Nogged Off

Book 0: Maine Clambake Mystery

by Barbara Ross

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Previously published in the collection Egg Nog Murder. ‘Twas the week before Christmas, and Julia Snowden’s escape from New York has just hit a snag. Fresh off accidentally poisoning half her colleagues with her “Killer Eggnog,” Julia’s would-be subletter, Imogen Geinkes, is now jobless and homeless—leading Julia to invite the young woman home for the holidays in Maine. But when they unload the rental truck in Busman’s Harbor, they find something that wasn’t on anyone’s packing list: the body of Imogen’s former boyfriend. Suddenly, the wordplay in Imogen’s name—“I’m a jinx”—isn’t so adorable. But for all the calamities that follow in Imogen’s wake, Julia’s certain she’s no killer. As Julia digs into the case, the appearance of the ex’s brother—his identical twin—doubles the confusion. Has Imogene been double-crossed by an evil twin? Was the eggnog “accident” no accident at all? If Julia doesn’t unwrap the murderer’s true identity soon, one of the twelve days of Christmas could be her last . . . Praise for Steamed Open “Sure to appeal to readers who treasure the Maine coast, Ross’s latest continues the lives and minor dramas of her fictionalized version of Boothbay Harbor with amiable characters.” — Kirkus Reviews

Release date: October 29, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 96

Sample

I snuggled into the comfy seat and closed my eyes. It had already been a long day. I’d left my apartment in Busman’s Harbor, Maine, at four in the morning so my boyfriend, Chris, could drop me at the train station in Portland in time to catch the five-twenty. If all went according to plan, I’d be at Penn Station in Manhattan by lunchtime and at my apartment in Tribeca not long after that. Then, using the key I still had, with the permission of my subtenant, I’d take the few personal items I wanted from my soon-to-be-former apartment to UPS for shipping and be on my way back to Maine by early evening. Down and back in one day. If everything went perfectly, maybe I’d even have time to do a little Christmas shopping and drink in the glory of Manhattan during the holidays.

The young woman I’d sublet to, Imogen Geinkes, was not only taking over my lease when it was up on January 1, she had also agreed to buy most of my furniture. In addition, I’d soon be getting a check from the building management company refunding my security deposit, a little boost to the coffers that couldn’t come too soon. The change in my life from my Manhattan job in the financial industry to managing my family’s struggling clambake business in Maine had meant a considerable change in my finances as well.

Down and back in one day. I couldn’t believe how perfectly the plan had come together.

I jiggled my key in the lock of my old apartment on North Moore Street. Manuel, the quasi-security guard, quasi-doorman, had made me sign in at the front desk, but he’d let me go straight up without calling ahead. Whether it was because he remembered me, or because Imogen had told him about our arrangement, I didn’t know. The lock had always been a little reluctant, and I was relieved when at last the tumblers turned and the door to the apartment swung open.

I stepped into the dark living room. One of the best things about the apartment was its view across the Hudson, and I was surprised Imogen kept the blinds closed. I turned on the lights and stepped into the kitchen area. I wasn’t planning on taking much, just some dishes, three oil paintings that had been my grandfather’s, and, the real reason for the trip, my books.

I piled my dishes on the breakfast bar. I needed to get my stuff together to calculate how many boxes to buy on my first visit to the shipping store. That’s when I heard it.

Sniff.

“Hello?” I called. I waited, counting to ten. No response. I shrugged and reached for the dinner plates. I loved the apartment, but I had to admit it was entirely possible the sniff had traveled through the paper-thin walls from one of the adjoining units.

Sniff.

“Hello?” I said again. The sniff was louder that time, and seemed to come from close by. The bedroom door was closed. I started toward it. “Imogen?”

On my way through the living room, it happened again. Sniff. Right next to me. “Imogen!” She sat, hidden in a large, upholstered armchair that had been my grandfather’s.

“Julia?”

“Imogen. I thought you were at work.”

“I’m supposed to be.” A solitary tear squeezed from the corner of her eye and tracked down her cheek.

Ho, boy. What is this about? I knelt beside the chair. “What’s happened?” The waterworks turned on full force. I waited while she pulled herself together.

Imogen worked at a small advertising firm on Hudson Street, an easy walk from the apartment. I’d spoken with her boss-to-be when I’d checked her references before subletting to her. He’d said she was a new hire, but he expected great things. That had only been nine months ago. What had gone wrong?

“There . . . there . . . there was a holiday party,” Imogen stuttered out.

Oh no. She was twenty-two, eight years younger than me, and the same age I’d been when I’d arrived in New York. People can be awfully foolish at that age. I dreaded what might come next.

“It was just a little gathering. At the office, on Friday night.”

I counted backward. Today was Wednesday. Only three workdays later. Perhaps the damage, whatever it was, could still be undone.

“They asked each of us to bring something. For the celebration.” Imogen broke down and sobbed again. I moved to the matching chair opposite, waiting for the rest of the story.

“My mama makes a killer eggnog,” Imogen said. “It’s the best. At home, in Buckhead, Atlanta, we have an open house every year on New Year’s Day. People rave about Mama’s eggnog. So I made it. But, Julia, something was wrong with the eggs. I food-poisoned every one of my coworkers and their guests!”

“Oh my gosh!” I’d been expecting a tale of disaster, but not exactly this one.

“People were throwing up, and worse, Julia, much worse. We all ended up in the ER with salmonella poisoning.”

“Were you fired?”

In the deep chair, Imogen shook her head. “No, but I can’t go back there. I just can’t. Once you’ve been in an emergency room, hooked up to an IV, being rehydrated, next to your boss and your boss’s boss . . .” The tears returned. “I can never see any of those people again.”

“So, you’ve quit?” No severance, no unemployment compensation. I braced myself for what was coming next.

“Uh-huh.” Imogen nodded, tears sliding down her cheeks. “So I won’t be able to take the apartment.”

If I had any hope of getting my security deposit back, I had to get the apartment cleared out. Pronto. I was in New York on a Wednesday because I had it off from work at the restaurant I ran with my boyfriend, Chris, during the winter. I pulled up the calendar on my phone and saw nothing but a solid block of work and holiday obligations running until New Year’s Day. I had to act.

I supposed I could donate most of the furniture to charity, but it was too late in the day to arrange for a pickup. I could follow the time-honored New York tradition of “donating” it to the passing crowd by leaving it on the sidewalk. But whatever I did, no one would take my mattress and box spring, or the upholstered furniture, due to the pervasive fear of bedbugs.

I looked around the apartment. So much of the furniture had come from my mother’s father, who had spent the long years of his widowerhood in an apartment on Riverside Drive. He’d died shortly after I arrived in the city, and it had seemed to everyone the perfect solution for me to take most of his furniture. The pieces were old and unfashionable, but I was getting my MBA and hardly in a position to argue. Looking at it now, the overstuffed couch, the straight-backed chair where Imogen sat huddled, its twin where I sat across from her, the mahogany bed and bureau in the bedroom, I wondered how much of the furniture my mother had grown up with. Was she sentimentally attached to any of it? We had a bunch of photos of her at several ages sitting on that sofa.

My mother lived in closer communion with her family’s past than most people. Morrow Island, where we ran the Snowden Family Clambake in the summer, had been in her family for five generations. But by the time she’d come along, the money was long gone and the family dispersed. Mom had some heirloom china and crystal in our dining room back in Busman’s Harbor, but not much else.

It was one thing to sell my grandfather’s possessions to Imogen, who could genuinely use them. . . .