The Murder of Twelve by Jessica Fletcher, John Land (Murder She Wrote Series, Book 51)
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.4 MB
In the latest entry in this USA Today bestselling series, Jessica Fletcher takes on an Agatha Christie-style mystery when she finds herself stranded in a hotel during a blizzard with twelve strangers and a killer in their midst….
Still staying at the Hill House hotel while her beloved home is being rebuilt, Jessica Fletcher finds herself sharing the space for a weekend with a dozen members of a wedding party who have gathered there for a rehearsal dinner. The families of the bride and groom can’t stand each other but have agreed to put aside years of long-simmering tension to celebrate the nuptials.
Unfortunately, weather forecasters underestimated the severity of a storm that turns into a historic blizzard that dumps nearly five feet of snow on Cabot Cove, leaving everyone stranded.
But the hotel guests have bigger things to worry about than bad weather conditions and potential cold feet, because a murderer has shown up ininvited-one who has vowed to take them down one by one….
Gonna be a killer for sure, Jessica.”
Seth Hazlitt looked at me across the table at Mara’s Luncheonette. I couldn’t tell whether he was sniffing the air for a hint of the coming snowstorm or soaking up the aroma of his hot-out-of-the-oven morning blueberry muffin.
“This’ll be one we’ll be battening down the hatches for, ayuh.”
Sheriff Mort Metzger peeked out from behind his copy of the Cabot Cove Gazette. “You say that at least once every year.”
“And every year it turns out to be true,” Seth countered.
“Tell me again how it is Cabot Cove suffers a once-in-a-century storm every winter.”
“Just lucky, I guess,” I said, noticing the headline splashed across the top of the paper’s front page read simply BLIZZARD!
Local forecasters were predicting upwards of two feet, while the Weather Channel had the amount closer to three. But Dr. Seth Hazlitt, our resident family doctor and certified curmudgeon, shook his head furiously when I voiced those estimates.
“Nope. We’re looking at four, maybe five, feet for sure. I can tell. It’s all in the nose,” he said, and pinched his nostrils.
Mort looked less than convinced. “And how’s that, exactly?”
“I can smell it on the air. Smelled it back in 2013 for Nemo, when we got thirty-two inches in these parts, and two feet in 1979, before they started giving storms names.”
“How about 1952?” Mort quipped. “Or the storm back in 1935?”
“Who’s asking, since Maine was just a speck on the map for you until you up and retired here?”
“Both of those dumped around two feet all the same, Doc.”
“Nothing compared to what we’re going to see this time,” Seth assured us both.
“Have they given a name to this storm yet?” I wondered aloud.
“No idea,” Mort said.
“Think they’re up to the letter J or maybe K,” Seth suggested.
I turned my gaze out Mara’s front window in anticipation of the first fall of flakes. It had been a habit of mine since I was a little girl when a storm was in the forecast. There’s something uniquely serene about being somewhere safe and sound as the snow begins to mount, about being home while the world beyond stands still amid a growing blanket of white. Of course, home for me for some months now had been Cabot Cove’s Hill House hotel. Construction problems and challenges had repeatedly delayed returning to my beloved home at 698 Candlewood Drive. So I would be watching the snow pile up through the window of my suite instead.