by: Diane Kelly
Series: The Mountain Lodge Mysteries
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Release Date: October 26, 2021
Publisher: St. Martin’s Paperback
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Getaway With Murder is the first in a cozy series from Diane Kelly set in a lodge in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where secrets hide behind every hill.
As if hitting the half-century mark wasn’t enough, Misty Murphy celebrated her landmark birthday by amicably ending her marriage and investing her settlement in a dilapidated mountain lodge at the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains. With the old inn teetering on both a bluff and bankruptcy, she must have lost her ever-loving mind.
Luckily, handyman Rocky Crowder has a knack for rehabbing virtual ruins and for doing it on a dime, and to Misty’s delight, the lodge is fully booked on opening night, every room filled with flexible folks who’d slipped into spandex and ascended the peak for a yoga retreat with plans to namastay for a full week. Misty and her guests are feeling zen—at least until the yoga instructor is found dead.
With a killer on the loose and the lodge’s reputation hanging in the balance, Misty must put her detective-skills to the test. Only one thing is as clear as a sunny mountain morning—she must solve the crime before the lodge ends up, once again, on the brink.
I am absolutely wonderful! Thanks. So thrilled to be starting this brand-new series set in one of my favorite places, Beech Mountain, North Carolina.
Congratulations on the new series. Getaway with Murder is the first book in your Mountain Lodge Mystery series. What can readers expect from it?
They can expect to be whisked up into the Blue Ridge Mountains for an entertaining mystery. Their curiosity will be “peaked” as the evidence “mounts,” and the story will “spur” them on to try to identify the killer. Readers won’t want to “pass” on this one. (Tired of my mountain puns yet? Heh-heh.)
Lol. Okay. Honestly, I missed them. SMH. Please tell me about your protagonist Misty Murphy.
Misty has just turned fifty, amicably divorced her husband, and sent her youngest off to college when she decides to buy a mountain lodge in western North Carolina. She’s smart and determined, with the mature perspective that comes with middle age.
I’m a romance girl, and I love my cozy mysteries with a little romance thrown in the mix. I know Misty recently went through a divorce, but do you see a little romance in the future for her?
Although Misty is independent and wants to rediscover herself as an individual after her divorce, she’s open to a new relationship. Hunky handyman Rocky Crowder would certainly like to give things a go. Misty’s game, but she’ll want to take things slow. After all, she’s living on mountain time now. No need to rush.
Can you tell me a little about some of the secondary characters we’ll see in the book?
Patty runs the Greasy Griddle, a diner that sits across the parking lot from the lodge. As middle-aged women running their own businesses, Patty and Misty have a lot in common and become both collaborators and friends.
Brynn O’Reilly is hired to serve as Misty’s right hand, helping out as both a housekeeper and assistant manager. She’s a free spirit who practices Wicca, a form of pagan nature worship. Though Brynn is a bit unconventional, she’s a reliable employee.
Rocky Crowder is a skilled handyman who convinces Misty to trade a room at the lodge for maintenance services. Like Misty, he’s divorced with older children. He’s easy on the eyes, too.
Deputy Yona Highcloud is a seasoned investigator who’s tasked with investigating the murder at the lodge. She’s sharp and savvy.
Baroness Blizzard, who goes by the nickname Yeti, is Misty’s sassy and somewhat arrogant white cat. She rules the lodge with a furry fist.
You’ve written several cozy mysteries which have covered the spectrum. There was the IRS agent, the police officer who’s outranked by her police dog, who I believe thinks she’s an actual person, the house flipper, and a moonshiner, just to name a few. How did you come up with the idea for a mountain retreat owner?
After my husband and I moved to North Carolina three years ago, we made several trips to the Blue Ridge Mountains to hike or ski. During our vacations, we noticed a few traditional lodges that were no longer in business and up for sale. I found myself wondering what led to their demise, and imagining what it would take to turn them around and make them financially viable again. I was a business major in college, and running a lodge seemed like it would be a fun and challenging business venture. I figured readers would find the prospect exciting as well.
What’s the favorite part of a cozy mystery to write?
I love writing the parts where the “why” is hinted at and revealed. We tend to think of mysteries as “whodunnits,” but I’m always fascinated by the “whydunnit.” What made the killer do something so drastic and final? It’s fun to come up with interesting motives, to reveal what makes the killer tick.
If Misty was a real person and I could sit down and talk with her, what do you think she would say about you?
Diane would love to come live at the Mountaintop Lodge and never leave. She’d be a good guest, even if she wouldn’t keep her room very tidy. She doesn’t embarrass easily. You should see her wobbling around the ice rink and snow-plowing down the slopes. She loves it up here!
Diane, I know you’re a busy woman. What’s next for you?
After Getaway with Murder, the fourth book in my House Flipper series, Batten Down the Belfry, will release on February 22nd.
Diane, thank you so much for taking the time to answer some questions for me.
Thank you for the interview!
You’re welcome.
[Excerpt from Chapter 3]
My dashboard clock read 6:03 as I started down the backside of the mountain, approaching my destination. The air vents delivered the delicious aroma of the all-day, all-you-can-eat pancakes offered by the Greasy Griddle Diner across from the lodge. My heart soared like the hawks above as I turned into the parking lot. With wings stretched out on either side of a vaulted foyer, the log-cabin-style lodge appeared to be welcoming me into an embrace. Though the hotel had been built in the 1950s, the traditional style was timeless. My parents brought me and my siblings here dozens of times on family vacations when I was young. I’d stayed here on college ski-club trips, too. Jack and I even spent half of our honeymoon here. We’d spent the other half at the shore, climbing the lighthouse in Hatteras and strolling the beach. Once the boys were born, we’d carried on the tradition and brought them up the mountain for hiking and river rafting in the summers, and sledding, snowboarding, and snowball fights in the winters.
Throughout my childhood and up to my mid-forties, the place had been operated as The Ridgeview Inn by a jovial married couple. When they’d retired five years ago, they turned the place over to their shiftless grandson, who had little interest in the inn and no head for business. No wonder the lodge ended up in the red. There were several other hotels for sale in the area, too, some of which had gone out of business and languished on the market. Only a handful of inns still operated successfully. With the rise of internet sites like Airbnb and Vrbo, the vacation lodging market had changed. There were plenty of privately owned rental properties available, cabins and condos with full kitchens and multiple bedrooms where families and friends could spread out. With listings easily searched online, competition for guests was stiff. What’s more, weather could severely impact tourist traffic. A bad year for snow meant fewer skiers. Heavy rains, such as those that hit the area over the weekend, deterred even the most ardent outdoor enthusiasts, though they made for great waterfalls afterward.
Buying the place was risky, but I felt certain I could run a successful lodge. I knew the place, the property, and the people well. I knew why vacationers up and down the eastern seaboard chose to come here. I had no doubt I could turn things around. To that end, I’d developed a targeted marketing plan. While cabins and condos offered certain amenities, they didn’t offer a central meeting space or the ability for groups to stay together in immediate proximity. Rather than merely hope individual guests would register for rooms on my website, I planned to actively seek out groups who would enjoy having the lodge to themselves, taking it over as their home base for days at a time. I planned to get in touch with regional hiking clubs, ski clubs, bird-watching groups, you name it. The lodge could even host small weddings, family reunions, and similar events.
I swung around to park in the covered drive-through in front of the lobby and squealed in delighted surprise. Standing next to the front door was a piece of chainsaw art nearly as tall as me—an adorable black bear standing on his hind legs as if to get a better look at something that had made him curious. A bright yellow bow sat atop the bear’s head. It was a perfect gift. Jack has done it again. I climbed out of my car, whipped out my phone, and stepped across the stone walkway to snap a selfie with the bow-topped bear. I sent the pic to Jack with a text that said I LOVE IT! The words were redundant. My smile spoke for itself.
After retrieving my suitcase and my cat, I stepped back to the glass door at the entrance, unlocked it, and pushed it open. The place had gathered dust in the two weeks since it was last cleaned, but otherwise looked to be in good shape. The check-in counter took up the front right corner of the lobby and looked out over an expansive great room with wood flooring and a vaulted ceiling. The gathering space served as the heart of the lodge. Comfortable rustic furniture surrounded the stone hearth, ready for guests to enjoy the cozy fireside come winter months. A colorful rug adorned the floor.
The broker who’d listed the inn had touted it as a turnkey operation and offered to have management continue taking reservations for a seamless transition of ownership. But when the few remaining employees jumped ship, I advised the broker I’d prefer to replace the staff myself. I wanted full control over the operations. The Ridgeview Inn had hosted its last guests two weeks ago. I’d reopen the lodge on my own terms with staff I’d personally selected.
I’d purchased the place as is, but only after having it thoroughly inspected. The lodge needed some minor cosmetic repairs, but the inspector noted only one significant structural item, a rainwater runoff issue. Drainage was a common problem with high country properties, especially in Beech Mountain, which averaged forty-five to fifty-five inches of rain annually. I’d get the matter taken care of right away.
I freed Yeti from her carrier. As she strutted out, I scooped her up and carried her to the plate-glass windows at the back of the room. The view of the treetops and distant peaks was awe-inspiring. The ridges appeared in ever-lightening shades of bluish grayscale as they receded into the distance. The sun had begun its daily descent, slipping soundlessly behind the forested peaks as I gazed out. Though I’d seen the view many times, it never ceased to astound me. I ran a hand over my cat’s head. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Yeti, too, seemed impressed, putting a paw to the glass as she looked out. She purred in my arms as if sensing the same feeling I always had in the mountains. This is where I belong.
The rumble of the cat’s purr was interrupted by another rumble, this one coming from my stomach. It was dinnertime for me and my furry companion. An elongated creak met my ears, too. Creeeeak. My first thought was that the sound must have come from the woods. The trees often made creaking noises as their limbs rubbed against a neighboring tree or as they swayed in a brisk wind. But there was no breeze at the moment, and the forest seemed still. Hmm. Maybe one of the trees was about to shed a rotten limb. One had to be careful when hiking in the area as branches could crash down without warning.
Another creak followed. CREEEEEAK. Not only was this sound longer and louder, it was now clear where it was coming from—directly under my feet.
From Getaway With Murder by Diane Kelly. Used with the permission of the publisher, St. Martin’s Press. Copyright © 2021 by Diane Kelly.
My dashboard clock read 6:03 as I started down the backside of the mountain, approaching my destination. The air vents delivered the delicious aroma of the all-day, all-you-can-eat pancakes offered by the Greasy Griddle Diner across from the lodge. My heart soared like the hawks above as I turned into the parking lot. With wings stretched out on either side of a vaulted foyer, the log-cabin-style lodge appeared to be welcoming me into an embrace. Though the hotel had been built in the 1950s, the traditional style was timeless. My parents brought me and my siblings here dozens of times on family vacations when I was young. I’d stayed here on college ski-club trips, too. Jack and I even spent half of our honeymoon here. We’d spent the other half at the shore, climbing the lighthouse in Hatteras and strolling the beach. Once the boys were born, we’d carried on the tradition and brought them up the mountain for hiking and river rafting in the summers, and sledding, snowboarding, and snowball fights in the winters.
Throughout my childhood and up to my mid-forties, the place had been operated as The Ridgeview Inn by a jovial married couple. When they’d retired five years ago, they turned the place over to their shiftless grandson, who had little interest in the inn and no head for business. No wonder the lodge ended up in the red. There were several other hotels for sale in the area, too, some of which had gone out of business and languished on the market. Only a handful of inns still operated successfully. With the rise of internet sites like Airbnb and Vrbo, the vacation lodging market had changed. There were plenty of privately owned rental properties available, cabins and condos with full kitchens and multiple bedrooms where families and friends could spread out. With listings easily searched online, competition for guests was stiff. What’s more, weather could severely impact tourist traffic. A bad year for snow meant fewer skiers. Heavy rains, such as those that hit the area over the weekend, deterred even the most ardent outdoor enthusiasts, though they made for great waterfalls afterward.
Buying the place was risky, but I felt certain I could run a successful lodge. I knew the place, the property, and the people well. I knew why vacationers up and down the eastern seaboard chose to come here. I had no doubt I could turn things around. To that end, I’d developed a targeted marketing plan. While cabins and condos offered certain amenities, they didn’t offer a central meeting space or the ability for groups to stay together in immediate proximity. Rather than merely hope individual guests would register for rooms on my website, I planned to actively seek out groups who would enjoy having the lodge to themselves, taking it over as their home base for days at a time. I planned to get in touch with regional hiking clubs, ski clubs, bird-watching groups, you name it. The lodge could even host small weddings, family reunions, and similar events.
I swung around to park in the covered drive-through in front of the lobby and squealed in delighted surprise. Standing next to the front door was a piece of chainsaw art nearly as tall as me—an adorable black bear standing on his hind legs as if to get a better look at something that had made him curious. A bright yellow bow sat atop the bear’s head. It was a perfect gift. Jack has done it again. I climbed out of my car, whipped out my phone, and stepped across the stone walkway to snap a selfie with the bow-topped bear. I sent the pic to Jack with a text that said I LOVE IT! The words were redundant. My smile spoke for itself.
After retrieving my suitcase and my cat, I stepped back to the glass door at the entrance, unlocked it, and pushed it open. The place had gathered dust in the two weeks since it was last cleaned, but otherwise looked to be in good shape. The check-in counter took up the front right corner of the lobby and looked out over an expansive great room with wood flooring and a vaulted ceiling. The gathering space served as the heart of the lodge. Comfortable rustic furniture surrounded the stone hearth, ready for guests to enjoy the cozy fireside come winter months. A colorful rug adorned the floor.
The broker who’d listed the inn had touted it as a turnkey operation and offered to have management continue taking reservations for a seamless transition of ownership. But when the few remaining employees jumped ship, I advised the broker I’d prefer to replace the staff myself. I wanted full control over the operations. The Ridgeview Inn had hosted its last guests two weeks ago. I’d reopen the lodge on my own terms with staff I’d personally selected.
I’d purchased the place as is, but only after having it thoroughly inspected. The lodge needed some minor cosmetic repairs, but the inspector noted only one significant structural item, a rainwater runoff issue. Drainage was a common problem with high country properties, especially in Beech Mountain, which averaged forty-five to fifty-five inches of rain annually. I’d get the matter taken care of right away.
I freed Yeti from her carrier. As she strutted out, I scooped her up and carried her to the plate-glass windows at the back of the room. The view of the treetops and distant peaks was awe-inspiring. The ridges appeared in ever-lightening shades of bluish grayscale as they receded into the distance. The sun had begun its daily descent, slipping soundlessly behind the forested peaks as I gazed out. Though I’d seen the view many times, it never ceased to astound me. I ran a hand over my cat’s head. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Yeti, too, seemed impressed, putting a paw to the glass as she looked out. She purred in my arms as if sensing the same feeling I always had in the mountains. This is where I belong.
The rumble of the cat’s purr was interrupted by another rumble, this one coming from my stomach. It was dinnertime for me and my furry companion. An elongated creak met my ears, too. Creeeeak. My first thought was that the sound must have come from the woods. The trees often made creaking noises as their limbs rubbed against a neighboring tree or as they swayed in a brisk wind. But there was no breeze at the moment, and the forest seemed still. Hmm. Maybe one of the trees was about to shed a rotten limb. One had to be careful when hiking in the area as branches could crash down without warning.
Another creak followed. CREEEEEAK. Not only was this sound longer and louder, it was now clear where it was coming from—directly under my feet.
From Getaway With Murder by Diane Kelly. Used with the permission of the publisher, St. Martin’s Press. Copyright © 2021 by Diane Kelly.
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