Murder at Morgan House: Where the Ivy Snow Mysteries Began
Horses, secrets, and murder come to Wellington, Pennsylvania
Every mystery series has a beginning.
For Ivy Snow, it begins in the seemingly idyllic town of Wellington, Pennsylvania, where historic homes line the streets, horse farms dot the countryside, and everyone appears to know everyone else’s business.
Of course, appearances can be deceiving.
I’ve always loved mysteries, but I wanted to write one that felt at home in the equestrian world. Not simply a mystery with horses in the background, but one where horse people, horse towns, and horse culture were woven into the fabric of the story.
Ivy Snow emerged from that idea.
She’s resilient, imperfect, occasionally stubborn, and determined to rebuild her life after a series of devastating setbacks. Through her eyes, readers enter Wellington, a charming horse town where beautiful facades often conceal darker truths.
One of my favorite things about writing the Ivy Snow Mysteries is the setting itself. Wellington may be fictional, but it contains pieces of many horse towns I’ve loved over the years. It’s a place where history matters, horses are woven into daily life, and beneath every polished surface lies the possibility of something darker.
Murder at Morgan House is where Ivy’s journey begins.
The following scene comes from Chapter One of the novel that started it all.
But first, enjoy the trailer.
If you're new to the series, here's a little more about the novel that started it all.
About Murder at Morgan House
When Ivy Snow, a former Olympic eventing hopeful, moves to the charming town of Wellington, Pennsylvania, to publish Equestrian Style magazine, she hopes to leave the past behind and begin again.
Instead, she finds herself entangled in blackmail, arson, and murder.
Still reeling from a near-fatal riding accident and the discovery that her criminal defense attorney husband has been leading a double life, Ivy soon realizes that Wellington’s picturesque streets conceal dangerous secrets. As a long-festering plot for revenge unfolds, she must unravel the mystery surrounding a steel tycoon’s death while protecting her psychic teenage daughter, who knows far too much for her own good.
From the riverbanks of Paris to the drawing rooms of old American wealth, Ivy races to uncover the truth before the past destroys her future.
It All Begins With a Confession
“I had the perfect opportunity to murder Bart.”
CHAPTER ONE
I had the perfect opportunity to murder Bart. I had the motive, too.
Only a consummate narcissist like Bart Skeleton, Esq., would have the audacity to marry two women in the same place at the same time and think he could get away with it. It was bad enough that he screwed me over, but his own children! We had twins when he married Marion Fallon. What did he think would become of them? But then again, we have to remember that Bart never did think of anyone but himself.
Dr. Templeton Frick picked up his pad and pencil and started taking notes. “How did Bart’s behavior make you feel, Ivy?
“How did it make me feel? Devastated, humiliated, heartbroken , Doctor, that’s how it made me feel. I spent countless hours trying to figure out where I went wrong. Was I such a terrible wife that he felt like he needed another one to compensate for me? And as far as my own judgment goes—what was I thinking when I married him in the first place?”
“Have you worked through any of these feelings, Ivy?”
“No, I don’t think I have worked through them, Doctor. That’s why I’m in therapy.”
I hope this guy knows what he’s doing. If not, it serves me right for picking a therapist out of the Yellow Pages. He does have an assortment of framed diplomas all over the walls, so that’s a little reassuring anyway.
I suppose some people might think Bart was justified in his self-admiration. After all, he was a very successful criminal defense attorney, whose specialty was rape and murder. He was very much in demand. He was certainly good-looking in a suave Michael Douglas sort of way, and he had managed to ingratiate himself with the upper echelons of Philadelphia society, garnering invitations to all the best parties. Bart was the golden boy.
“I felt plenty sorry for myself, Doctor, but strangely enough I felt sorry for Marion, too. I mean, I did resent her, of course, but after all Bart duped her too. After I met her, I realized that she deserved justice almost as much as I did. Although jail would be too good for him, after weighing the pros and cons I realized that in the unlikely event that I would be convicted, it wasn’t worth life in prison, or heaven forbid, the electric chair to get even with Bart. But get even with him I did.”
Dr. Frick squirmed slightly in his giant leather chair. He removed his rimless glasses and smoothed back his thinning silver hair. He pulled down the sleeves of his brown tweed jacket, and struggled to launch himself into a standing position. “I’m sorry Ivy, but that’s all the time we have for today. We’ll have to explore your feelings about Bart in more detail next week. I’ll see you then, same time,” he said with a half-hearted smile.
I took the ancient elevator to the lobby and stepped out onto the sidewalk, taking in a deep breath of fresh spring air. I could smell the sweet fragrance of the daffodils that were popping up in everyone’s front yard; I took a moment to enjoy this fleeting time, when nature comes to life. There was a soft breeze blowing and it ruffled my long blonde hair; I should have worn a hat.
Walking back to the parking lot a small sign caught my eye. It was planted in the front yard of an impressive Victorian-style home, and said Historic Morgan House circa 1837. I love architecture and design, and I get excited when I stumble across a great example of period style. I was studying the lines when I noticed the figure of a man in the window. He appeared to be an older guy from what I could tell. He was dressed in plaid, which did nothing for his physique, but the red bow tie he wore was an interesting accent—don’t see many of those nowadays. Our eyes met, and I was a little embarrassed to be caught staring at his house. I gave him a friendly wave, but he just stood there, perfectly still, and did not wave back. A creepy feeling came over me and I quickly moved on.
As I passed by the Coach House B&B next door, I saw Roberta Bristol cleaning the turquoise green gingerbread trim on her porch banisters. “Good morning, Roberta. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I said.
She looked up from her task, and squinted at me. “Ivy Snow? Is that you?” Roberta never wanted to wear her glasses. She thought they made her look old. Well, she was sixty-five if she was a day.
“Yes, Roberta,” I said with a sigh.
She pulled down her navy blue Nittany Lion sweatshirt in an effort to conceal the ten pounds she had gained over the holidays. The extra weight didn’t do her any favors. She was short to begin with, probably about five feet, five feet one at best. She wore her black kinky hair piled high on top of her head in an effort to add inches, but the effect was more like an afro that had seen better days.
“Looks like we’re finally getting a spring,” she said with a toothy smile.
It was especially good news for her; warmer spring weather would bring back the tourists.
“Hey, Roberta, I just passed by Morgan House and I saw a guy standing in the window. Who is he?”
“He’s a pain in the butt, that’s who he is. Name’s Mike Smythe. Michael Tellington Smythe, to be precise,” she said with an air of haughtiness meant to characterize him.
I looked at her quizzically, egging her to go on.
I can’t stand that guy. He thinks he knows everything. He says I have no taste. Can you imagine that?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He had the nerve to go to the zoning board and file a complaint about the color I painted my B&B. Said it was garish, and that I was ruining the understated beauty of East Main Street. He is insisting that I repaint the house in a more subtle color to blend in with the other buildings. White bread and mayonnaise, if you ask me.”
“Really?” I said, trying my best to sound indignant just to get into the spirit of things.
“I’m not about to spend another $8,000 to have this place repainted. Besides, my guests love the color. I’ve heard more than one person comment that Candy Apple Red makes them feel warm and welcome.” She shook her finger. “Little does that troublemaker know I happen to be on the zoning board of this town, and his petition is going straight into the circular file, where it belongs.”
“You show ’em, Roberta,” I said, and went on my way, making a mental note to stay on her good side.
I hopped into my little BMW Roadster and spun around Wellington Towne Commons on my way to a meeting at the Field & Stream Club. The landscape crews were hard at work mulching and fertilizing to create the stunning gardens that were the pride and joy of the citizens of Wellington, Pennsylvania.
I moved to Wellington, well, actually I moved to a small horse farm just outside of town, right after Bart was incarcerated. He got five years on the bigamy charge, and I can still hear his parting words ringing in my ears. “I’ll get you for this, you bitch.” Of course, Bart blamed me for the fact that he was going to jail. Never mind that he was the one who committed the crime.
I swerved my car to miss Dr. Corbin Montrose, plastic surgeon, dressed in his Revolutionary War garb on the way to re-enact the Battle of Wellington. Wellingtonians are passionate about their historic roots. Every war fought on American soil included at least one battle in Wellington. With all of that cannon fire going on, it’s a wonder the town is still standing.
Fortunately, my Roadster has good torque, and I was able to avoid smashing into The Folly; a lacy white Victorian structure set in the center of the commons. It is the symbol of Wellington itself, and serves as bandstand, photo op, preteen hangout, and wedding chapel. Many a union has been sealed there by the mayor of Wellington, who also happens to be the town’s premier appliance repairman.
For all of Wellington’s quintessential small-town charm, I couldn’t help but sense sinister underpinnings. It’s like that old cliché, if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. I was about to find out that clichés stand the test of time for a reason.
Is this your first visit to Wellington?
I’d love to hear what you think of Ivy, Bart, and the world of Murder at Morgan House in the comments.