”

Peter’s eyes snapped up to hers. “Excuse me?”

“You can take him for a while.” She smiled and tipped her head. “He doesn’t eat much.”

“Ah…”

“Ha ha, it’s a joke.” She licked her moistened lips. “I’ve been on this boat too long. Cabin fever.” She gave him a little nod and wheeled the kid into the elevator.

The adjacent elevator dinged open, revealing a family that looked right at home, mom admiring the decor, two school kids horsing around. Sipping coffee in his striped polo, dad looked a bit like Peter’s microbiology professor—placid and plump.

Peter pulled his suitcase to the side with a smile. It was nice to see people relaxed and carefree. And if they needed medical attention—well, he could offer it. It would be a relief to simply treat patients. No rationing medications against their rent. No fighting through nettles of bureaucracy just to get a CT scan. He wasn’t built for that fight, and the last few rounds had left him bruised.

The younger child in the elevator darted out. Mom lunged and grabbed his collar, jostling dad into Peter. Coffee sloshed out of the man’s cup and down his jeans.

An animal snarl flashed over the man’s pale, doughy face. “Watch it, prick.”

“Sorry, I didn’t expect…”

The man leaned in, eyes glowing hot behind round bifocals.

Peter jerked back. “Whoa, are you okay?”

As the man cocked his fist back, Peter watched the sleeve of his polo shirt ride up his bicep, almost in slow motion. Peter quickly raised his open palms.

“Honey,” mom hissed. She tugged her little one back, and he huddled under her frail wings.

The man lowered his fist, the stench of coffee hot on his breath.

Peter nodded. “It was an accident. I’ll buy you another coffee. Or jeans.”

The heat in the man’s eyes dissipated and he blinked a few times, looking at Peter’s face yet his attention was directed elsewhere. “Ah, shoot.”

Sorry, mom mouthed and hustled the whole family away.

Peter stepped into the elevator among passengers who seemed oblivious to the encounter. His heart hammered in his chest, and his mouth soured with adrenaline. Microbiology professor? Scratch that—this guy was more like that assistant principal caught in a minivan with the high school girl. And here he’d nearly gotten into a fistfight on his first day.

But hey, he’d defused the situation. He was still supposed to be here. This was going to work out. He closed his eyes as the last passengers got off and the elevator continued to the bottom level.

The doors opened onto a hallway with plush burgundy carpet and polished handrails. Colorful abstract prints enlivened the walls. This was where everything could begin again, even at age thirty-two. He would be a healer on the high seas, applying his hard-earned expertise to help people on vacation.

But the aura disintegrated when he opened his cabin door. Inside was a single bed, a nightstand no larger than a magazine, and a built-in desk with a swivel chair. The sheets lay twisted in a lump at the foot of the bed, exposing a mattress with stains the color of dirty bathwater. A smudged TV hung crookedly from the ceiling, and a stale scent lingered in the air. The only feature that distinguished the cabin from a hospital on-call room was the round porthole window giving view to rusty shipping containers on the dock.

Well, he wasn’t on vacation, after all, even if everyone else was. Peter heaved his suitcase onto the lumpy mattress and began stowing his clothes. Luckily he’d packed light for this trial run. The tiny closet contained a white uniform, starched and waiting like a suit of armor, as well as an orange life vest and a safe the size of a cigar box.

The only real valuable he’d brought was his new 3M Littmann Cardiology IV, an upgrade from the battered stethoscope from residency. He fished around in the side compartment of the suitcase but came up empty. It should’ve been right there.

He checked every zippered pocket, then rummaged through his backpack. Nada. How could he have forgotten his freaking stethoscope, of all things? He’d followed his packing list. He loved lists, for heaven’s sake, loved checking off each item. Little good it had done. He drew a deep breath in then out, trying to clear his mind by counting to ten like the therapist said.

Ten seconds was a long time to think about nothing. Maybe he needed a higher dose of Lexapro. He’d been reluctant to accept his diagnosis, one he himself had given to so many patients, but the antidepressant seemed to help with his mood, concentration, and sleep.

The ambiance of the bathroom matched that of the bedroom, with black spots of mildew mottling the lower edge of the shower curtain. The sink offered little space for personal items.

He opened his bottle of Lexapro, shook a tablet into his palm, and swallowed it dry as he stared into the dingy mirror. Working aboard a cruise ship would be a huge change, and he needed to bring his best. He set the bottle on the narrow counter, but it clipped the edge, flipped out of his hand, and plopped into the toilet with an insulting splash.

His stomach clenched and he squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe, by some miracle, the bottle had landed upright with the tablets safe and dry inside, like a lifeboat. A tiny boat in a tiny toilet on a gargantuan ship.

He peered down. Nothing doing—the bottle floated on its side, surrounded by white tablets bobbing in the murky water like pearls of pasta in chicken broth. Why did the water have to look like that? Was it just reflecting the grimy inner surface of the toilet bowl?

Didn’t matter. His mental health was officially soaking in shit.

The half-life of Lexapro was around thirty hours, and he’d taken one yesterday back in Houston. He could just retrieve the tablets, wash them off, and dunk them in rubbing alcohol. Without more doses, the effects would diminish over the next few days. He could picture his exit interview: I’m sorry, Dr. Palma, you came ill-prepared.

One hand drifted to his pocket. At least he’d remembered to pack his favorite metallic pen. Even in the age of digital everything, a quality pen remained one of his favorite tools—that and old-fashioned index cards. His fingers closed around the pen, clicking the top: Ta-tick, ta-tack. Ta-tick, ta-tack.

Someone knocked on the door, but the bolt clicked open before he could reach it. The slight, olive-skinned man turned back to the hall almost as quickly as he’d come in. White shirt and charcoal vest—must be a steward.

“I’m sorry, I come back later,” he said with a duck of his bald head.

Peter waved him in. “It’s all right. I just got here.”

“Nobody clean your room yet?”

“I guess not.”

“You the doctor, no?”

“One of them.” He propped the door open for the man’s cart.

The steward glanced around the tiny room. “It will be my pleasure to serve you. I come later when you have gone out.”

Peter suspected the man’s cheerful acceptance hid the same bone-deep fatigue that had weighed down his own mother. She used to clean offices, back before Felipe joined the army, and she was always exhausted. Chemical fumes permeated her clothes and hair, and her knuckles cracked and bled until he bought her the non-latex gloves that her cheap-ass boss wouldn’t pay for.

Before Peter could return to the bathroom, somebody else came knocking: a petite woman in blue scrubs, probably late thirties. A tight ponytail held back her glossy chestnut hair. Her sharp cheekbones and jawline were all business.

“Luisa Calderone, nurse on staff.” The strength in her bony handshake matched the intensity of her hazel eyes. “They said this is your first gig.”

Yep, a fresh start, a sorely needed one. “Sorry. I’ll try to learn quick.”

“We can do a proper tour later, but let’s just walk and talk for now.” She nodded back at the hallway. “I can give you some time to get changed, but we have patients—so not too long, please.”

Right back into it, then. He was a kid on a roller coaster cresting the first big incline—the moment before the bottom fell out. He opened the closet and confronted his uniform. Sure, he’d paid for the ride, but that didn’t make it any less stomach-churning.

***

Excerpt from The Regression Strain by Kevin Hwang. Copyright 2025 by Kevin Hwang. Reproduced with permission from Kevin Hwang. All rights reserved.

from CHAPTER TWO of

Murder at the Wedding

The parking lot at St. Andrew's Episcopal was filled almost to capacity. Despite a recent visit to the car wash, my Jeep looked out of place next to all the Mercedes, BMWs, Range Rovers, Jaguars, and Porsches.

I took out and quickly scanned the engraved linen cream invitation. It read:

Matrimonial Ceremony of
Charlotte Alexis Whitaker
and
Brooks James Hawthorne IV
St. Andrew's Episcopal Church
Langford, Massachusetts
Saturday, the eighth of June, at two o'clock in the afternoon

As I approached the massive church, I saw all the pink plantings and railings wrapped in white tulle with pink peonies at precise intervals. It was a floral tour de force that must have taken an army of gardeners and florists a few days to accomplish. Inside there were pink roses, peonies, and hydrangeas everywhere. The scene was right out of InStyle Magazine. I wondered, were there any pink flowers left on the East Coast? On the West Coast?

As I squeezed into the last row, a large choir serenaded the full house in the loft above the congregation.

The choir began to sing "My Spirit Sang All Day" as Mrs. Whitaker, resplendent in a strapless, rose silk Carolina Herrera with a vibrant pink cabbage rose behind one ear and a necklace of marble-sized, green South Sea pearls, was ushered to the left front pew. Really? Strapless for the mother of the bride? Well, she does look amazing.

A hush fell over the crowd. The stained-glass doors closed, and the groom and his men filed to the altar.

Did one have to be six feet two, gorgeous, and ripped to be in this wedding party?

As the first strands of Wagner filled the air, the doors opened, and down the aisle came Anastasia Bleeker. She was one of the bride's four-year-old charges at Miss Bloomfield's School, where wealthy, pregnant women enrolled their offspring-to-be to claim a coveted spot. Anastasia was wearing a white tulle fairy-tale gown with a dark rose-colored sash. A circle of petite, light pink roses and baby's breath crowned her chin length, straight, white-blonde hair. She carried a small, white wicker basket in one hand, and with the other, she started to drop pale pink rose petals down the long aisle.

Channeling Lady Di, I thought.

Next came the ring bearer, Barrington Cabot. He was another nursery school trust-fund-baby-in-the-making in white linen shorts and jacket and a head of black, curly hair. Then six breathtaking models, or rather bridesmaids, dressed in rose-colored tulle skirts and pale pink lace wrap blouses, floated down the aisle carrying white and pink hydrangeas wrapped in rose-colored ribbons. They looked like an upscale version of an ad for the United Colors of Benetton.

After a slight pause, the stained-glass doors parted again, and Dr. Whitaker appeared in his morning suit, standing at Charlotte's right side. She was breathtaking in a Vera Wang white silk ball gown glittering with thousands of tiny seed pearls. A deep rose satin ribbon wrapped around her bouquet of white peonies. Her Belgian lace veil trailed behind her down the aisle.

The ceremony went on amid candlelight, roses, and organ music. It was like being in a dream, albeit a very, very expensive dream.

Finally, vows were exchanged, there were no objections, and Charlotte and Brooks were off to the photo-taking session in a vintage, white Bentley. As they left, the guests milled about outside the church for a bit and then headed to the reception.

Evelyn Greyson, the sixtyish director of Obstetric Nursing, stood at the top of the church stairs as I exited. She was dressed in a powder blue suit with a short jacket with peplum and knee-length, fitted skirt. A pearl necklace, her ever-present pearl brooch, and small pearl stud earrings completed the look. Her graying hair was, as usual, in her trademark chignon.

"Beautiful wedding," I said.

"Magnificent," Evelyn replied. "Dr. Whitaker wouldn't have it any other way. See you at the reception, dear." And then she strode off to her car.

Evelyn always agreed with everything Dr. Whitaker said and did. She worshipped him. Did she also have an unrequited crush on him?

I quickly greeted a few colleagues but didn't linger because I wanted to see how Will was doing.

The Country Club was buzzing with activity when I drove through the porte cochère, pulled up to the main entrance, and handed my keys to a valet. The grand foyer was glittering with hundreds of candles and still more massive floral arrangements in blush pink. A string quartet played Pachelbel's "Canon in D" beside the grand staircase.

Out on the veranda, the wedding party was taking pictures before an expanse of green lawn and brilliant blue sky and sea. It would be a wedding album worthy of its own issue of Town & Country.

Large silver serving trays were circulated among the guests, offering tiny crab cakes topped with dill aioli, mini beef Wellingtons, smoked salmon pinwheels, and tomato and goat cheese on toast points. There were massive silver bowls of fresh shrimp on ice on round marble tables.

"Maeve! Maeve! Over here!" one of the midwives called. Looking around the ballroom, which held table settings for six hundred guests, I saw that the Creighton Memorial staff was on the right side of the room while family and friends were on the left. I waved to the midwives but walked over to the table where Grand, Will's grandmother, was sitting with Will's parents, Will's sister, Eloise, her husband, Taylor, and Will's younger brother, Teddy.

"Hello, Maeve." William stood and extended his hand. Never a hug, never a kiss on the cheek, just a handshake.

"Hello, so nice to see you all," I replied, shaking his hand as I nodded to the table. I saw that Lydia, my mother-in-law, was outfitted in a mint green silk cocktail dress with a large diamond necklace and matching drop earrings. She tilted her head toward me and smiled but said nothing.

"The Country Club is such a perfect wedding venue," I offered.

"Quite lovely," she replied.

"You look beautiful, Maeve," Grand said.

"Thanks, Grand."

"Sweet dress," Lydia said.

Sweet dress? What, am I five years old? Lydia was a master of the backhanded compliment, and she was not my biggest fan. Keep it together, Maeve.

Eloise was in a sleeveless, pale green and cream striped dress with an emerald and diamond pendant and earrings. Like mother, like daughter.

"Well," I said, "enjoy the meal. Will has been creating a masterpiece." I saw William's and Lydia's smiles tighten. They did not respond. They were not pleased with Will's chosen profession.

"I can't wait," Grand said.

I gave a little wave and headed over to find my table.

Scanning the room, I saw my sister, Meg, cross her eyes and raise her wine glass in a mock salute. Meg was the Langford real estate agent of choice for the wealthy and had been invited along with other top business leaders of the town. She knew I had just navigated a minefield with my emotionally distant in-laws. As soon as I reached my table, I quickly sat down and took a long drink of chardonnay.

Herend Chinese Bouquet china in pink, Gorham Newport Scroll sterling, and Baccarat crystal decorated each setting.

My gosh, they'll have to pat everyone down before they leave.

Murray Alfond, the famed orchestra leader, turned on his mic and said, "Please be seated while the bridal party arrives."

There was sustained applause as Charlotte and Brooks triumphantly paraded into the ballroom. "The bride and groom will dance to a classic personally chosen by Brooks," Alfond announced.

"The Very Thought of You" wafted through the room as Charlotte and Brooks took to the floor. They obviously had attended many ballroom dancing classes in preparation for this moment, and they danced impeccably.

Then the entire wedding party sashayed to "Fly Me to the Moon." It was like watching La La Land. They were all perfectly coiffed, dressed, and ready for filming. Plus, they could dance.

When they were done and returned to their seats, Alfond intoned, "Please bow your heads while Reverend Lucas Mathers says grace."

The Episcopal pastor of St. Andrew's, Reverend Mathers, was slightly rotund with flushed pink cheeks. He ran his hand through receding black hair, obviously feeling the weight of this moment. Then he bowed his head.

"Dear Holy Father, thank you for this glorious day! What a wonderful celebration! We ask you to bless Charlotte and Brooks, as well as their families and friends, and we beseech you to grant this special couple a life together that is happy and blessed. We further ask you to bless this fabulous repast and grant your blessings on all present. Amen."

Gee, that was short. He must be hungry.

A phalanx of waiters served the first course of spring green and white asparagus spears with shaved red onion. As we started in on the delicate vegetables, the best man, Ry Farmington, took the microphone and asked all to raise their glasses in a toast to the couple.

"Brooks has been like a brother to me since our first day at Hollis in Harvard Yard. We've seen many adventures together—none of which, out of respect for your patience and his reputation, I will go into here."

He paused for applause and a few knowing hoots.

"In the words of the Bard,
No sooner met but they looked;
No sooner looked but they loved;
No sooner loved but they sighed;
No sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason;
No sooner knew the reason, but they sought the remedy;
And in these degrees have made a pair of stairs to marriage
Please rise and toast to their lives together."

Six hundred guests rose and toasted the couple.

Then came truffle-scented tenderloin with dauphinoise potatoes and tender baby carrots. I snuck a look first at the Whitaker table and then at William and Lydia. They all seemed to be enjoying the meal, and I prayed that all the reviews would be excellent.

For dessert, a chocolate mousse with a crème brûlée center was placed at each setting. I knew the wedding cake would be cut and served later.

Just then, the wait staff re-entered the room. They set a Baccarat champagne flute filled with pink champagne at each place. A hush came over the ballroom. Dr. Whitaker was standing at the head table, staring the crowd into silence. Then he picked up his glass and smiled adoringly at Charlotte.

Everyone listened as he gave a long, loving toast to his daughter. Finally, he took a moment to gather his thoughts before saying, "Charlotte, your mother and I found this magnificent champagne in France a few years ago and had it shipped in for your wedding."

Mrs. Whitaker stared at Dr. Whitaker with a huge Miss America smile.

Dr. Whitaker continued, "Would everyone please rise and toast my lovely daughter Charlotte and her husband, Brooks." He lifted his crystal flute to his lips and took a sip while beaming at Charlotte.

Immediately, his cheeks turned scarlet, and he started to wheeze. The crystal dropped from his hand and shattered on the ground. He clutched at his throat while making extensive gasping attempts to pull in a breath. Then he went limp and collapsed to the floor. The room erupted into pandemonium.