Dead and Breakfast: A Maple Hollow Mystery

About This Novel

Dead and Breakfast: A Maple Hollow Mystery is a cozy mystery novel, set in setting: maple hollow, vermont—a postcard-perfect new england town of 3,200 people, nestled in the green mountains, following Here are the detailed character profiles for Dead and Breakfast: A Maple Hollow Mystery, listed in order of importance:, a burnt-out event planner turned b&b owner who stumbles into solving murders with the help of a sassy ghost, in a story driven by themes of primary theme: the meaning of home. what makes a place a home? how do we build homes for ourselves when the ones we were given fail us? nia's journey is about learning that home isn't a building—it's the people (and ghosts) who love you., secondary themes:, - the power of chosen family: the lavender league.

Opening Line

"Nia Rivera thought running a queer-friendly B&B in the sleepy town of Maple Hollow would be a fresh start—a quiet life of lavender sachets and homemade scones."

The scones were burning.

Nia smelled it before she saw it—that acrid, bitter edge cutting through the lavender and vanilla that had become her permanent perfume. She swore under her breath, wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron, and yanked open the oven door. A plume of smoke billowed out, and she waved it away with a dish towel, coughing.

The scones were not, technically, on fire. But they were what her abuela would have called *un desastre*—crisped at the edges, pale in the middle, and generally resembling what might happen if a bakery had a nervous breakdown.

"Fine," she told them, setting the tray on the stovetop. "You're fine. We're all fine."

The kitchen clock read 9:47 AM. Her first guests were arriving at 2:00 PM. Four hours and thirteen minutes to transform this Victorian relic into a functioning bed-and-breakfast, and she was losing to pastry.

This was the problem with running away to the country. There was no one to blame but yourself when things went wrong. No passive-aggressive coworker, no impossible boss, no ex-fiancée to silently resent. Just Nia Rivera, age thirty-four, former event planner extraordinaire, current innkeeper-in-training, alone in a kitchen that smelled like regret and burnt flour.

She scraped the ruined scones into the compost bin—the garden would forgive her, even if her pride wouldn't—and started again. This time, she set a timer. This time, she paid attention.

The Brambleberry Inn had been her great-aunt Elena's, though Nia had barely known her. A mother's estranged sister, a name spoken in hushed tones at family gatherings, a woman who had left New York for Vermont in the 1970s and never looked back. When the lawyer's letter arrived—*you have been named the sole beneficiary of*—Nia had been standing in the wreckage of her engagement, surrounded by half-packed boxes and the ghost of a woman named Priya who had left her for a client.

A client. Nia had planned their wedding. *Their wedding.* She had chosen the flowers, the venue, the goddamn font on the invitations. And then, three weeks before the ceremony, Priya had sat her down in their shared apartment—the one with the exposed brick and the terrible plumbing—and said, "I've fallen in love with someone else. Someone who actually knows what they want."

Nia had wanted things. She had wanted Priya. She had wanted the little house in Brooklyn with the garden out back, the two kids, the dog. But wanting, it turned out, was not the same as having. And so she had taken the inheritance like a lifeline, sold everything that didn't fit in her car, and driven six hours north to a town called Maple Hollow that she'd never visited, in a state she'd never lived in, to claim a house she'd never seen.

The house had been waiting for her. It had been waiting for a long time.

Now, ten months later, she stood in the kitchen of that house, watching the new batch of scones rise in the oven, and tried to remember that this was what she'd wanted. *A fresh start. A quiet life. A place of my own.*

The lavender sachets were arranged in a ceramic bowl by the front door. The guest rooms were freshly aired, the linens pressed, the bathrooms scrubbed until they gleamed. The pride flag hung from the porch railing, catching the October breeze. The rainbow welcome mat—a gift from the one friend who still spoke to her—was scuffed but cheerful.

The house itself was another matter. It creaked in ways that didn't seem entirely structural. The radiators clanked like they were having conversations with each other. And the parlor, no matter how many candles she burned or windows she opened, always carried a faint undertone of something floral and old—like perfume that had been spilled decades ago and was still trying to make itself known.

Nia told herself it was charming. She told herself that old houses had personalities. She did not tell herself the other thing, the thing that woke her at 3:00 AM with her heart pounding and her ears straining for a sound she couldn't quite name.

The timer went off. The scones were golden. Small victories.

---

The key wall was in the parlor, directly above the fireplace mantel. It had been there when Nia arrived—a collection of antique keys, dozens of them, ranging from tiny jewelry box keys to heavy iron monstrosities that looked like they belonged on a dungeon door. They hung on small brass hooks in a rough circle, like a sun made of secrets.

Nia had no idea who had started the collection or why. The realtor had said it was "a quirky feature." The previous owner—a woman named Margaret who had moved to Florida—had left a note that said only: *The keys stay. They're part of the house now.*

Nia had kept them. They felt like a promise, somehow. A record of everyone who had passed through these doors.

She was dusting them—the way she dusted them every morning, because they seemed to attract dust like it was their job—when she noticed something wrong.

There was a key she didn't recognize.

It hung on the hook at the bottom of the circle, slightly apart from the others, as if it had been placed there recently. It was brass, ornate, with an intricate bow shaped like a flower—a lily, maybe, or a lotus. The teeth were worn smooth, like the key had been used many times over many years.

Nia frowned. She had dusted this wall yesterday. She had counted the keys—forty-seven, she remembered, because it was a prime number and she'd thought about how odd that was. She had counted them twice, because the first count had been forty-six and she'd worried she was losing her mind.

Now there were forty-eight.

"Okay," she said aloud, because talking to yourself was only crazy if you didn't do it in a cheerful voice. "Okay. That's—that's fine. I probably miscounted. That's a thing that happens."

She reached out and touched the new key. It was cool under her fingers, warmer than the metal should have been in the October chill. She turned it over. On the back, in tiny, precise letters, was engraved: *V.L.*

V.L. Not a name she recognized. Not a previous guest, as far as she knew. Not—

The front doorbell rang, and Nia nearly jumped out of her skin. She shoved the key in her apron pocket—she'd deal with it later, she'd figure it out, she'd—and hurried to answer the door.

---

Chief Marcus Webb was not what Nia had expected.

She'd pictured a small-town cop with a potbelly and a donut habit, someone who'd grown up here and never left, someone who'd look at her pride flag and rainbow welcome mat with barely concealed disapproval.

Instead, she opened the door to find a Black man in his late thirties, broad-shouldered and solid, with warm brown eyes and a small scar on his jaw. His uniform was crisp, his tie slightly askew, and he was holding a casserole dish covered in tinfoil.

"Chief Marcus Webb," he said, offering a hand. "Welcome to Maple Hollow. I meant to stop by sooner, but—" He glanced at the casserole. "Things got busy. This is from Dot, at the diner. She said, and I quote, 'New girl's probably living on takeout and despair.'"

Nia blinked. "I—thank you. That's—" She took the casserole. It was warm. "That's really nice. I'm not living on takeout, though. I made scones."

"From scratch?"

"From scratch."

He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Then you're doing better than I did my first month here. I ate a lot of gas station sandwiches."

The porch creaked under their combined weight. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke. Nia was suddenly very aware that she was wearing a flour-dusted apron over a flannel shirt, that her hair was escaping its messy bun in approximately seventeen directions, and that this man was very, very handsome.

She was also aware that he was looking at the pride flag.

She braced herself. She'd gotten good at bracing herself—the look, the pause, the careful re-calculation that happened when people realized what they were dealing with. Sometimes it was followed by a tight smile and a quick exit. Sometimes it was followed by something worse.

But Marcus just said, "Good flag. We needed one."

And then he smiled, a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and Nia felt something in her chest loosen.

"I'm sorry I didn't come by sooner," he said again. "It's been a weird few weeks. But I wanted to welcome you properly. This town can be—" He paused, searching for the word. "An acquired taste. But it's a good place. It'll grow on you."

"I've been here ten months," Nia said. "It's already growing."

"Then you're ahead of schedule." He glanced at his watch. "I should get back. But if you need anything—anything at all—the station's on Main Street. And I'm usually there."

"Chief Webb—"

"Marcus." He said it like it was important. "Just Marcus."

"Marcus." She tested the name. It felt good in her mouth. "Thank you. For the casserole. And the welcome. And the—" She gestured vaguely at the flag. "You know."

"Everyone deserves to feel welcome," he said. "That's not a controversial opinion. It shouldn't be, anyway."

He walked back down the porch steps, got into his cruiser, and drove away. Nia stood in the doorway, holding the casserole, watching until the car disappeared around the bend.

"That," she said to no one, "was unexpected."

The house creaked behind her, like it was agreeing.

---

At 1:58 PM, a silver sedan pulled into the driveway.

Nia watched from the parlor window as two men got out. The driver was tall and lanky, with gray-streaked hair and glasses, already laughing at something his companion had said. The passenger was shorter, stockier, with warm brown skin and a beard that was starting to go salt-and-pepper. He was holding a bouquet of sunflowers.

They moved like people who had been together a long time. The tall one reached for the shorter one's hand without looking, and their fingers interlocked like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Nia felt a twist of something in her chest. Longing, maybe. Or hope.

She smoothed her apron, checked her reflection in the hallway mirror—*you're fine, you're fine, you're fine*—and opened the door.

"Welcome to the Brambleberry Inn!" Her voice came out a little too bright, a little too high. She dialed it back. "You must be Daniel and Tom. I'm Nia. Make yourselves at home."

The tall one—Daniel, she guessed—beamed. "Nia! We've heard wonderful things about this place. The reviews were glowing."

"Only because I bribed the reviewers with scones," Nia said, and was relieved when they laughed.

The shorter one—Tom—held out the sunflowers. "These are for you. A thank-you for having us."

"Oh, you didn't have to—" But she was already taking them, already burying her nose in the petals. They smelled like summer, like something that wasn't October in Vermont. "These are beautiful. Thank you."

She showed them around the inn—the parlor with its fireplace and key wall, the dining room with its long oak table, the kitchen (which they admired politely, though she could tell they were the kind of people who didn't cook, the kind who had restaurants they called "our place"). She saved the Marsha P. Johnson Room for last.

"Ten years," Daniel said, standing in the doorway. "Ten years, and you still get nervous about anniversary trips."

"Ten years," Tom agreed, "and you still pick the wrong turn on the highway."

"We took a scenic route."

"We took a wrong turn and ended up in New Hampshire."

"New Hampshire is scenic."

New Hampshire was, in fact, not on the way to Vermont from Boston. Nia laughed, and felt something loosen in her chest. This was why she'd done this. This was why she'd poured her savings into a Victorian money pit with a ghost problem and a key wall that kept growing. For moments like this—two people, in love, celebrating ten years of choosing each other.

"Your champagne is chilling in the fridge," she said. "And there's a bottle of local cider too, if you'd prefer that. I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything."

She left them to settle in, closing the door behind her.

The house creaked as she walked down the hallway. It was an old sound, familiar by now, but something about it made her pause. She stood in the hallway, listening.

Nothing. Just the wind, rattling the windows.

She shook her head and went downstairs.

---

Dinner was a quiet affair.

Nia had made a simple vegetable soup—it was too cold for anything else—and she'd left a tray outside their door with a note: *For when you're hungry. The kitchen is always open.*

She'd eaten her own dinner alone in the kitchen, listening to the house settle around her. The radiators clanked. The floorboards groaned. Somewhere upstairs, she could hear the faint murmur of Daniel and Tom's voices, low and intimate, the sound of two people who knew each other's rhythms.

She missed that. She missed having someone who knew her rhythms.

She washed the dishes, wiped down the counters, and checked the guest ledger one last time. *Daniel Mercer & Thomas Whitaker. Room 3. Anniversary.*

The key was still in her apron pocket. She pulled it out, turned it over in her hands. *V.L.* The letters were worn, almost illegible, but they were there. She thought about asking Daniel and Tom if they recognized it—but no. That would be weird. That would be exactly the kind of thing that got you a reputation as the strange new innkeeper who asked strange questions about keys.

She hung it back on the wall. She'd count them again tomorrow. Maybe she'd miscounted. Maybe there had always been forty-eight.

The house creaked.

"Okay," Nia said, to the empty parlor. "Okay. Time for bed."

She turned off the lights and climbed the stairs, feeling the old wood bend under her weight. Her bedroom was in the east wing, a small room she'd painted a soft sage green. She'd decorated it with her own things—a photograph of her parents, a quilt her grandmother had made, the small dagger her abuela had given her for protection, which she kept in her nightstand drawer.

She changed into flannel pajamas, brushed her teeth, and crawled into bed.

The house was quiet. Too quiet, maybe. She lay in the dark, listening.

Nothing. Just the wind, and the occasional groan of old bones.

She closed her eyes.

And then—

*"Finally. Someone with taste."*

Nia's eyes flew open. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

The voice had been soft, theatrical, almost amused. It had come from somewhere in the room—or maybe from everywhere, from the walls themselves, from the air around her.

She sat up. The room was empty. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor.

"Hello?" Her voice came out as a whisper. "Is someone—"

Nothing. The house was silent, still.

Nia's hand went to the nightstand drawer. Her fingers closed around the cold metal of the dagger.

She waited. One minute. Two.

Nothing.

Finally, slowly, she lay back down. She kept her hand on the dagger. She didn't close her eyes for a long time.

And when she finally slept, she dreamed of keys—hundreds of them, hanging on a wall that stretched into infinity, each one waiting to unlock a door she'd never seen.

Setting

Setting: Maple Hollow, Vermont—a postcard-perfect New England town of 3,200 people, nestled in the Green Mountains. The town has a charming Main Street with a bookstore, a diner, a hardware store, and a church that's been repurposed as a community center. Autumn foliage draws tourists; winter brings ski crowds. The town is overwhelmingly white, cisgender, and straight—but trying, in its awkward, well-meaning way, to be more inclusive. The dominant emotional texture is "cozy with a shadow." The inn is warm, safe, and nurturing—a sanctuary for its owner and guests. But underneath, there's a current of unease: the knowledge that someone in this sweet, sleepy town is a killer. The contrast between the lavender-scented comfort and the cold reality of murder creates the book's tension. The B&B: "The Brambleberry Inn," a Victorian Gothic Revival mansion with a wraparound porch, turrets, and a reputation for being haunted. Nia has renovated it with a queer aesthetic: rainbow welcome mat, pride flag in the parlor, guest rooms named after queer icons (The Marsha P. Johnson Room, The James Baldwin Suite). The house smells of lavender, vanilla, and fresh-baked bread. It's charming, slightly creaky, and definitely has a personality of its own. Rules: The ghost of Vivienne LaRue, a former drag queen who died in the inn in 1989, is real. She can't leave the property, can't touch objects directly (but can knock things over, flicker lights, and write in condensation), and can only be seen by Nia—at first. Ghost rules are loose and playful: she can appear, vanish, and occasionally manifest as a cold draft or a whiff of old perfume. She's bound to the inn, and her knowledge is limited to what she can observe and hear. As the story progresses, her powers evolve—she gains the ability to manifest more fully at moments of high emotion, and her connection to the inn deepens as Nia's trust in her grows. Key locations: 1. The Brambleberry Inn — The main setting. A three-story Victorian with a wraparound porch, six guest rooms, a spacious kitchen, and a parlor with a grand fireplace. The attic is Vivienne's domain—full of old trunks, costume pieces, and memories. A wall in the parlor displays a collection of antique keys, each representing a guest, a memory, a secret. 2. The Maple Hollow Diner — A classic 1950s diner, all chrome and red vinyl. Run by Dot, a sixty-something woman with a sharp tongue and a soft heart. The town's gossip hub. 3. The Maple Hollow Police Station — A small, slightly shabby building with two cells, a dispatch desk, and Chief Marcus Webb's cluttered office. The walls are covered with commendations and a single, mysterious framed photo. 4. The Lavender Patch — A community garden behind the inn, planted by Nia's predecessor. It's where Nia goes to think, and where she has several key conversations with suspects. 5. The Maple Hollow Cemetery — A hilltop cemetery with a view of the mountains. Vivienne's grave is here, the headstone reading "Vivienne LaRue, Beloved Performer." Nia visits when she needs to feel grounded. 6. The Iron Woods — The forest behind the inn, where a 19th-century witch trial supposedly took place. Bodies keep "mysteriously" appearing here, and it's where the final confrontation unfolds. 7. The Maple Hollow Historical Society — A dusty, cramped building filled with archives and secrets. The nervous archivist, Mrs. Pendleton, guards the town's history—and its lies.

All 20 Chapters