by: Connie di Marco
Series: Zodiac Mystery
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Release Date: December 1, 2020 (re-release)
Publisher: Suspense Publishing
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Rob Ramer was the perfect husband until he committed the ultimate family faux pas—he shot his sister-in-law to death. Believing himself under attack by an intruder in his home, he fired back. But when evidence is discovered that Rob’s wife, Brooke, was plotting his murder, Brooke is charged with conspiracy in her sister’s death. Geneva, a third sister, is desperate for answers and seeks the help of her friend, San Francisco astrologer Julia Bonatti. Geneva’s lost one sister and now it seems she’ll lose the other. Was this a murder plot or just a terrible accident? Julia vows to find the answer in the stars.
The door to the dressing room flew open with such force the mirror rattled against the wall. “Where the hell did she get to? We’re almost ready to start.” Brooke’s voice hovered on the edge of hysteria.
I paused with a mascara wand halfway to my lashes. “Have you checked the ladies room?” Brooke’s nervousness was contagious.
“Yes. I checked,” she groaned. “Julia,” she whispered, “I think Moira’s been drinking . . .” She turned back to the corridor, her mauve train catching on the threshold. “Damn,” she twisted, tugged on her skirt and stormed off.
Geneva Leary, my best friend from college, my friend who had seen me through the darkest time of my life, was getting married in just a few moments in the courtyard of the Inn of the Seven Horses in Sonoma County, north of San Francisco. Her sisters, Brooke and Moira, and I were serving as bridesmaids.
The door flew open a second time. Sally Stark, our wedding coordinator, charged in with the same question. “Where is Moira Leary?” she hissed.
I glanced up at Sally’s reflection in the mirror. “Brooke is looking for her now.”
“I can’t have this. I just can’t have this. I have never had a bridesmaid who behaved in such an irresponsible manner.” Sally, wearing a severe black suit, was painfully thin, her jaw permanently clenched. The tendons in her neck bulged like ropes as she spoke.
Brooke halted at the door to the dressing room. Sally turned to face her. “Mrs. Ramer, this is absolutely unacceptable. I have never seen such cavalier behavior. I assure you, the Inn will never allow you to plan an event here again. That’s if I have anything to say about it.”
Brooke’s face was flushed. I was waiting for her to explode, but instead she took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment to regain her poise. “I understand how you must feel.”
“No,” Sally bit back, “I don’t think you do. This reflects badly on me. In all the years I have been coordinating weddings, I have never had anyone – bride, groom, or bridesmaid, simply disappear moments before the ceremony is to begin!”
“We can’t delay any longer,” Brooke surrendered to Sally’s anger.
I paused with a mascara wand halfway to my lashes. “Have you checked the ladies room?” Brooke’s nervousness was contagious.
“Yes. I checked,” she groaned. “Julia,” she whispered, “I think Moira’s been drinking . . .” She turned back to the corridor, her mauve train catching on the threshold. “Damn,” she twisted, tugged on her skirt and stormed off.
Geneva Leary, my best friend from college, my friend who had seen me through the darkest time of my life, was getting married in just a few moments in the courtyard of the Inn of the Seven Horses in Sonoma County, north of San Francisco. Her sisters, Brooke and Moira, and I were serving as bridesmaids.
The door flew open a second time. Sally Stark, our wedding coordinator, charged in with the same question. “Where is Moira Leary?” she hissed.
I glanced up at Sally’s reflection in the mirror. “Brooke is looking for her now.”
“I can’t have this. I just can’t have this. I have never had a bridesmaid who behaved in such an irresponsible manner.” Sally, wearing a severe black suit, was painfully thin, her jaw permanently clenched. The tendons in her neck bulged like ropes as she spoke.
Brooke halted at the door to the dressing room. Sally turned to face her. “Mrs. Ramer, this is absolutely unacceptable. I have never seen such cavalier behavior. I assure you, the Inn will never allow you to plan an event here again. That’s if I have anything to say about it.”
Brooke’s face was flushed. I was waiting for her to explode, but instead she took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment to regain her poise. “I understand how you must feel.”
“No,” Sally bit back, “I don’t think you do. This reflects badly on me. In all the years I have been coordinating weddings, I have never had anyone – bride, groom, or bridesmaid, simply disappear moments before the ceremony is to begin!”
“We can’t delay any longer,” Brooke surrendered to Sally’s anger.
Sally sniffed dismissively. “Fine. I will signal the harpist.” She left the dressing room, slamming the door behind her.
Brooke stared at me and silently mouthed the word ‘bitch.’ “Let’s go, Julia.”
I stood and followed Brooke out of the dressing room. Clutching my small bouquet, I took my place at the top of the stairway behind her. Geneva, sheltered in her private dressing room, had been able to ignore the hubbub and remain calm. I reached behind me to squeeze her hand. She smiled in response and we started our slow descent to the courtyard accompanied by the liquid strains of a harp.
Weddings always bring out the best and the worst in me. On one hand, I become embarrassingly teary-eyed and sentimental, sometimes given to outright bawling. On the other hand, a cynical part of me separates and steps back, like an astral body, watching, and wondering about all those ‘till death do us part’ vows. Do the participants realize what they’re promising? If all marriages end in death or divorce, why the rush to the altar? I often reflect on the karmic connections between unique individuals, those connections that propel us to ‘own’ each other in a marital sense. As an astrologer, this stuff interests me. I know long term relationships must have a Saturn connection, otherwise they tend to be fun and short, or short and not so fun as the case may be, but Saturn connections can be difficult, restraining, and sometimes even, let’s admit it, oppressive.
Brooke stared at me and silently mouthed the word ‘bitch.’ “Let’s go, Julia.”
I stood and followed Brooke out of the dressing room. Clutching my small bouquet, I took my place at the top of the stairway behind her. Geneva, sheltered in her private dressing room, had been able to ignore the hubbub and remain calm. I reached behind me to squeeze her hand. She smiled in response and we started our slow descent to the courtyard accompanied by the liquid strains of a harp.
Weddings always bring out the best and the worst in me. On one hand, I become embarrassingly teary-eyed and sentimental, sometimes given to outright bawling. On the other hand, a cynical part of me separates and steps back, like an astral body, watching, and wondering about all those ‘till death do us part’ vows. Do the participants realize what they’re promising? If all marriages end in death or divorce, why the rush to the altar? I often reflect on the karmic connections between unique individuals, those connections that propel us to ‘own’ each other in a marital sense. As an astrologer, this stuff interests me. I know long term relationships must have a Saturn connection, otherwise they tend to be fun and short, or short and not so fun as the case may be, but Saturn connections can be difficult, restraining, and sometimes even, let’s admit it, oppressive.
Here’s one example ~
Way back in 1847, when San Francisco city planners were creating grids and streets and plots of land, a man named Jasper O’Farrell (who, by the way, has a street named after him), was commissioned to survey the land south of Market Street. Market Street runs a diagonal course straight through the city and on both sides, the streets are laid out in grids going in different directions. It can be rather confusing if you’re not familiar with the area, because the name of the street changes as you cross Market.
These smaller streets are all named after women! In alphabetical, not geographical, order, they are Annie, Alice, Clara, Clementine, Eliza, Grace, Harriet, Jessie, Kate, Minna, Mary, Natoma and Zoe. One explanation for these street names is found in the 1927 South of Market Journal written by Albert P. Wheelan. Wheelan theorized that pioneers coming west without their wives and daughters and sisters were homesick and named these streets after the women they missed.
Well, that’s not the story I was told when I lived there. It’s generally accepted that these streets were named after . . . how shall I put this? . . . famous and desirable ladies of the night who held court during the era of the Barbary Coast. Many of them were the mistresses of city officials. These streets were their domain. A lot of reconstruction has gone on in the South of Market (SOMA) area in recent years and Minna Street now even boasts an upscale club called . . . you guessed it . . . Harlot!
What do you think? Was Mr. Wheelan trying to whitewash the city’s bawdy past? Being of a suspicious mind, I’m much more inclined to accept the locals’ version of the street names. And I’m sure Julia would too.
Purchase All Signs Point to Murder from:
You can read my review of All Signs Point to Murder here.
The Zodiac Mystery Series:
The Madness of Mercury ~ Review
Writing as Connie Archer, she is also the author of the national bestselling Soup Lover’s Mysteries from Berkley Prime Crime. You can find her excerpts and recipes in The Cozy Cookbook and The Mystery Writers of America Cookbook. Connie is a member of Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers and Sisters in Crime.
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