Death at the Daisy Chain Inn

• Chapter 1 Check-In and Chaos
• Chapter 2 Burnt Scones and Broken Pipes
• Chapter 3 The Guest in Room Four
• Chapter 4 A Body Before Breakfast
• Chapter 5 Enter the Detective
• Chapter 6 Powdered Sugar and Poison
• Chapter 7 Sifting Through the Clues
• Chapter 8 Creaking Floorboards
• Chapter 9 An Unwelcome Alibi
• Chapter 10 Flirting with Disaster
• Chapter 11 Scrambled Suspects
• Chapter 12 Footprints in the Garden
• Chapter 13 The Daisies Keep Secrets
• Chapter 14 Tea for Two, Minus One
• Chapter 15 A Grumpy Interrogation
• Chapter 16 The Attic's Hidden Ledger
• Chapter 17 Smoke in the Kitchen
• Chapter 18 Whispers in the Foyer
• Chapter 19 Late-Night Lurkers
• Chapter 20 Piecing the Petals Together
• Chapter 21 Detective's Warning
• Chapter 22 Check-Out Time Approaches
• Chapter 23 The Secret Passage
• Chapter 24 Caught in the Parlor
• Chapter 25 The Final Course
• Chapter 26 Fresh Flowers, Fresh Start

The brass doorbell of the Daisy Chain Inn did not chime so much as it shuddered, letting out a wheezing clatter that sounded like a tin can full of loose bolts tumbling down an iron staircase.

Maisy Clark froze, a bottle of wood polish in one hand and a fraying microfiber rag in the other. She took a slow, measured breath, letting the pungent scent of lemon oil, damp plaster, and aging wallpaper settle into her lungs. It was three o’clock on a Friday afternoon in late September, the exact hour she had marked on the antique desk calendar in thick, green ink: Grand Opening. First Guests Arrive.

Up until this precise second, the concept of guests had been largely theoretical. For three grueling months, guests were abstract figures meant to justify the endless sanding of heart-pine floors, the cursing at corroded brass plumbing, and the reckless drainage of her entire life savings. Now, someone was actually standing on the wrap-around porch of the three-story Queen Anne Victorian that Maisy had impulsively purchased after losing both her corporate marketing job and her patience with city life.

"Showtime," she whispered to the empty, echoing foyer.

She shoved the polish and rag under the mahogany reception desk, smoothed down the front of her linen apron—which was only slightly smudged with soot from her morning wrestling match with the parlor fireplace—and pasted on what she hoped was a radiant, professional smile. She crossed the patterned runner, unbolted the heavy oak door, and pulled it wide.

A blast of crisp coastal air swept inside, rustling the dried floral arrangements she had spent four hours arranging yesterday. Standing on the welcome mat was a tall, sharply dressed woman in an immaculate beige trench coat. She held a leather designer tote in the crook of her arm and was glaring intently at the screen of a smartphone, her manicured thumb flicking frantically. Behind her stood two matching hardshell suitcases, positioned with military precision.

"Welcome to the Daisy Chain Inn," Maisy said, aiming for a pitch of warm hospitality that wouldn't betray the fact that her knees were trembling. "I’m Maisy Clark, your host."

The woman looked up. Her eyes were sharp, pale gray, and surrounded by fine tension lines. Her lips were painted the shade of a fresh bruise. "Do you have cell service here, or have I officially crossed into the nineteenth century?"

"Reception can be a little spotty near the cliffs," Maisy admitted, stepping aside and gesturing inward. "The hills tend to block the tower from the village, but we have high-speed Wi-Fi throughout the house. The password is on the desk card. Please, come on in out of the breeze."

The woman sighed—a heavy, theatrical expulsion of air that suggested the entire universe was an inconvenience designed specifically to test her endurance. She dragged her suitcases across the threshold, their tiny wheels rumbling loudly against the uneven oak boards. "I certainly hope the internet works. I have an international conference call in an hour, and my firm does not pay me to admire Victorian molding. I’m Victoria Vance. Room Three, I believe."

"Yes, of course! The Wisteria Suite," Maisy said, hurrying behind the tall, curved reception desk that had once served as the counter of a dry goods store in town. She pulled the heavy leather-bound guest ledger toward her, though she had memorized the four names on the weekend roster weeks ago. Victoria Vance was her very first booking, secured the day the inn’s fledgling website had gone live. "You have the corner room overlooking the perennial garden. The afternoon light is wonderful up there."

"As long as it has a firm mattress, running hot water, and absolute quiet, it will do," Victoria said curtly. She pulled a pristine titanium credit card from her wallet and dropped it onto the counter with a sharp clack. "Are there many other people staying here?"

"A full house for our opening weekend," Maisy said proudly, taking the card to swipe it through the modern terminal she had finally managed to link to the bank just yesterday afternoon. "Four rooms booked in total. A cozy, intimate atmosphere."

Victoria frowned, scanning the grand staircase with an arched brow that took in the slightly crooked banister, the velvet curtains that had seen better decades, and the faint, unmistakable smell of linseed oil. "Let’s hope your definition of 'cozy' doesn't mean thin walls. I'm a light sleeper, Miss Clark. The slightest thump keeps me awake, and when I don't sleep, I become exceptionally unpleasant."

I can't imagine you being much more unpleasant than you are now, Maisy thought cheerily, keeping the smile glued to her face.

"The walls are solid horsehair plaster, Mrs. Vance. Sound doesn't travel easily through two centuries of timber," Maisy lied smoothly, having spent the previous evening listening to the neighbor’s golden retriever bark at the wind from three properties away. She handed back the credit card along with a heavy, ornate brass key attached to a pressed-flower fob. "Room Three is at the top of the stairs, second door on the left. Would you like a hand with your luggage?"

"No. I prefer handling my own belongings," Victoria said. She snatched the key, gripped the handles of her luggage, and began the ascent. Every click of her designer heels on the wood echoed through the cavernous entry hall.

Maisy watched her reach the landing, waiting for the floorboards to creak beneath the woman's brisk stride, and let out a long breath the moment the door to Room Three clicked shut.

One down, Maisy thought. Nobody died, the card went through, and the ceiling didn't fall on her head. A roaring success.

She barely had time to wipe the counter before the brass bell clattered into violent hysterics a second time.

Maisy sprang forward, eager to maintain momentum. When she opened the door this time, she was met not with corporate severity, but with a wall of brightly colored fleece and enthusiastic chatter.

"Oh, Arthur, look at the fretwork! Isn't it darling? Look at that gingerbread trim along the porch!"

A plump woman in an emerald green windbreaker, sporting a shock of short, curly white hair, stood beaming at the porch ceiling. Beside her was a shorter, rounder man wearing khaki trousers, a beige cardigan, and wire-rimmed glasses that magnified his watery blue eyes to comical proportions. He was clutching a pair of binoculars around his neck and looking thoroughly bewildered.

"I hope there are no bats in the eaves, Brenda," the man muttered mildly. "You know how bats get into things. Remember the cabin in Duluth?"

"Oh, hush, Arthur, there are no bats. Hello, dear!" Brenda turned her wide, crinkling smile onto Maisy. "You must be the proprietor! We saw the write-up in the regional heritage brochure. It said 'Historic Charm on the Coastal Bluffs,' and I told Arthur, that’s just the ticket for our thirty-fifth anniversary!"

Maisy felt the tightness in her shoulders drop a few inches. "Happy anniversary! Welcome to the Daisy Chain. I’m Maisy. You must be the Millers."

"Brenda and Arthur," Brenda confirmed, stepping right past Maisy into the hallway and drawing in a deep, appreciative sniff. "Oh, Arthur, smell that? Real wood polish. Not that synthetic aerosol nonsense they spray in the budget motels. Real elbow grease."

"Smells like lemons," Arthur observed cautiously, following his wife inside while dragging two soft-sided duffel bags that looked like they had accompanied the couple on every vacation since 1989. "My sinuses are sensitive to citrus, Brenda."

"Your sinuses are sensitive to the concept of breathing, Arthur," Brenda dismissed cheerfully. She turned back to Maisy, leaning over the reception desk with familiar warmth. "Tell me, dear, do you do an afternoon tea? My knees are a bit stiff from the drive up the coast, and Arthur gets terribly cranky if he doesn't have a biscuit by four o’clock."

"I have fresh chamomile and Earl Grey in the parlor," Maisy said quickly, internally calculating whether she had set out the shortbread yet or if it was still sitting on the cutting board in the kitchen. "And I baked some lemon-rosemary shortbread this morning."

Arthur’s face fell slightly. "Lemon?"

"Very subtle lemon," Maisy corrected instantly. "Mostly butter. Almost entirely butter, really."

Arthur nodded, appeased. "Butter is acceptable."

"Room One is on the ground floor, just past the parlor library," Maisy explained, retrieving another brass key. "The Rose Suite. King bed, private bath with the original clawfoot tub, and direct access to the back veranda."

"A clawfoot tub!" Brenda clapped her hands together. "Arthur, did you hear that? I’m going to soak until I look like a prune. Oh, thank you, Maisy. Take our bags, Arthur, don't just stand there like a statue."

Brenda bustled toward the corridor, steering her husband by his cardigan elbow like a tugboat maneuvering a barge. Maisy watched them disappear around the corner, charmed by their fussiness. This was what she had envisioned when she cashed out her 401(k): happy retired couples celebrating milestones, gentle clatter of teacups, the slow, idyllic rhythm of coastal life.

Then the front door, which Brenda had left slightly ajar, was kicked open with enough force that the brass doorstop groaned in protest.

A young woman stood in the doorway, framed against the graying late-afternoon sky. She was dressed in dark layers—oversized knit sweater, ripped jeans, combat boots—with dark hair pulled back into an intentionally messy bun. She carried a vintage canvas rucksack slung over one shoulder, and in her hands, she held a large, professional camera with a telephoto lens that looked heavy enough to be classified as a blunt weapon.

Behind her, drifting through the garden gate with a languid stride, came a man who looked like he had been manufactured in an upscale bohemian catalog. He had unruly sand-colored hair, wore an expensive leather jacket over a rumpled henley, and carried a scuffed leather duffel with the careless ease of someone who traveled constantly and cared very little about wrinkling his clothes.

"I told you the lighting would be flat by four," the woman said over her shoulder, not bothering to look at Maisy. "We lost the entire ridge line because you had to stop for artisanal cheese."

"Artisanal goat cheese, Chloe," the man replied, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that carried an easy, unbothered amusement. "Life is far too short to eat mass-produced cheddar simply to satisfy your neurotic obsession with golden hour."

The woman—Chloe—scoffed and stepped inside, finally registering Maisy’s presence behind the counter. Her dark eyes swept over the room, the wallpaper, and Maisy’s apron with swift, critical efficiency.

"Julian Vance?" Maisy ventured, glancing at the ledger.

The man stepped into the foyer, letting the heavy door shut behind him. He pulled off a pair of dark sunglasses and hooked them into his collar. He had striking, angular features, pale green eyes, and a sharp, cynical smile that seemed permanently affixed to his face. "Guilty as charged. And this charming storm cloud is Chloe Day, my assistant. I trust you received the wire for the reservation?"

"Everything is in order, Mr. Vance," Maisy said. Then, the surname clicked. "Vance? Are you by any chance related to Victoria Vance in Room Three?"

Julian’s smirk tightened into something considerably colder, though his tone remained light. "Ah. So dear Victoria has already arrived, has she? Punctual as ever. Tell me, did she complain about the dust, or did she skip straight to demanding the head of the local infrastructure committee over the lack of cell towers?"

"She was... very focused on her Wi-Fi connection," Maisy said tactfully.

Julian chuckled, a dry sound that had no real humor in it. "That’s my stepmother. Never misses an opportunity to audit reality. We are in Rooms Two and Four, correct?"

"Yes," Maisy said, picking up the remaining keys. "Room Two is the Ivy Room, on the second floor facing east. And Room Four is the Attic Loft, which has skylights overlooking the bay."

"I'll take the loft," Chloe said immediately, shifting her camera strap. "I need the angle for dawn shots."

"Be my guest," Julian said with a shrug. "I prefer to stay closer to sea level anyway. Less distance to fall if the house decides to slide down the bluff."

"The foundation has been inspected and certified completely secure, Mr. Vance," Maisy said, feeling a defensive prickle at the integrity of her Victorian money pit.

"I was joking, Miss Clark," Julian said, his green eyes fixing on hers with a sudden, unnerving intensity. "Relax. You look like you're waiting for the ceiling to cave in. Take a breath. It’s only the hospitality business."

"A business I intend to run well," Maisy replied, holding his gaze until he offered a faint, mock-conceding bow of his head.

"I have no doubt you will," he said smoothly. He took his key, tipped two fingers to his brow, and headed up the stairs, his boots nearly silent compared to Victoria's brisk clatter. Chloe followed without another word, her eyes already glued to the small LCD screen of her camera as she reviewed whatever photos she had taken on the way in.

Silence fell over the foyer once more, broken only by the rhythmic, stately tick-tock of the grandfather clock standing beside the parlor doors.

Maisy collapsed against the back of the reception desk, letting her head drop back against the floral wallpaper.

All four rooms were checked in. The inn was officially at capacity. She had managed the arrivals without spilling anything, without mixing up the keys, and without losing her temper. Sure, the guests consisted of a high-strung corporate lawyer, her cynical stepson who clearly despised her, a brooding photographer, and an elderly couple obsessed with biscuits and bat-free ceilings—not exactly a recipe for harmonious parlor games—but they were paying customers.

She pushed herself up, rubbing her temples. "Right. Tea. Then the prep for tomorrow’s breakfast."

The Daisy Chain’s kitchen was a vast, cavernous room that occupied the entire rear wing of the ground floor. It was an uneasy marriage of nineteenth-century infrastructure and modern culinary equipment. Along one wall sat an enormous, cast-iron Aga stove that had probably been installed during the McKinley administration; along the other sat a modern six-burner stainless steel range that Maisy had acquired at a restaurant liquidation auction.

In the center of the room sat a massive butcher-block table scarred with decades of knife marks.

Maisy filled a heavy porcelain teapot with boiling water, measured out loose Earl Grey, and arranged a dozen lemon-rosemary shortbread cookies onto a tiered silver platter. She carried the tray into the parlor, setting it on the low table between the velvet armchairs.

Arthur Miller was already there. He had settled into a high-backed wing chair near the bay window, a bird-watching field guide resting open on his lap, though his eyes were closed and a faint, whistling snore was issuing from his nose. On the sofa opposite him, Brenda was happily flipping through a stack of local antique magazines, looking up to give Maisy a conspiratorial wink.

"He lasted ten minutes," Brenda whispered. "Fresh sea air knocks him flat every time. Oh, the tea looks lovely, dear. You're an angel."

"Enjoy," Maisy whispered back. "Let me know if you need anything else."

She retreated to the kitchen, rolling up her sleeves. Tomorrow morning was the true test. A bed-and-breakfast lived and died by the second half of its title. If the scones were dry, the eggs rubbery, or the coffee weak, the online reviews would crucify her before her first month was out. She needed to prep the dry ingredients for the morning pastries, chop the herbs for the frittata, and make sure the milk delivery had arrived in the side cooler.

She pushed open the heavy wooden back door that led to the kitchen garden and the delivery alley.

The cool autumn air hit her again, carrying the rich, salty tang of the Atlantic Ocean, just a quarter-mile down the cliffs. The garden was a tangle of wild blackberry briars, overgrown lavender, and dying autumn hydrangeas, all hemmed in by a white picket fence that leaned drunkenly toward the south. Maisy had prioritized the interior of the house, meaning the yard looked like the setting of a gothic novel where several people had probably been buried in shallow graves.

She stepped out onto the gravel path to check the heavy, insulated milk box attached to the rear gate.

Before she reached it, she heard voices.

They were hushed, fierce, and coming from the shadowed recess beneath the old wooden fire escape that clung to the side of the inn’s north wing.

Maisy paused, her sneakers silent on the packed earth.

"...told you not to contact me here," a woman’s voice snapped. It was tight, brittle, and unmistakably Victoria Vance. "This weekend was supposed to be strictly business. You had no right to follow me."

"I have every right when my future is on the line, Victoria," a man’s voice answered. Julian. The drawling, careless amusement he had displayed in the foyer was completely gone, replaced by a harsh, grating edge. "You think you can just alter the terms without my signature? Without my consent?"

"Your consent isn't required anymore," Victoria hissed. "Read the paperwork. Or better yet, have that little camera girl of yours read it to you if the legal terminology is too complicated for your artistic sensibilities. The trust dissolves on the first of the month. You get what your father allocated, and not a penny more."

"You manipulative—"

"Watch your tongue, Julian," Victoria warned, her voice dropping to a vicious, icy whisper. "I built that firm alongside him while you were wandering around Europe spending your inheritance on vintage motorcycles and bad art. You won't see another dime. And if you make a scene this weekend, I will ensure that even your father’s personal bequests are tied up in probate until you’re old enough to need a walker. Do you understand me?"

A heavy, suffocating silence fell between them. Maisy stood frozen behind a thick stand of overgrown lilac bushes, barely daring to breathe. The gravel crunched softly as one of them shifted their weight.

"You're making a terrible mistake," Julian said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "A very dangerous one."

"Is that a threat?" Victoria asked with a dry, bitter laugh. "Please. You don't have the stomach for it."

The sound of sharp footsteps clicked rapidly along the flagstone path toward the side porch, accompanied by the rustle of a trench coat. Victoria rounded the corner of the house and disappeared inside, the screen door slapping shut behind her with a sharp bang.

Julian didn't follow immediately. Maisy caught a glimpse of him through the branches. He stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, staring down at the crushed stone path, his face twisted in a look of absolute, venomous fury. He kicked a loose rock with the toe of his boot, sending it skittering against the stone foundation, then turned and stalked off toward the front of the property.

Maisy waited until the garden was completely still before she let out the breath trapped in her chest.

"Well," she muttered to an overgrown hydrangea head. "That's wonderful. A family feud under my roof."

She grabbed the glass bottles of whole milk from the delivery box, hugging them cold against her apron, and hurried back into the safety of the warm kitchen. It wasn't her business. Families fought. Estranged stepchildren and stepparents argued over money every day in every town in the country. It was awkward, yes, and it made the atmosphere in the parlor a little tense, but it wasn't her concern. Her concern was baking scones that didn't resemble hockey pucks.

She spent the next two hours setting out mixing bowls, measuring flour, sugar, and baking powder, and whisking together the base for the morning’s egg bake. By six o'clock, the sun had dipped below the tree line, plunging the kitchen into deep amber shadows before Maisy flicked on the overhead pendant lights.

The house had settled into an uneasy calm. From the parlor, she could hear the faint, muffled sound of Brenda Miller laughing at a television program on the small set in the corner. From upstairs, the occasional heavy footstep indicated that Julian and Victoria were still pacing their respective rooms, likely plotting each other's financial ruin.

Around seven, Arthur wandered into the kitchen, looking thoroughly rested and vaguely hopeful.

"Brenda sent me to ask about dinner," he said, hovering near the pantry door like a cautious badger. "The brochure mentioned local dining options."

"The Black Anchor Tavern is just a five-minute walk down the lane toward the harbor," Maisy told him, wiping her hands on a towel. "Excellent clam chowder and fresh haddock. Or there’s a lovely little Italian place called Luigi's if you prefer pasta."

"Haddock sounds marvelous," Arthur said, his eyes lighting up. "Brenda loves haddock. Less fuss than lobster. She makes a terrible mess with the claw crackers."

"Take the path by the front gate and head left. You can't miss it," Maisy smiled.

Within twenty minutes, the front door opened and closed as the Millers set off for dinner. Maisy was wiping down the front desk when Julian Vance descended the stairs. He had changed into a dark wool sweater, looking remarkably composed, not a trace of the murderous expression she had seen in the garden remaining on his handsome face.

"Going out for the evening, Mr. Vance?" she asked pleasantly.

"Just down to the village for a drink and some air," he said smoothly, flashing that easy, practiced smile. "The ambiance here is lovely, Miss Clark, but I require slightly more alcohol than tea can provide."

"The Black Anchor has a full bar," she offered.

"Perfect. Have a good evening." He stepped out into the twilight, letting the heavy door close behind him.

Maisy checked the hallway. Room Four was dark, meaning Chloe had likely sneaked out earlier with her camera, chasing the last remnants of dusk along the rocky cliffs. Room Three remained utterly silent. Victoria had not requested tea, had not asked about dinner, and had not come down the stairs.

Maisy hesitated, then walked up to the second floor landing. The plush runner swallowed the sound of her footsteps. She paused outside the door of Room Three. Beneath the crack of the door, a line of bright light spilled onto the floorboards. She could hear the rhythmic, furious clatter of laptop keys, followed by an impatient mutter.

Victoria Vance was working. No doubt executing hostile takeovers or revising wills.

Maisy decided against knocking to offer a dinner recommendation. The woman had made it abundantly clear she wished to be left alone, and Maisy had no desire to invite another scowl.

She went back downstairs, deadbolted the heavy front door, and left the porch light burning.

By ten o'clock, Maisy was thoroughly exhausted. Her feet ached from pacing the hardwood, her shoulders were stiff from hours of rolling dough and scrubbing countertops, and her brain felt like wet sand. She did a final round of the ground floor, checking the parlor fireplace to ensure the embers were completely cold, turning off the lamps, and double-checking the locks.

From upstairs, she heard the heavy front door unlock and click shut—Julian and Chloe returning from the village, their voices low and indistinct as they climbed the stairs to their rooms. A few minutes later, Arthur and Brenda returned, whispering happily about the quality of the haddock and the size of the dessert portions before their bedroom door closed softly down the hall.

The house was asleep.

Maisy retreated to her private quarters—a small, cozy apartment tucked behind the kitchen in what had once been the scullery and housekeeper's quarters. It was modest, consisting of a tiny sitting room, a cramped bathroom, and a bedroom that barely fit a double bed, but it was hers.

She showered quickly, letting the hot water wash away the smells of bleach, floor wax, and citrus. She pulled on an oversized flannel nightshirt, turned off the bedside lamp, and crawled into bed.

The Daisy Chain Inn was full. Her life savings were on the line, but she had survived day one. Tomorrow morning, she would wake up at five, bake the scones, fry the bacon, pour the coffee, and officially cement her reputation as a charming New England innkeeper.

She pulled the quilt up to her chin, listening to the gentle, rhythmic hum of the wind whistling through the old eaves, and closed her eyes.

Somewhere in the deep, silent hours of the night, long after the grandfather clock chimed two, a sound broke through Maisy’s dreams.

It was not the wind.

It was a sharp, heavy thud from the floor directly above the parlor—a dull, unnatural impact that vibrated faintly through the old joists of the house. It was followed, a few seconds later, by the faint, muffled sound of a door clicking shut, and then complete, suffocating silence.

Maisy opened her eyes in the dark, her heart suddenly pounding against her ribs. She lay frozen, staring up at the plaster ceiling, straining her ears.

Nothing. Just the distant, ceaseless crashing of the ocean against the rocks.

Old houses settle, she told herself firmly, squeezing her eyes shut and pulling the blanket tighter. Beams shift. Furniture settles into the floorboards. It’s an old Victorian. It creaks.

She turned over onto her side, forcing her breathing to slow, willing herself to go back to sleep.

She had scones to bake at dawn.

The digital clock on Maisy’s bedside table read 5:02 AM when her eyes snapped open. The room was bathed in that peculiar, slate-gray hue that precedes a coastal dawn, when the fog rolls in off the Atlantic and presses its damp, heavy face against the windowpanes.

She lay motionless for a count of ten, listening intently. The strange, hollow thud that had jarred her awake hours earlier had not repeated itself. The only sounds filtering through the floorboards were the ambient complaints of the Victorian itself: the rhythmic shudder of window sashes against the morning sea breeze, the faint hiss of the ancient heating system attempting to clear its throat, and the distant, monotonous rhythm of waves chewing away at the foot of the bluffs.

Old wood, Maisy reminded herself as she swung her legs out of bed and planted her bare feet on the cold heart-pine floor. Expanding, contracting, and pretending to be a haunted house.

She pulled on a thick wool cardigan over a clean chambray shirt and faded denim, twisted her unruly auburn hair into a clip that only partially succeeded in taming it, and tied her favorite cream-colored apron securely around her waist. By five-fifteen, she was in the cavernous kitchen, flicking on the under-cabinet lighting.

The morning routine was designed to be a symphony of clockwork efficiency. First, grind the dark-roast beans from the roastery in Camden so the aroma of caffeine could permeate the house before the guests even thought about their slippers. Second, slide the pre-cut, chilled blueberry-buttermilk scones into the commercial oven. Third, begin the slow caramelization of the shallots for the herb frittata.

Everything began smoothly. The grinder growled with reassuring competence, filling the chilly air with the deep, nutty scent of toasted chicory and espresso beans. She measured the water into the massive copper-domed urn, flipped the toggle switch, and smiled as it began to gurgle into life.

Next came the scones. Maisy took the baking sheet from the reach-in refrigerator, where twelve perfect, triangular wedges of dough sat glistening beneath a delicate dusting of coarse turbinado sugar. She had chilled the butter meticulously, cutting it in by hand with two knives until it resembled small peas—the exact technique her grandmother had sworn would yield flaky, cloud-soft layers.

She turned to the sleek, stainless steel commercial range. It was a pre-owned beast she had purchased for a song from a failed bistro down in Portland, and while it looked professional, its temperature dial was more of an artistic suggestion than a calibrated instrument. She had set it to three hundred and seventy-five degrees twenty minutes ago.

She opened the heavy door, slid the tray onto the middle rack, and pushed the timer on the wall. Twenty minutes. Exactly twenty minutes to glorious, golden-crusted perfection.

"Right," Maisy said to the empty kitchen, clapping her hands together. "Stage two. Tea station."

She grabbed a large porcelain pitcher, marched over to the enormous cast-iron farm sink beneath the east window, and twisted the cold-water faucet.

The tap gave a violent shudder. A noise like a dyspeptic walrus echoed from deep within the wall cavity, rattling through the copper lines with enough force that the spoons on the nearby magnetic strip vibrated.

Maisy gripped the brass cross-handle and twisted harder. "Don't you dare start with me today," she warned the faucet. "Not on opening morning."

The pipe coughed. A single, muddy brown drop fell into the porcelain basin with a resonant plink. Then, with a hideous, grinding shriek, the plumbing shuddered violently from below the floorboards.

A muffled pop echoed from the basement directly beneath her feet.

Silence followed. Total, ominous silence.

Maisy stared at the faucet. She twisted the hot water tap. Nothing. Not a hiss, not a drip. The entire water supply had effectively flatlined.

"No, no, no," she muttered, dropping the empty pitcher onto the counter. "You passed inspection. The plumber charged me nine hundred dollars to certify you last Tuesday!"

She hurried across the kitchen, yanked open the narrow door that led down to the cellar, and flicked the switch. A naked sixty-watt bulb illuminated a flight of steep, open-backed wooden stairs leading down into the dark, stone-walled underbelly of the inn.

Even before she reached the bottom step, she heard the unmistakable sound of rushing water. It wasn't a civilized trickle; it was the energetic roar of an indoor waterfall.

"Oh, god," Maisy groaned, sprinting down the remaining stairs, her sneakers slapping against the damp concrete floor.

In the far corner of the cellar, right beside the ancient, hulking cast-iron furnace, an elbow joint in the main cold-water intake had completely sheared off. A high-pressure geyser of icy, subterranean water was arching through the air, drenching the stacked firewood, plastering an old cardboard box of spare tiles into soggy pulp, and rapidly transforming the floor into a shallow, gray pond.

The shut-off valve was an iron wheel located directly behind the ruptured pipe—squarely in the line of fire.

"Fantastic," Maisy muttered through gritted teeth. "Just five-star luxury hospitality."

She took a deep breath, braced herself, and charged into the spray.

The water was blindingly, agonizingly cold, straight from the deep coastal well. Within two seconds, her cardigan was saturated, her hair was plastered to her forehead, and her face was numb. Gasping for breath as the icy jet hit her square in the chest, she reached blindly through the torrent, her fingers slipping against the slick iron spokes of the shut-off wheel.

It didn't budge. Decades of calcium deposits and sea-air corrosion had welded the valve into place.

"Turn, you miserable piece of junk!" Maisy roared, throwing her entire body weight against the wheel.

Her foot slipped on the slick concrete. She caught herself on the brick foundation wall, skinning her knuckles, but the shock of pain only made her angrier. Gritting her teeth, she gripped the wheel with both hands, hooked her boot against a floor beam for leverage, and wrenched it clockwise with every ounce of frustration she had accumulated since she first signed the mortgage deed.

With a horrifying metallic groan, the valve broke free. It turned a quarter of a turn. Then another.

The roar of the geyser died down to a spluttering hiss, then a messy cascade, and finally tapered off into a pathetic, dripping leak.

Maisy stood there in three inches of standing water, soaked to the bone, water dripping steadily from the tip of her nose and her eyelashes. Her teeth were chattering violently. She wiped her eyes with the soggy sleeve of her sweater, looking down at the ruined cellar floor.

"Well," she whispered, her voice trembling from the cold. "That was refreshing."

Then, through the floorboards above her, she caught the faint, undeniable scent of something burning.

Her eyes went wide. "The scones!"

Forgetting the flood, the skinned knuckles, and the freezing water squelching inside her sneakers, Maisy scrambled back up the cellar stairs three at a time.

She burst into the kitchen just as a thick, gray plume of acrid smoke began curling out from the vents of the stainless steel oven. The digital timer on the wall was flashing, its shrill, cheerful chime completely lost beneath the hiss of dripping water and her own ragged breathing.

"Cancel! Cancel!" she shrieked, slamming her palm into the range's control panel.

She grabbed a pair of dry silicone mitts, threw open the oven door, and was immediately enveloped in a cloud of burnt sugar and scorched flour. Coughing violently, she dragged the heavy baking sheet out and slammed it onto the butcher-block island.

Her grandmother’s pride and joy—twelve delicate, artisanal blueberry-buttermilk scones—looked like an assortment of charcoal briquettes retrieved from the bottom of an abandoned barbecue pit. The bottoms were welded to the parchment paper in a shiny, obsidian crust; the blueberries had burst and caramelized into bitter, smoking tar; and the turbinado sugar had fused into a crisp layer of soot.

"Three hundred and seventy-five degrees my foot," Maisy gasped, waving a dish towel frantically in a desperate attempt to disperse the smoke before it reached the ceiling.

It was too late.

Directly above the kitchen island, the modern, ultra-sensitive optical smoke detector that Maisy had personally installed to comply with local commercial lodging regulations let out an ear-piercing, blood-curdling screech.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! FIRE IN THE KITCHEN! EVACUATE! BEEP! BEEP!

"Shut up! Shut up!" Maisy yelled, lunging toward the wall with a broom, swinging the handle wildly to strike the silence button. On the third swing, the broomstick cracked against the plastic housing, sending the battery cover skittering across the floor, but the alarm continued its hysterical, electronic wail.

From the hallway outside the swinging kitchen doors came the frantic sound of rapid footsteps.

A second later, the door swung open, and Arthur Miller appeared. He was wearing navy blue flannel pajamas featuring a print of tiny yellow lighthouses, a matching nightcap that drooped over one ear, and his thick glasses, which were completely fogged up from the sudden transition from cold corridor to smoky kitchen. In his hands, he held a plastic shoehorn like a dagger.

"Brenda! Stay back!" Arthur bellowed gallantly toward the foyer, brandishing the shoehorn at the smoking oven. "I believe the establishment is ablaze!"

"It’s not ablaze, Mr. Miller!" Maisy shouted over the wailing siren, still soaked, holding the broom like a javelin while soot-stained water dripped from her cardigan onto the floor. "It’s just breakfast! I burnt the scones!"

Arthur stopped, lowering the shoehorn. He blinked through his misty lenses, trying to focus on Maisy, who looked less like an idyllic country innkeeper and more like a shipwreck survivor who had lost an argument with a chimney sweep.

"Ah," Arthur said, his voice instantly dropping back to its mild, conversational cadence. "Burnt them, did you? Brenda often burns the toast. I tell her to scrape it over the sink, but she says the charcoal is good for digestion."

"I am so sorry for the noise," Maisy apologized desperately, finally managing to jam the tip of the broom handle into the small hush button.

The screaming alarm cut off mid-shriek. The sudden, deafening silence that rushed into the kitchen was broken only by the steady drip-drip of water running off Maisy’s hemline and the faint, sullen hiss of the ruined pastries cooling on the counter.

Before Maisy could offer another word of apology, a voice cut through the lingering smoke like an ice pick.

"What, precisely, is the meaning of this amateur circus?"

Maisy closed her eyes for a brief, pained second before turning around.

Standing just inside the kitchen doorway was Julian Vance. Unlike Arthur, who looked delightfully ridiculous in his lighthouse pajamas, Julian looked impeccably put together, even at six in the morning. He wore a crisp charcoal henley, dark trousers, and wool socks. His sand-colored hair was casually tousled in that way that usually required twenty minutes in front of a mirror to achieve, and his green eyes swept the disaster zone with cold, clinical amusement.

"Good morning, Mr. Vance," Maisy said through gritted teeth, maintaining what dignity she had left while standing in a puddle of her own making. "We had a small... mechanical malfunction."

"A malfunction," Julian repeated, arching an eyebrow. He stepped farther into the room, leaning casually against the doorframe. "You appear to have tried to extinguish a minor kitchen fire with your own body, Miss Clark. Either that, or you take early morning swimming very seriously."

"A pipe burst in the basement," she said stiffly. "The water main is currently shut off while I arrange repairs. And the oven runs hot. I apologize for disturbing your sleep."

"Oh, don't worry about my sleep," Julian drawled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Between the floorboards groaning like a galleon in a hurricane and the dulcet tones of your local emergency broadcast system, I gave up on rest around four."

Behind him, Chloe Day appeared. She was wearing an oversized black hoodie that swallowed her hands, dark skinny jeans, and heavy black-framed reading glasses. She carried a steaming mug in one hand, looking remarkably alert for someone who had allegedly been prowling the cliffs the night before.

"Is the coffee made?" Chloe asked, completely ignoring the smoke, the standing water, and Maisy’s drenched state. Her gaze zeroed directly in on the large copper urn on the side counter.

"Yes," Maisy said, nodding toward the stack of ceramic mugs beside it. "The coffee is fresh."

Chloe didn't wait for further pleasantries. She stepped around Julian, poured herself a full mug, and took a deep, scalding sip, sighing faintly as the caffeine hit her system. "At least something works," she muttered under her breath, turning to leave.

"Chloe," Julian called out smoothly, though his eyes remained fixed on Maisy. "Did you see Victoria this morning?"

Chloe stopped on the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder. Her expression was completely flat, an impenetrable mask of indifference. "No. Why would I?"

"Her light was on when I went down to the garden at five," Julian said, his voice entirely devoid of the warmth he had faked yesterday afternoon. "And her laptop wasn't making its usual frantic racket. I figured she might have come down for an early start on terrorizing the locals."

"I haven't seen her," Chloe said bluntly. "Ask the front desk."

With that, she slipped through the swinging doors and disappeared down the hall.

Arthur, who had wandered closer to the butcher-block table, was peering intently at the charred remains of the scones. "You know, Maisy dear, if you slice the tops off, the middle might still be edible. A bit of clotted cream can cover a multitude of culinary sins."

"That is very kind of you, Mr. Miller," Maisy said, summoning a fragile, exhausted smile. "But I wouldn't dream of serving these to paying guests. I have plenty of eggs, and I can whip up some fresh drop biscuits in fifteen minutes once I get the secondary water line from the pantry running."

"Biscuits sound lovely," Arthur beamed. "Brenda loves a drop biscuit. I’ll go tell her she can come out from under the covers. She thought the chimney had collapsed."

He shuffled out of the kitchen, his slippers scuffing softly along the linoleum, leaving Maisy alone with Julian.

Julian didn't leave. He lingered by the island, tapping his fingers against the worn maple surface, his eyes flicking from the ruined pastries to the dripping ceiling above the pantry door.

"You have a real knack for this, don't you?" he remarked, a faint, mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "The authentic historic experience. Floods, famine, and fire alarms."

Maisy picked up a dry rag and began violently scrubbing the counter around the burnt baking sheet, using the physical exertion to keep from throwing a wet dishcloth directly into his handsome, irritating face.

"Every historic home has growing pains, Mr. Vance," she said evenly. "If you are unhappy with the accommodations, I would be more than happy to refund your stay and help you find a chain motel out on the highway. I believe the one by the interstate has running water and very reliable, plastic-wrapped muffins."

Julian chuckled, a low, gravelly sound. "And miss the rest of the show? Not a chance, Miss Clark. I find high-stress environments utterly fascinating. Besides, I have business here this weekend. Unfinished business."

Maisy paused her scrubbing, looking up at him. His expression had shifted, the amused cynicism giving way to something harder, something calculating and cold. She was suddenly reminded of the vicious argument she had overheard beneath the fire escape the evening before—the venom in his voice, the way he had warned Victoria that she was making a dangerous mistake.

"Your stepmother seemed quite busy yesterday," Maisy said carefully, keeping her tone light. "I believe she mentioned an international conference call."

Julian's eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle tightening at the corners that signaled his guard had snapped into place. "Victoria is always busy. She manufactures urgency the way other people manufacture widgets. It keeps her from having to face the fact that nobody actually likes her."

"That's a rather harsh assessment of family," Maisy observed.

"We aren't family," Julian said coldly. "We're co-signers on a corporate disaster. There’s a distinct difference."

He turned on his heel and walked toward the door. Just before pushing it open, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "If you do manage to find her this morning, Miss Clark, do let me know. She has some documents that require my signature, and I would hate for her to leave the county without giving me the opportunity to review them."

He pushed through the swinging door, leaving Maisy alone in the quiet, smoky kitchen.

"Right," she muttered aloud, staring at the closed door. "Totally normal, well-adjusted family dynamics."

She dropped the rag, looked down at her sodden clothes, and blew a damp strand of hair out of her eyes. First things first: she needed dry clothes, a pair of heavy-duty pipe wrenches, and an emergency plumber who was willing to come out on a Saturday morning for an exorbitant amount of cash.

She hurried to her private quarters behind the pantry, stripped out of the freezing denim and soaked wool, and changed into a dry pair of corduroy trousers and a thick cable-knit sweater. She towel-dried her hair as best she could, pulling it back into a tight ponytail, and shoved her feet into a pair of dry, sturdy work boots.

Armed with her smartphone, she emerged back into the kitchen and dialed the emergency number for the local plumbing service in town.

The phone rang four times before a gravelly, sleep-roughened voice answered. "Harbor Plumbing and Heating. This better be an actual river."

"Mr. Higgins? It’s Maisy Clark from the Daisy Chain Inn," she said, leaning against the counter. "I have an emergency. The cold-water intake elbow sheared right off at the furnace junction. The basement has about three inches of water, and the whole house is shut down."

A heavy sigh crackled through the receiver. "The old MacIntyre place? I told the previous owner three years ago that whole galvanized section needed to be ripped out and replaced with PEX. That line was installed when Eisenhower was playing golf."

"Can you fix it?" Maisy pleaded, ready to offer her firstborn child. "I have a full house of guests. They need showers, I need water for coffee, and I can't run a bed-and-breakfast without indoor plumbing."

"I'm out on a boiler call over in Northport," Higgins grunted. "Can't get out to the bluffs before ten, maybe ten-thirty. Best I can do is bring a couple of compression fittings and slap a temporary patch on the main line so you can turn the well pump back on. That'll get you through the weekend, but you're looking at a full repipe come Monday."

"Ten o'clock is fine. Ten o'clock is heavenly. Please, just come as soon as you can," Maisy said.

"Keep the main valve shut. Don't touch the pump breaker, or you'll burn out the motor. See you around ten." The line clicked dead.

Maisy set the phone down with a heavy breath. Ten o'clock meant four hours without running water.

She walked over to the dry-goods pantry. Fortunately, the previous owner had left behind an emergency supply of five-gallon bottled spring water in the storeroom, intended for hurricane season. She dragged two of the heavy plastic jugs out, hoisted one onto the counter, and used a clean pitcher to fill the large stainless steel kettle on the gas range.

Gas still worked. The range burners lit with a clean blue flame.

"Adapt and overcome," Maisy muttered to herself. "You worked six years in corporate crisis communications. You can handle twenty-four hours of pioneer living."

She set the kettle to boil for tea and dishwashing, then pulled down a large yellow mixing bowl. No scones. Scones were dead to her. Instead, she would make fluffy, fail-safe skillet drop biscuits. Flour, baking powder, salt, a pinch of sugar, and cold butter worked into the mix. She could bake them in the cast-iron skillets right on the stovetop if the oven decided to go rogue again, or she could use the small countertop toaster oven she kept in her private apartment.

For the next forty-five minutes, Maisy worked with furious, focused energy.

She whipped together the biscuit batter, portioned it onto a fresh tray, and coaxed the small countertop oven into baking them at a steady, civilized three hundred and fifty degrees. She whisked a dozen farm-fresh eggs with heavy cream, cracked black pepper, sea salt, and a handful of fresh chives snipped from the kitchen windowsill garden. She sliced thick rashers of applewood-smoked bacon and laid them across a heavy cast-iron griddle, the sizzle and savory aroma quickly overpowering the lingering stench of burnt dough.

By seven-fifteen, the kitchen smelled like heaven.

A silver basket lined with a crisp linen napkin held two dozen golden-brown, steaming drop biscuits, their buttery tops glistening. A large, beautiful frittata studded with goat cheese, caramelized leeks, and herbs was resting on a wooden trivet. A fresh pot of coffee was brewing from bottled spring water, and the copper urn was humming happily.

Maisy wiped down the center island, transferred the food onto heavy ceramic serving platters, and carried them through the swinging doors into the dining room.

The Daisy Chain's dining room was one of the house’s crowning glories. It featured a soaring, coved ceiling with original plaster medallions, wide bay windows that looked out over the cliffside gardens toward the sea, and a massive mahogany table that could seat ten with ease.

Maisy set the platters on the antique sideboard, arranged the floral-patterned china and polished silver flatware, and placed a crystal bowl of fresh blackberries and raspberries in the center of the table.

Arthur and Brenda Miller were already seated at the sunny end of the table. Brenda had changed into a cheerful lavender cardigan with pearl buttons, her white curls neatly brushed, looking utterly unperturbed by the morning’s fire alarm. Arthur was dressed in his beige cords and a fresh flannel shirt, happily sipping orange juice from a cut-crystal glass.

"Oh, Maisy, this looks absolutely divine!" Brenda beamed, clasping her hands together as Maisy brought over the warm biscuits. "Look at those biscuits, Arthur! Real country style. None of those frozen hockey pucks they serve at the chain places."

"They look very soft," Arthur agreed, adjusting his spectacles. "A good crumb. That's the secret to a biscuit. The crumb."

"I must apologize again for the disturbance this morning," Maisy said, setting down a pot of fresh raspberry preserves and a dish of sweet butter. "And I have to give you a slight warning: our main water line had a small rupture, so the running water is temporarily shut off until the plumber arrives at ten. There are fresh bottles of spring water on the sideboard, and I can bring warm basins up to your room if you'd like to freshen up."

"Oh, pish posh, dear," Brenda waved an airy hand. "We spent three summers in a camper van in the Yukon. Arthur and I know how to use a washbasin. As long as there’s hot coffee and bacon, you won't hear a peep out of us."

"You're far too kind," Maisy smiled, feeling a genuine wave of gratitude wash over her. "Please, help yourselves."

As Arthur reached eagerly for the bacon tongs, the dining room door swung open, and Chloe Day drifted inside. She had shed the oversized hoodie in favor of a chunky, dark-gray wool sweater that made her look even smaller than she was. Her heavy professional camera was slung across her chest like a bandolier, resting against her hip.

She didn't speak to the Millers, offering only a vague, barely perceptible nod in their direction before sliding into a chair at the far end of the table, as far away from the retired couple as geometry allowed.

"Morning," Chloe muttered, reaching immediately for the coffee carafe.

"Good morning, Chloe," Maisy said pleasantly, refusing to let the young woman’s prickly exterior dampen the dining room atmosphere. "Frittata is on the sideboard, fresh biscuits, and fruit."

"Just coffee and toast, if you have it," Chloe said, pouring a dark, steaming stream into her mug. "I don't eat heavy in the morning."

"I have the biscuits, or I can slice some sourdough," Maisy offered.

"A biscuit is fine." Chloe grabbed one with her fingertips, broke it in half without buttering it, and began chewing absently while her eyes flicked down to the camera resting in her lap. She clicked a button on the back, scrolling through images with her thumb, her expression tight and completely absorbed.

Julian Vance entered a moment later. He had swapped his henley for a heavy knit fisherman’s sweater in deep navy, looking like an advertisement for an upscale coastal retreat. He offered Brenda a dazzling, charm-offensive smile that made the older woman instantly sit up a little straighter.

"Good morning, everyone," Julian said smoothly. "I trust we all survived the morning’s acoustic performance?"

"Oh, Arthur handled it brilliantly," Brenda chuckled, patting her husband's arm. "He had his shoehorn ready to defend the hallway."

"A formidable weapon," Julian smiled, pulling out the chair across from Chloe. He served himself a generous portion of the frittata and two slices of bacon, glancing casually toward the empty chair at the head of the table.

"Still no sign of our esteemed legal counsel?" Julian asked, his voice casual, though Maisy caught the sharp, assessing glance he shot toward the hallway door.

"Mrs. Vance hasn't come down yet," Maisy said, picking up an empty tray. "I assumed she was sleeping in after her late night."

Julian paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Victoria? Sleeping in? That woman hasn't slept past five-thirty in thirty-five years. She considers unconsciousness a personal character flaw."

Brenda looked up from her plate, chewing thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, Arthur and I heard someone walking around upstairs quite early. Around four, wasn't it, Arthur? Pacing back and forth right above the Rose Suite."

"Heavy footsteps," Arthur confirmed between bites of biscuit. "Sounded like someone wearing hard-soled shoes. Pacing back and forth, from the window to the door. Kept me awake for twenty minutes. I thought about tapping on the radiator with a pen, but Brenda told me not to cause a fuss."

Julian’s smirk vanished, replaced by a subtle, contemplative stillness. He looked across the table at Chloe, but the young photographer didn't return his look; she remained focused entirely on the small LCD screen of her camera, though her thumb had stopped scrolling.

"Perhaps she’s on another conference call," Maisy suggested, feeling an instinctual need to maintain peace at the table. "She was very concerned about her internet connection yesterday."

"Or she's waiting for room service," Julian suggested, his tone dry and acidic once more. "She does love making people fetch things for her."

Maisy checked the grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room. It was eight-fifteen. Breakfast service was officially scheduled from eight to nine-thirty, but as an innkeeper, she didn't want a guest’s food to get cold, especially a guest who had already proven herself to be exceptionally demanding and quick to complain.

"I’ll run upstairs and check on her," Maisy said, picking up a small wicker basket and lining it with a clean napkin. "I can bring up a pot of fresh coffee and a warm plate if she's working."

"Good luck," Julian said under his breath, cutting into his eggs. "Bring a shield."

Maisy left the dining room, retreating to the kitchen to assemble a small, elegant breakfast tray. She arranged a ceramic mug, a miniature pot of hot coffee, two warm drop biscuits, a small ramekin of raspberry jam, and a single, perfect yellow daisy from the garden in a tiny glass bud vase. It looked charming, welcoming, and entirely professional. If Victoria Vance was going to leave a scathing review about the burst pipe or the burnt scones, Maisy was going to make sure the woman couldn't complain about the hospitality.

Carrying the heavy tray carefully with both hands, Maisy climbed the grand oak staircase.

The second-floor hallway was quiet, the gray morning light filtering through the stained-glass window at the far end and casting diamond-shaped pools of amber and amethyst across the runner carpet. The air up here was cooler than downstairs, carrying the faint, stale scent of old wood, aged plaster, and the distant salt of the sea.

She walked past Room Two—Julian's room, its door shut tight—and approached Room Three at the corner of the east wing.

The door was firmly closed.

Maisy paused outside, shifting the tray to balance on one forearm, and raised her knuckles to the heavy, dark paneling.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Mrs. Vance?" Maisy called out, pitching her voice in a bright, respectful tone. "Good morning. It’s Maisy. I noticed you hadn't come down for breakfast, so I brought up some fresh coffee and warm biscuits if you’d like them."

Silence.

Maisy waited, her head tilted toward the wood, listening for the telltale sounds of movement—the rustle of bedsheets, the clicking of heels, the sharp, impatient sigh that seemed to punctuate Victoria's every waking thought.

Nothing.

"Mrs. Vance?" Maisy tried again, knocking a little harder this time. The brass room key in the lock jingled slightly from the vibration. "Are you awake?"

The hallway remained utterly, unnervingly still.

A faint prickle of unease crawled up the back of Maisy’s neck. Victoria Vance was many things—abrupt, demanding, condescending—but she did not strike Maisy as the kind of person who ignored someone knocking on her door, if only for the opportunity to tell them to go away.

Maisy looked down at the brass doorknob. It was an antique, heavy cut-glass knob set in an ornate brass escutcheon plate.

Hesitating for a second, she reached out with her free hand and tested the knob.

It turned smoothly in her grip.

The door was unlocked.

Maisy nudged it forward an inch. "Mrs. Vance? Pardon me, I’m just going to leave the tray on the console table by the—"

She pushed the heavy oak door open into the room.

The heavy, velvet blackout curtains were drawn shut against the morning light, plunging the spacious corner suite into deep, murky shadows. The only illumination came from the dull, gray glow of a laptop screen sitting open on the mahogany writing desk against the far wall, its fan whirring with a faint, persistent hum.

The air in the room was shockingly cold. The narrow side window, the one leading out to the small iron fire escape overlooking the overgrown garden, was pushed open several inches, letting the damp sea breeze billow the white lace sheer curtains into the room like a ghost.

And then Maisy’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, traveling from the ruffled lace curtains down to the antique braided rug on the floor beside the four-poster bed.

The heavy silver breakfast tray slipped from Maisy’s hands.

The china shattered against the floorboards, hot coffee splashing across the rugs and her boots, the little glass vase splintering into a dozen sharp shards, but Maisy didn't feel the scalding liquid, and she didn't hear the crash.

She could only stare, frozen in sheer, unadulterated horror, at what lay on the floor.

Victoria Vance was lying face down on the braided rug, her arms splayed out awkwardly at her sides. She was still wearing the sharply tailored black trousers and silk blouse she had arrived in yesterday. Her pale hair was spread across the patterned wool, matted with something dark, thick, and glistening.

Beside her outstretched, lifeless hand lay an antique brass bookend from the mantelpiece—a heavy, sculpted replica of a clipper ship, its jagged metal keel smeared with crimson.

Victoria Vance wasn't working.

She wasn't on a conference call.

She was dead.