Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Read Online Free Page A

then track down that maid of honor. Don't worry, Momma. It'll be fine.”
    Her confidence buoyed my spirits, and I went about my morning routine with a lighter heart.
    Twenty minutes later, I crossed the Silas Deane Highway and entered Wethersfield's historic district on Old Main Street. I might not work here at the moment, but starting my day without coffee from the Village Diner was unthinkable. A sign announcing that the town had been established in 1634 alerted me to the change in ambience that waited around the first curve. Almost immediately, the morning traffic sounds dropped away. The few remaining cars were relatively easy to ignore. The houses occupying the first few blocks, circa 1940, quickly gave way to far older structures. Once past Garden Street, I was plunged into the nineteenth century, then the eighteenth, as plaques next to weathered front doors announced each house's vintage. Finally, discreet signage approved by the local historic commission directed visitors to the museums and homesteads of particular significance.
    Interspersed with these august structures were the various establishments that made up the Old Wethersfield business district. I experienced a brief pang as I drove by the Law Barn, which until recently had housed MACK Realty and my daughter Emma's place of employment. Emma, a real estate paralegal, and her lawyer boss Isabel had responded to the market slide by downsizing to a two-person office in Glastonbury. Now a Space to Let sign swung forlornly in the chilly breeze outside the empty building. After that came Blades Salon, Antiques on Main, Mainly Tea, the Webb-Deane-Stevens Museum, and an assortment of small businesses, including a travel agency, bakery and the Village Diner.
    Parking along Old Main Street could be difficult later in the day, but finding a spot was easy at this hour. I snugged the Jetta against the curb and dashed into the diner, where the mingled aromas of hot coffee and cinnamon something washed over me. Deenie, the chronically harassed college student who filled all of the diner's take-out orders during the morning shift, greeted me. “Morning, Kate. Just coffee, or is this an off-your-diet day? The sticky buns are nice and fresh.”
    As often as not, I gave in to temptation, but not this morning. “Just coffee today, Deenie. Don't want to be late for my new job.”
    She grinned at me and went to fill a large paper cup with the diner's special brew. “Yeah, I heard Sister Marguerite talked you into helping out with the UCC fundraiser this year. A big to-do at the Wadsworth, visit from Santa and all that, isn't it? Better you than me. I helped out with that a couple of years ago. All those lah-de-dah women expecting to be treated like royalty.” She rolled her eyes while I tried not to look discomfited. Sister Marguerite had omitted any mention of egocentric donors. I smiled weakly and handed Deenie the exact amount, which I knew from long experience.
    “Well, it's only for a couple of weeks. How bad could it be?” I made a hasty exit before she could tell me.
    Today's priority was a full run-through of Thursday evening's event. Despite the surface confusion of yesterday's meeting, I felt certain that the chaos had been organized. After all, this wasn't the first such fundraiser these people had orchestrated. They had been through it all before, probably dozens of times. No doubt my own unfamiliarity with the proceedings had been the source of my misgivings. I would get up to speed this morning.
    Accordingly, I parked and locked the Jetta a bit closer to the Cathedral than I had the previous morning and joined the parade of volunteers moving purposefully through a rear entrance to St. Joseph's and into the lower church. I looked around curiously. To my untutored eyes, even this lower space looked pretty grand. Row after row of pews were interspersed with wide aisles. A full altar stood at the front of the space, and a smaller, separate seating area occupied the