Cliffs, Clues, & Conspiracies

by Tonya Kappes

Genres: Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Welcome to Normal where nothing is normal.

Get ready for a cozy mystery adventure with a southern twist in Cliffs, Clues, & Conspiracies!

Mae West is just hoping for a peaceful weekend at Happy Trails Campground during the Climb the Cliffs Festival in the heart of Kentucky's Daniel Boone National Forest. But when the festival's star climber, James Rafferty, is found dead at the base of the Cascades, Mae's plans for a quiet weekend crumble faster than a buttermilk biscuit.

What looks like a tragic accident turns out to be murder, and Mae armed with her sleuthing notebook and the unwavering support of the Laundry Club Ladies, is on the case.

Mae follows clues from cryptic coordinates to suspicious boot prints, she soon discovers that secrets run deep in the close-knit town of Normal, Kentucky. But with a killer determined to keep those secrets buried, Mae's about to find out that some cliffs are more dangerous than they seem.

One thing's for sure—this mystery is about to take a deadly turn.

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Release date: March 30, 2025

Publisher: Tonya Kappes Books

Print pages: 184

Reader says this book is...: entertaining story (1)

Sample

Chapter One

I wasn’t eavesdropping.

Not technically.

But when you’re standing a few feet away and someone’s voice carries over the mountain air like a church bell on Sunday morning, it’s not exactly ignorable either.

“I don’t care how many awards you’ve got under your belt,” Ethan Caldwell snapped, jabbing a finger toward James Rafferty’s chest. “You don’t get to come into my home turf and act like you own it.”

James smirked, adjusting the straps of his climbing harness. “Funny. I thought climbers believed in earning their place, not just inheriting it.”

Ethan’s face flushed red, but before he could fire back, Karen Wexler, who I’d always thought had the patience of a saint, stepped between them.

“Let’s save the dramatics for the cliffs, boys,” she told them.

Dottie nudged me with her elbow.

“Ain’t that a shame,” she whispered. “I was just about to get out my popcorn.”

I bit back a smile, though my eyes stayed on the scene unfolding before me. This was supposed to be an exclusive pre festival hike for the Climb and Cliffs Festival, meant for climbers, conservationists, and a handful of representatives from the Daniel Boone National Park Committee, including me. But instead, it was shaping up to be more of a high altitude soap opera.

The cliffs loomed ahead, rugged and sheer, their edges softened by the morning mist curling through the gorge below. A mix of hikers, climbers, and nature enthusiasts made up our group, most of them trying not to look too interested in the brewing argument. But I caught a few side eyes, hushed murmurs, and one guy pretending to stretch while he turned toward the commotion.

Dottie, of course, wasn’t even pretending to be subtle. She adjusted the glittery visor that sat over her short, bright red curls, leaned on her bedazzled hiking pole, and grinned like a woman settling in for a show.

Karen sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose like she already had a headache.

“Look,” she said, dropping her hands. “We all want this festival to succeed. And that means respecting both the climbers who are coming in for it and the ones who are already here. So let’s all take a deep breath and keep walking before someone throws a punch and I have to explain to the park rangers why two grown men needed a time out.”

She glanced back towards me and Dottie, her eyes looking past us at Tucker Pyle, the fairly new ranger, as in a couple of years into the program, who was just relocated to this particular part of the Daniel Boone National Forest.

“Ahem,” Tucker cleared his throat to help Karen make his presences known.

Ethan took a step back, but his jaw was still clenched tight. James, on the other hand, looked downright amused.

I shook my head.

Climbing was supposed to be about trust. A climber had to believe that the person belaying them, controlling their rope from below, wouldn’t let them fall. It didn’t take a genius to figure out there wasn’t a whole lot of trust happening here even though we weren’t actually climbing.

Emily Brewer, the soft spoken botanist leading the hike, cleared her throat, clearly eager to redirect the focus back to the actual reason we were out here.

“Speaking of respect,” she said, gesturing to the side of the trail, “this is one of the main areas where we’re working to protect the white haired goldenrod.”

I turned my attention to the tiny yellow blossoms growing in clusters along the path, their petals tipped with white. A rope fence enclosed them, with signs posted every few feet warning hikers to stay on the trail.

“This species is only found in the Daniel Boone National Forest,” Emily continued, brushing a gentle hand over the blossoms. “It’s endangered, which is why the Red River Gorge Climbers Coalition has worked with the park service to reroute trails. You’ll notice fencing and markers like this in several areas, it ensures hikers and climbers don’t accidentally trample the plants.”

And this was why we were here. When the Daniel Boone Climbers Coalition had first come to the National Park Committee about this climbing festival, we knew it was an up and coming sport that would generate a lot of new tourists to the area. So did the Preservation Society.

Which meant we had to make both parties happy. And that meant this pre festival hike that included the heavy hitting climbing experts who would have the ears of all the tourists that were here to see them. With Emily’s expertise, she was the one chosen by the Preservation Society to educate us before the festival started and all the work they’d been doing the last few years had been trampled all over.

“That’s the flower everybody’s makin’ such a fuss over?” Dottie bent forward, squinting.

Emily nodded.

“It may not look like much, but it’s vital to the ecosystem. And thanks to these efforts, its numbers are starting to bounce back,” she said, her tone pleased.

A scoff came from behind me.

“You’d think she was single handedly saving the planet.”

I turned just in time to see James Rafferty crossing his arms, the same smirk still tugging at his lips.

Dottie gave a low whistle. “Boy’s got the manners of a possum at a church potluck.”

I fought the urge to laugh, but truthfully? She wasn’t wrong.

James was exactly the kind of man I’d expect to be full of himself. Sun bleached blond hair, skin tanned from years outdoors, and an attitude sharper than the cliffs themselves. He had a resume full of first ascents, international expeditions, books, and even a few television appearances.

The festival committee had brought him in as a headliner, hoping his endorsement would give the Climb the Cliffs Festival a credibility boost. Instead, it looked like he was doing everything he could to ruffle feathers.

Beside him, Ethan Caldwell stiffened.

I recognized Ethan instantly, not just from town, but from an article Waldo Willy at the Normal Gazette had written a few months back, calling him the up and coming climber to watch. The article had painted him as a fearless instructor, passionate about bringing climbing to the next generation.

And then there was Doug Thatcher, the festival’s biggest financial backer.

Doug stood near the back, arms crossed, a deep frown tugging at his already weathered face. In his early fifties, he was built like a man who’d spent most of his life outdoors. Stocky, broad shouldered, and no nonsense, he ran Red River Gorge Climbing, the biggest guided climbing company in the area.

Doug had money tied up in this festival. Not just from a promotional standpoint—his company was offering guided climbs and instructional sessions—but if this event succeeded, it meant more tourists, more climbers, and more business for him.

And yet, he didn’t look thrilled to be here.

I knew Doug and Ethan were both from Slade, Kentucky, the town over from Normal, and Doug had built his business from the ground up. Trust, reputation, and community support were what kept people coming back to him. And if there was one thing I knew?

Doug wasn’t the kind of man who liked outsiders waltzing in and acting like they knew better.

“If you don’t respect the work happening here,” Ethan snapped, “then why did you even come?”

James shrugged. “Well, because you have me as the festival headliner, of course.” He flashed a too white grin. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss was about.” Then, with a lazy wave at the surrounding cliffs, he added, “But let’s be real, this place is nothing compared to the Grand Canyon. You act like this is the next big thing when really, it’s just a tourist spot for hobby climbers.”

Silence stretched over the group.

Doug took a step forward, voice tight. “You keep runnin’ your mouth like that, Rafferty, and you’re gonna make a lot of enemies around here.”

Before things could get really interesting, Dottie’s phone rang, an old fashioned telephone bell ringtone cutting through the tension like a knife through warm cornbread.

She nearly jumped. “Well, sugar, ain’t this just perfect timin’.”

I glanced at her, half annoyed, half relieved. “Who is it?”

She squinted at the screen before answering. “It’s Henry. And by the sound of it, Happy Trails is in a bigger mess than a raccoon in a biscuit factory.”

I exhaled, already dreading whatever new disaster was waiting for us back at the campground. But one thing was for sure—I’d take a campground crisis over playing referee for these climbers any day.

 

end of excerpt