Snowed Under Read online

  When professional organizer Maggie McDonald finds a body in a snowdrift outside her friend’s ski cabin, she must plow through the clues to find a cold-blooded killer . . .

  Lake Tahoe in February is beautiful, but Maggie can’t see a thing as she drives through a blinding blizzard with her friend Tess Olmos and their dogs, golden retriever Belle and German shepherd Mozart. Maggie has offered her professional decluttering skills to help Tess tidy up her late husband’s cabin in preparation to sell. She also plans to get in some skiing when her husband Max and their boys join them later in the week.

  What she doesn’t plan on is finding a boot in a snowdrift attached to a corpse. The frozen stiff turns out to be Tess’s neighbor, Dev Bailey, who disappeared two months ago. His widow Leslie expresses grief, but Maggie can’t help but wonder if it’s a snow job. As more suspects start to pile up, things go downhill fast, and Maggie must keep her cool to solve the murder before the killer takes a powder . . .

  The Maggie McDonald Mystery series by Mary Feliz

  Address to Die For

  Scheduled to Death

  Dead Storage

  Disorderly Conduct

  Cliff Hanger

  Snowed Under

  Snowed Under

  Maggie McDonald Mystery Series

  Mary Feliz

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Contents

  The Maggie McDonald Mystery series by Mary Feliz

  Snowed Under

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  A Note on Chapter Headings

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Hot Apple Pie Toddy

  Meet the Author

  Sneak Peek

  Chapter 1

  Copyright

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Mary Feliz

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: June 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0528-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0528-1 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: June 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0531-1

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0531-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my family

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks, first and always, to my family. It’s tough to share living quarters with an author, but you’ve always supported me, even when my job seemed unfathomably strange.

  Thanks, too, to everyone at Kensington and Lyrical, including those I’ve not yet met, who have worked to put Maggie’s stories into the hands of readers. To Dru Ann, Lori, and other bloggers who connect books to bibliophiles and have a special affection for the cozy comfort of traditional mysteries. To everyone in Sisters in Crime, a fabulous organization welcoming women and men of every color, nationality, gender, sexual preference, ability, and disability. They listen. They act. They teach. They learn. They care.

  I so appreciate the warm smiles of the team at Peet’s Mountain View on cold pre-dawn writing mornings. They know my order better than I do!

  Thanks to the Snows for letting the Olmos family borrow their ski cabin for the duration of the narrative. Maggie and I remodeled it a bit, adding a bedroom wing upstairs. I’m sorry about the damage to the garage door and all the clutter we put in the closets.

  Thanks to Gwen, whose Adirondack cabin helped furnish the bunk room.

  Thanks, Wombats and the Sunday morning Farmer’s Market crew. Without friends like you, Maggie would be a not-very-interesting hermit.

  I’m so grateful for the editing skills of Jennifer Fisher and the sharp-eyed proofreading provided by Amanda Terry.

  Thanks to you for buying, borrowing, or listening to this book. A manuscript only becomes a novel when it touches a reader.

  Finally, if you can read this book, please thank a teacher. If you were able to find this book, please thank a librarian or bookstore owner. Without the members of all these professions, I would not be able to do what I do.

  A Note on Chapter Headings

  Each chapter in the Maggie McDonald Mystery series begins with an excerpt from Maggie’s notebook. In previous books, these snippets revealed Maggie’s approach to keeping chaos to a minimum in her own life and the homes and workspaces of her clients.

  In this book, Maggie shares quotes she’s amassed on organizing and planning comprising thousands of years of wisdom from an array of religions, professions, continents, cultures, and countries.

  To Maggie, this collective thinking reveals the relentless and universal human struggle to curtail clutter and confusion. It demonstrates that planning, simplifying, organizing, and clearing out are central to the human experience. It may be one area in which we are all more alike than we are different.

  Chapter 1

  Chaos is inherent in all compounded things. Strive on with diligence.

  —Buddha

  Lived in Nepal between 6th and 4th centuries BCE

  Wednesday, February 17, Late evening

  The scene was like every description of a near-death experience I’d ever heard.

  I drove through the darkness toward a white light on California’s Interstate 80, east over the Donner Pass toward Lake Tahoe.

  Banks of plowed snow towered above the freeway, obliterating what would have been gorgeous mountain vistas if there had been any visibility. What the newscasters had calmly predicted as “winter storm conditions” howled around us, buffeting the car and overpowering my headlights, defroster, and windshield wipers.

  For miles, I’d searched for a rest area where I could unclench my hands from the steering wheel, clear ice from the windshield, and take care of more basic human needs. But snow obscured the exit signs and wind erased tire tracks as soon as they formed. My golden retriever, Belle, huffed warm wet breath in my ear. Her pal Mozart panted beside her. My friend Tess Olmos dozed in the passenger seat.

  I didn’t dare pull over, in case what I took for a safe shoulder turned into a thousand-foot descent into oblivion. In weather like this, we’d plummet to the ground and wouldn’t be found until spring.

  “Turn here,” Tess said.

  “Where?” My view out the front windscreen was no different than it had been for the last three hours—remarkably similar to the static on midcentury televisions.

  “Here. Stop. The exit.”

  I pulled the car slowly to the right, squinting to distinguish something—anything—that would tell me we’d reached the turnoff for Highway 89 in Truckee, the gateway to North Lake Tahoe’s world-class ski resorts. The swirling whiteness took on a salmon-colored tinge as I drove beneath sodium vapor lights marking the main road that led toward Tess’s family ski cabin.

  “Turn. Right. Right. Right. No, not so much.”

  The rhythmic thump of my tire chains slowed as I crept forward. “Do you want to drive, Tess? You know these roads.”

  “You’re doing great. Besides, the shoulders aren’t plowed. If we pull into a parking lot we’re apt to get stuck.” I wasn’t convinced. Tess’s voice sounded strained, as though she spoke through clenched teeth. “It’s only a few more miles.”

  “Which should take a mere two or three hours at this rate.” My fingers ached from tightly gripping the wheel. What would normally have been a four-hour drive from Orchard View and the San Francisco Bay Area had taken nearly twice that long thanks to the heavy rain turned blizzard that had blown through hours earlier than anyone expected.

  We weren’t stupid, Tess and I. We’d been watching the weather report for days and left early to beat the weather. The storm had other plans.

  My eyes burned, my knotted shoulders felt like hardened concrete, and my nerves frayed. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. The good news was there was little traffic. The bad news was that there were no tire tracks to follow. Snow plows worked overtime to keep the main arteries open, but secondary roads hadn’t seen removal equipment for hours. It was only Tess’s familiarity with the route that kept my tires on the pavement instead of spinning off the road. I inched from one reflective snow stake to the next.

  “Okay, there on the left,” Tess said. “Leave the car in front of the garage for tonight.”

  I looked out at a blank canvas. “I’d be happy to do that if I could see the garage.”

  “It’s right there.” Tess pointed into the nothingness. “Wait.” She scrambled in her purse, pulled out a garage door opener, and pointed it past me. I heard a muffled grinding and thought I detected a slight lessening of the whitewashed darkness. “Rats. The door is caked with ice and snow. It can’t clear the doorframe.” She pushed the button on the clicker again. The grinding stopped.

  “We can’t just leave the car in the road. What if a snowplow comes along?” My voice broke from exhaustion and I struggled to keep from taking out my frustration on my best friend.

  “Inch forward,” she said, as though I had a choice in the matter. “We’ll park at the end of the road. It’s not strictly legal, but we’ll move it as soon as we can. There’s a turnaround circle. You should see the lights over the mail center and bear boxes.”

  “Bear boxes?”

  “Bear-proof dumpsters. Here. Stop.”

  I couldn’t distinguish any landmarks in the static whiteness.

  “The rest of the hill has some drainage issues. It gets icy all the way to the bottom. The lights are out, but you’re good here. Pull to the right as far as you can. There are drifts of plowed snow between the road and the rocks.”

  “Comforting,” I said, not meaning it. I pressed gently on the brake. The car slewed to the right as though it had heard and obeyed Tess’s instructions.

  “Good enough. We’ll take the dogs and leave everything else. I’ll give you a toothbrush and something to sleep in. It’s going to be hard enough to trudge back uphill to the house in this wind without loading ourselves up with stuff.” She grabbed two leashes and handed me one. I stashed a bottle of wine in my jacket.

  “Mozart knows where the house is,” Tess said, rubbing the ears of her German shepherd, a bomb-sniffing special forces marine reassigned to life as a devoted family pet. She hugged the dog and whispered in his ear. “I’m not sure whether I’m leashing you so I don’t lose you or so you don’t leave me behind. We’ll need your help to find our way back to the house.” Mozart wagged his tail.

  Belle woofed politely to remind me she was waiting. Then she woofed again in either impatience or encouragement. Or both. I clipped the leash to her collar.

  “Ready?” Tess asked.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not if you want heat, a hot toddy, and a bathroom.”

  I straightened my shoulders, zipped my parka, and pulled my knitted pink hat down over my ears. Snow or ice pellets pricked my cheeks like needles.

  If Tess said anything more, her words were lost in the howling wind. The frigid air stuck the insides of my nostrils together and made it difficult to breathe. If I thought Belle could hear me, I’d have ordered her to heel. I hoped she wasn’t so eager to follow Mozart that she’d pull me too quickly over treacherous ground. The only good thing I could say for the storm was that the thick snow might cushion a fall. A broken limb was the last thing any of us needed.

  If the day had gone according to plan, we’d already be several hours into our project for the week, clearing out generations of clutter in the Olmos family’s ski cabin, preparing it for a quick sale that would help finance a career change for Tess and college tuition for her son Teddy.

  With my initial timetable long abandoned and a complete inability to spot a single landmark in the storm, I heaped my trust on Mozart and Tess, ducked my head, and put one foot in front of the other. Two steps forward, one ungainly wobble, and a slip back down the hill. Wash, rinse, repeat.

  When we reached our destination, we banged on the door though we knew no one was home to hear us or welcome us into long-sought warmth and comfort. We pounded to break up ice that had frozen in the jambs and sealed it shut. In the end, it took the weight of both of us to free it. Overbalanced, we nearly landed in a squirmy pile on the entryway floor.

  My teeth chattered. I was frozen clear through to my bones. “How far is it between here and the car?”

  “Hundred yards, give or take.”

  “Uphill. Seemed like miles.” An unpleasant whiny tone tinged my words.

  “Food, fire, a little booze. We’ll both feel better.”

  I trudged down the chilly hall, desperately seeking a perch that wasn’t vibrating and shuddering like snow-chain covered tires on rutted pavement.

  “That’s the garage,” said Tess from the staircase. “Reverse floor plan. Kitchen and living room are up here.”

  * * * *

  Upstairs, we shed our coats. I plunked down the wine bottle I’d smuggled under my jacket. Tess swatted at my arm. “Thank goodness you didn’t fall on that and slice yourself open. There’s no way we’d get back on the road tonight to get you stitched up.”

  She pulled crackers and cheese from fridge and cupboard while I searched for mugs.

  “I’ll make you Patrick’s grandmother’s recipe,” Tess said, pulling honey and bourbon from a cabinet. “Lemon, honey, and a bit of ginger. Cures colds, warms a chill, and is good for what ails you, even if nothing ails you.”

  I fed the dogs and filled their water dish, then arrayed snacks on a plate.

  “Can you turn up the thermostat?” Tess asked, pointing toward a living room wall, speaking around cracker crumbs, and br ushing more from her fleece sweater. “I called ahead to take some of the chill off, but I don’t think it’s crested sixty degrees.”

  “You called ahead?”

  “One of those fancy-pants tech gadgets that talks to my cell phone. Comes in handy when you’re managing a second home and want to keep the pipes from freezing.”

  I took Tess at her word though I’d never owned a second home. I nudged the thermostat up and then scurried to the fireplace and phoned Max and the boys to tell them we’d arrived safely. They didn’t answer, and the connection seemed iffy, so I texted the message, sparing them the scary details of our trip.

  I knelt to open the flue and light an already-laid fire. As meager flames struggled to gain strength against the cold, I gathered our damp coats, hats, and mittens and draped them over the hearth-side drying rack.

  Torn between planting my backside against the fire screen and being swallowed by a voluminous sectional, I chose the couch. On three sides it surrounded an enormous square coffee table under which both dogs had already retreated. The homey sound of a boiling kettle sang out. Tess joined me soon afterwards with a tray of steaming mugs and the snacks.

  “I don’t want to move from this spot,” I told her, grasping a mug in both hands and letting the steam waft over my face and warm my nose.

  “I hear you. Our guests often crash here after a day of skiing. Sometimes I wonder why we bothered with bedrooms at all. But—”

  “No. Just no. Tell me there’s no but. But can’t be good. I don’t want to know.”

  “But in weather like this, chances are the electricity will go out. We’ll need to stoke the fire through the night to keep the pipes from freezing.”

  “Sleep here and throw a log on the fire every few hours? That’s doable.”

  “First we need to bring wood up from the garage, let it warm by the fire, and set our phones to wake us. If the alarm goes off and the power’s still on, we’ll just roll over and go back to our dreams.”

  I sank into the sofa cushions. “Toddies first, right?”