Avery Baker and her stud-ly boyfriend (and business partner) Derek Ellis are busy renovating a 200+year old Colonial house on Rowanberry Island just off the coast of Maine. It is going to be a huge undertaking, but a similar house on the same island shows what a great beauty the old structure will be when everything is finished.
On their way to work one day, Avery and Derek discover the body of a woman in the water not far from the island. A few days later another woman is found floating close to the harbor. When Avery finds a secret room in the house they are renovating, she begins to wonder if all the three events might be connected. And try as she may to stay out of the police investigation, she keeps turning up clues that involve the history of her house, the island smuggling history and possibly Russian correlation between the murder victims as well. But will Avery be able to patch together the truth before the killer comes looking for her?
Mystery author Jennie Bentley has nailed together another great mystery with MORTAR AND MURDER, the fourth installment of her Do-It-Yourself Mystery series. Bentley keeps the action moving along in this charming tale, and readers will enjoy how the relationship between the two main characters is progressing from book to book. Tips for stenciling and creating false paneling are included for those inclined to try home projects for themselves.
When Avery and Derek take on the renovation of a decrepit
1783 center-chimney Colonial house on a remote island off
the coast of Maine, they soon get more than they bargained
for.
A grumpy thriller-writing neighbor, a mysterious animal
that lives under the porch, and the dead body of a young
woman floating in the ocean between Rowanberry Island and
Waterfield Harbor conspire to make this the most thrilling
and dangerous renovation Avery has ever undertaken.
EXCERPT
Derek aimed the boat towards a small cove and rocky beach
and cut the engine. βThereβs our house. See it?β
I nodded. I did. It was big and square, positioned with its
rear against a backdrop of dark pine trees and bare birches
and oaks, getting closer every second as we drifted toward
shore. The chimney had fallen in, there was a hole in the
roof, more than half the windows were broken, and there
wasnβt a speck of paint left on the entire front of the
house, the old planks faded to a silvery gray from the
constant onslaught of wind, sun, and salt. I shuddered.
βIsnβt she a beauty?β Derek said, and meant it. His entire
attention was focused on the house, his eyes soft and
dreamy, and his mouth curved in an adoring smile. Another
woman might have felt a twinge of jealousyβI donβt think
Melissa had ever understood why heβd look at a run-down
wreck of a house with more emotion than he ever showed herβ
but Iβve gotten used to it. Itβs no reflection of how he
feels about me, itβs just how he feels about old houses. It
seemed a pity to disturb his no doubt beautiful dreams;
however, I didnβt have a choice.
βDerek? Look out. Youβre about to hit the dock. β Literally.
βOops.β His eyes came back into focus, and he made the
necessary adjustments to bring the boat up alongside the
decrepit-looking dock leaning into the water at a
precarious angle. βSorry about that.β
βNo problem. Is the dock safe, do you suppose?β
βIβm sure it is,β Derek said, looping a rope around a pylon
and bringing the boat to a rocking stop. He bounced out and
onto the dock, which looked to me as if it could break into
pieces under his booted feet at any moment. Miraculously,
it held. βCβmon.β
He reached down. I grabbed his hand and used the support to
get to my feet, unsteadily. Growing up on the coast of
Maine, Derek had been in and out of boats his entire life.
I was born and raised in Manhattan, and the closest Iβd
ever gotten to a boat was the occasional trip on the Circle
Line, when friends from away came to visit.
βUpsy-daisy.β He lifted me onto the dock. Sometimes itβs
nice to be short. Especially when your boyfriend is a
strapping six feet or so, and used to hauling lumber and
other heavy objects. I totteredβjust slightly on purpose;
the dock was slippery and about as wobbly as it lookedβand
he put an arm around me to steady me. I leaned in. The
puffy orange life west made cuddling less fun than usual,
but his arm was nice and warm and solid through the wool
sweater, and the brisk wind hadnβt managed to eradicate his
particular aroma: Ivory soap and shampoo mixed with paint
thinner and sawdust. Mmmm!
All too soon he let me go, though, and turned to survey the
house again.
I sighed. βYouβre more comfortable in the boat than I am.
Why donβt you hand the stuff up to me, and then weβll carry
it to the house together.β
βSure.β He tore his gaze away and went back into the boat.
He lifted and I caught for a few minutes, and then we
picked up what we could carry, and started across the
meadow toward the house.
Iβm not sure what the reason was; whether it was that this
was the first time Iβd seen the place clearly, in bright
sunshine, since early Novemberβand the light hadnβt been
that good then, with the fog and the rainβor whether it was
because this was the first time Iβd seen the house
uncovered by snow while we owned it... but I was aware of a
horrible sinking feeling in my stomach. Had it really
always looked this bad? Or had the winter months and the
snow done a number on the place so that it now needed
another ten or twenty thousand dollars worth of work above
and beyond what we had expected to put into it? Had the
hole in the roof always been so big? Had there always been
so many broken windows? And how was it possible that I
hadnβt noticed how the whole thing tilted to the right like
something out of Dr. Seuss?!
βWhat?β Derek asked when I stopped dead in the middle of
the grass, my eyes round. βYou OK, Tink? You look like
youβre gonna faint.β
βI feel like Iβm going to faint,β I said. βDid it always
look this bad?β
He stared at it. For a long time, before he turned back to
me. βPretty much, yeah.β
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