Murder, She Wrote: Murder in Season

Christmas wishes," Seth told him.

 

"In that case, here's mine," he said, tilting his gaze toward me. "A holiday season free of murder. How's that sound, Mrs. F.?"

 

"Works for me, Mort."

 

"Are you still going to visit your nephew Grady in New York?"

 

"Now that I'm back home, we decided to move the festivities here."

 

I'd long ago stopped counting the days since the fire that had nearly cost me my life forced me from my beloved Victorian at 698 Candlewood Lane. I'd been staying in a suite at Cabot Cove's swanky Hill House hotel, weathering any number of setbacks encountered by the construction crew. The fire had spared the old home's structure and I'd done my utmost to preserve as many of the original period detail as possible. With a healthy insurance payout aiding the restoration, my instructions had been to spare no expense.

 

Three words I shall never speak again. I had witnessed any number of fitful stops and starts, do-overs, and alterations to the original reconstruction plans. I had remained steadfast in my desire to preserve as much of the house as possible and create a precise replica of what I'd lost, instructions that had proven impossible to comply with for several random, and often conflicting, reasons. I was forced to compromise and then compromise some more, leading to all those dreaded delays and cost overruns. The end result was an exterior beautifully true to its original form, but a newly minted interior with fresh character it would take some time for me to get used to.

 

The final and most recent setback, which had followed my being granted a provisional certificate of occupancy so I could move back in, was the need to replace the property's septic system after the current one failed final inspection.

 

"Why?" I'd asked the inspector, Carl Cragg, my fisherman friend Ethan's cousin.

 

"Because it's old."

 

"So am I. Should I be replaced, too?"

 

"Inspecting