Five years ago Caroline Fremont Jones fled the proper world of her native Boston for the independent life of a California private detective. But now, in the winter of 1909, she is grief-stricken to learn of her father’s grave illness.
Still hampered by half-healed injuries from her last adventure — but buoyed by her ever-deepening affection for her partner in love and work, Michael Kossoff — Fremont leaves sunny San Francisco for the ice-edged air and handsome mansions of Beacon Street.
Her visit has scarcely begun when her father, suffering from a malady not even his doctor can diagnose, takes a turn for the better ... only to die suddenly in the middle of the night. Fremont is certain her odious stepmother, Augusta, somehow caused her father’s death. But how? And did she have an accomplice?
Michael questions Fremont’s suspicions ... until an exotic piece of evidence and a second, violent death trigger an investigation that draws upon childhood memories and fears to become Fremont’s most personal one yet.
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|Title of Family & Relationships eBook: Beacon Street Mourning|
|Release Date: 12-18-2007|
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|Publisher: Random House Publishing Group|
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Beacon Street Mourning
San Francisco * January 1909
WITH THE TURN of the New Year came, as always, a time of resolutions and new beginnings. No more could I afford the vaguely pleasurable limbo in which I'd lately been floating. So I took stock and began to deal with feelings of guilt I had metaphorically swept under the carpet.
Since my return to San Francisco in early December from a certain trip I didn't even like to think about, I'd allowed myself to luxuriate in feelings of safety and belonging. I was daily overwhelmed with gratitude at simply finding myself alive-especially considering a number of things that had happened while I was away that might have produced quite the opposite result. There were times when to be alive and in love with my partner Michael Kossoff was almost more happiness than I could bear. Of course there were also times when I wished I were strong enough to throw him off the roof of our house at the top of Divisadero Street, but that's another story.
If I were honest, I had to admit that underneath my happiness ran a subterranean vein of the most profound disquiet, and in this vein lay the source of my guilt: deep concerns about my father. I was worried about his health and general well-being, certain I had good reason for worry, and yet I had done next to nothing.
Oh, I had a good excuse for my inaction: two broken legs that were excruciatingly slow to heal, and some unpleasant mental and emotional aftereffects of that aforementioned trip. I would have denied having any problem other than my legs if anyone had asked, especially Michael; lacking control over one's thoughts and feelings can be most distressing. My legs were stronger now-I had recent