Page 1 of Secrets of the Frostbound Cottage

Chapter One

It was probably wrong to wish for a murder or aproperkidnapping, but at that point even a decent burglary would have beaten the heartbreak of yet another adulterous spouse. If I hadn’t grown up watching my parents’ disgustingly soppy, rom-com level love story, I’d have been a full-blown cynic by now. Instead I was stuck in this awkward limbo – half cynical, half optimistic … and fully frustrated. Either way, the glass was half empty, and I wasn’t even tipsy.

As a PI, I enjoyed being out and about on surveillance, following up leads, knocking on doors and getting to the bottom of whatever I’d been hired to investigate. What I loved was the mystery; once I knew the truth, proving it was the boring part. I didn’t like being stuck at the computer, scanning through surveillance photos or scrolling through pages of credit-card transactions hoping to find some hidden clues I’d missed. Yet the grinding drudgery was all I’d done for the last couple of days and it was soul-destroying. I’d spent virtually the entire day at home, and the walls were starting to close in on me.

Lately, I hadn’t even had time to fit in teaching self-defence. Martial arts don’t have to be formal or boring, and I loved teaching other women how to kick ass. My classes were often filled with laughter and, as I surreptitiously inhaled the wisps of others’ friendships, their flashes of affection and humour supported me. I didn’t need my own friendships if I could experience theirs. Or so I told myself.

My students were human, so I couldn’t pick up on their emotions as deeply as I could a magic user’s – and it took a tonne of effort – but the brief bursts of warmth were enough. Of course, those had to be balanced with the occasional student who came in jangling with fear and an edge of desperation. When too many emotions were whirling around, it was hard to tell who was feeling what. It got … overwhelming. I was the worst empath ever.

I might have been a magical dud, but I was a great teacher. However, much as I loved the group sessions I ran, it was the one-on-one coaching that showed me the real benefit of what I was doing. Half of my students came to me scared of their own shadows and they needed more than a group class could provide.

I always felt proud when I knew I’d replaced an anxious, fear-filled mindset with confidence and self-belief, and I could usually do it through a couple of weeks of intense mentoring. No one should feel scared to be out walking alone. I saw it as a privilege to empower my women, especially the ones that carried that fear.

Like the fear I still carried deep within me.

I shifted my numb butt on the sofa and stared at my laptop screen. My red hair swung across my face and I tucked it impatiently behind my ears as I tried to focus on my job, myproperjob.

I was currently juggling two cases, but one just needed me to write a report then I could strike it off my to-do list. Mrs Morganhad hired me to follow her husband for two weeks, but it had only taken a few days to discover that his lunch-hour ‘gym’ visits were actually ‘Jill’ visits.

I’d taken a few photographs, so it didn’t take too long to finalise the report. I agonised over every marriage-destroying word and tried to couch it in the most diplomatic terms possible, but even so the photos would devastate Mrs Morgan. Jill Swan was one of her best friends; this was going to sting like a bitch no matter how nicely I phrased things. In the end I stopped prevaricating and worrying about the wording. I knew my report would hurt, but I wasn’t causing the pain – that was her husband’s callous affair.

I knew a couple of PIs who would have dragged out a case like this, milking it to earn more money, but that wasn’t my deal. My parents hadn’t raised me to con anybody; they’d raised me to protect people.

I was the seventh generation of a line of guardians, and the urge to protect was so strongly ingrained in me that I wanted to shield Mrs Morgan from my own report. But that wasn’t my job, so I wrapped it up and emailed it to her with a mumbled apology.

Now that Mrs Morgan’s case was tied up with a bow, I could send her an invoice and file it as closed. With that onerous job completed, there was only one other active investigation on my books: a possible dognapping.

It was very early days; the dog – BonBon – hadn’t even been missing for twelve hours, and there had been no viable clues so far. I’d spent much of today reviewing the doorbell CCTV that her owner Rowena had sent me. To be honest, I hadn’t dismissed the possibility that Rowena had simply left the side gate open because there was absolutely no sign of forced entry and she swore she’d last seen her dog in her fenced-off garden.

I’m a good judge of character and, despite her assurances, she’d given me total space-cadet vibes. Then there was the baresthint of uncertainty when I’d questioned her about the side gate. Shesaidshe closed it but, when I’d pressed her, she’d admitted woefully that she wasn’t completely certain. She’d explained that she’d hit that age where menopause was doing its thing and wrecking her memory.

I could still remember Mum swearing about the hot flushes. Menopause had hit her young. She hadn’t had a chance to grow old.

Swallowing the sudden lump in my throat, I strode into the kitchen. A glass of wine would wash down bitter memories that refused to stay in the dark recesses of my mind.Focus on the work.I opened the fridge and poured out a generous measure of my favourite Sauvignon Blanc, Oyster Bay.

I took the glass back to the sofa where my laptop was waiting. I’d reviewed all Rowena’s doorbell security, but her neighbours had helpfully given me theirs too so I had a few more hours of CCTV ahead of me. Still, at least if I had to do tedious jobs I could do them with a glass of Oy Bay in my hand. Working for yourself was the best.

I sat on the sofa and raised the glass to my lips at the exact moment that my phone blared into life. If it was an unknown number – and therefore likely to be a new client – I always tried to answer as quickly as possible. I liked to think that gave the impression that I’m an efficient professional, which is what a client wants in my line of work. But when I looked at the screen it showed a familiar name, so I took a very large gulp of my favourite fermented grape juice before I answered.

‘Rowena,’ I greeted my dognapping client. ‘I’m afraid there’s no news yet.’

‘It’s been nearly twelve hours,’ she wailed. ‘And it’s always the first forty-eight hours that’s most important in a missing person’s case, isn’t it?’

I squelched down a grimace. I wasn’t sure that the forty-eight-hour thing applied to dogs, though I didn’t point that out. Instead I said vaguely, ‘Yes, ordinarily…’

The thing was that this wasn’t a normal missing person’s case. It was a missingdog, a missing – in her words, not mine – ‘pure-bred miniature Schnoodle Bon’. I had since learned that was a mix between a miniature Schnauzer, a Poodle and a Bichon Frise, meaning there was absolutely nothing pure bred about it. Rowena had herself a very fancy mutt.

Not that I was going to say that. My client was definitely the sensitive type, and her emotions had jangled on my nerves. Given how muted normal humans’ emotions are to me, that was saying something. She was in real distress and I felt for her, but I was doing everything I could – including working into the evening to review more CCTV footage. That was the downside of being self-employed: time-off is more of a dream than a reality – but hey, I lived to work so who needed time off anyway?

‘Well, have you got any leads yet?’ she demanded tearfully. ‘I thought you’d have something by now.’

‘I’m just waiting to hear back from some of my associates,’ I replied truthfully. After reviewing Rowena’s CCTV footage and calling her neighbours, I’d spent the afternoon ringing around my contacts. I was sure one of the tugs on the line would lead to something. ‘The minute I hear anything, I’ll follow it up immediately. I promised I’d do everything I could to get your BonBon back and I will.’

‘And you’ll let me know if any of your sources contact you?’ she pressed.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘IfI think they’re giving me a viable lead. I don’t want to get your hopes up unnecessarily.’

Finding her dog wasn’t my only job: I also needed to manage her expectations. If she really had left the side gate open, finding him would be a needle in a haystack.

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