Holly and Homicide
A Domestic Bliss Mystery
Chapter One
The article about a grave robbery caught my attention. It was a short piece, only three or four column inches, on the second page of the Snowcap Village Gazette, which quoted a haughty wisecrack made by the local sheriff: “Probably another case of yuppie skiers robbing us of our ancestry, like the way they’re turning the Goodwin estate into the Wendell Barton B-and-B.” My heart started racing, and I thought: Here we go again.
Sullivan handed me a cup of coffee. Although he’d pulled on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt before heading downstairs to the kitchen of the aforementioned Goodwin estate, he slipped back under the covers beside me, his own cup in hand.
“Thanks, sweetie.” I took a tentative sip. Perfection.
“Did you see the story about the grave robbery in this week’s Gazette?”
“Yeah. Annoying potshot about the inn. Sheriff Mackey sounds like a major jerk.”
“No kidding.” Wendell Bart ...
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