Belle & Dixie's Mysteries Book 1

When Belle takes Dixie, her lively Bernese Mountain Dog puppy, for an early morning walk through the familiar grounds of Hawthorne Manor, she expects nothing more alarming than muddy paws and a bit of village gossip. But when Dixie discovers a single abandoned glove lying where it should not be, Belle’s curiosity leads her deep into the Hawthorne Manor estate — and to a discovery that will shake the whole village. Hidden among the quiet paths and flowerbeds is the body of Margaret Hawthorne, the manor’s owner. As news spreads through the close-knit village, whispers begin behind cottage doors, in the village shop, and across the green. Everyone seems to have a theory, but Belle knows this village too well to believe the truth will be simple. With Dixie’s nose for trouble and Belle’s determination to ask the questions others avoid, the pair begin to uncover long-buried family secrets, old resentments, and lies hidden behind the grand walls of Hawthorne Manor. But when suspicion falls on people Belle knows, one thing becomes frighteningly clear — someone in the village is willing to kill to keep the past buried. Can Belle and Dixie uncover the truth before the killer strikes again?

A STILL MORNING If there is one thing I have learned about living in a village, it is this: nothing ever happens—right up until the moment it does. Also, Bernese Mountain Dog puppies should come with warning labels. “Dixie—no!” The warning came too late. It usually did. Dixie, who had been trotting beside me in what I can only describe as a suspiciously well-behaved manner, suddenly launched herself sideways with the enthusiasm of a small, fluffy cannonball. The lead yanked hard in my hand, nearly pulling my arm out of its socket. “What is it now?” I demanded, stumbling after her. The answer, as it turned out, was Mrs. Finch’s display of freshly baked scones, arranged neatly on a small table outside the bakery window to entice passing customers. Or, more specifically, one scone that had rolled slightly too close to the edge and was now apparently fair game. “Absolutely not,” I said, digging my heels into the pavement. “You are not stealing from Mrs. Finch again. We are still on probation.” Dixie glanced back at me, entirely unrepentant, her brown eyes bright with mischief and what I can only assume was a detailed internal argument about why she deserved that scone. “You had breakfast,” I reminded her. She sat down. This might sound like obedience, but it wasn’t. It was negotiation. “I mean it,” I added, lowering my voice as though this were a serious diplomatic exchange. “No scones. Mrs. Finch already thinks you’re a menace.” Dixie tilted her head. A passer-by—Mr. Hargreaves, who knew everything about everyone and made it his business to prove it—chuckled as he walked past. “Training her well, are you, Belle?” “Yes,” I said, with what I hoped was dignity. “It’s a work in progress.” “Mmmm,” he said, in a tone that suggested the work might be ongoing for the next several decades. I ignored him. Mostly. With a final, long-suffering sigh, mine, not Dixie’s, I coaxed her away from the bakery and back onto the narrow lane that wound through the centre of the village. The morning air carried that familiar mix of warm bread, damp earth, and something faintly floral drifting over from the green, where preparations for the summer fête were already underway. Strings of bunting fluttered between lampposts. Someone—probably Mrs. Patterson—was directing the placement of folding tables with the intensity of a military commander. The entire village seemed to be gathering momentum toward the weekend, and with it came the usual flurry of gossip, speculation, and mild territorial disputes over who got the best stall location. Dixie trotted along beside me again, her earlier ambitions temporarily forgotten. For now. “This,” I told her, “is what a normal morning looks like. Peaceful. Predictable. Entirely free of scandal.” She sneezed. “I’m serious,” I insisted. “Nothing ever happens here.” That was, admittedly, a slight exaggeration. Things did happen, but they were the sort of things that involved missing garden tools, overcooked jams, or disagreements about hedge heights. The kind of problems that could be discussed at length over tea and resolved without anyone raising their voice. It was safe. Comfortable. Possibly a little boring—though I would never admit that out loud. Not in a village where boredom was considered a personal failing. As we reached the edge of the green, Dixie slowed, her nose dropping toward the grass. I felt the lead go taut again, but this time it wasn’t a sudden lunge. It was… focused. “Dixie?” I said. She didn’t look at me. She was sniffing with determination, tracing an invisible path along the edge of the hedgerow that bordered the lane leading up toward Hawthorne Manor. I followed, curiosity pricking at the back of my mind. Hawthorne Manor stood a little apart from the rest of the village, set behind a low stone wall and a stretch of carefully kept garden that always looked as though it belonged in a painting. Even from here, I could see the top of the house rising above the trees—elegant, quiet, and just a little too distant. Margaret Hawthorne lived there alone. Or at least, as alone as anyone ever was in a place like this. Dixie’s pace quickened. “Hey—slow down,” I said, tightening my grip on the lead. She ignored me. Of course she did. We reached a break in the hedgerow where the grass gave way to a narrow, slightly overgrown path that led toward the manor grounds. Dixie stopped abruptly, nose pressed close to the earth. Then she pawed at something. “Dixie, what have you found now?” I crouched beside her, brushing aside a few stray leaves. At first, it didn’t look like much. Just a dark shape half-hidden in the grass. Then I realized what I was looking at. A glove. Not the woolly sort you wear in winter, but a sturdy gardening glove, the kind used for digging and pruning. One finger was smeared with dirt— fresh dirt, still slightly damp. “That’s odd,” I murmured. Dixie huffed softly, as if to say, OBVIOUSLY. I picked it up carefully. It felt heavier than it should have, and there was something about the way it had been left—just off the path, not quite hidden, not quite lost—that made the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Someone dropped this,” I said. Dixie looked up at me. “Yes, I know that’s how dropping things works,” I added. “But still. It’s…” I trailed off. Because suddenly, the morning didn’t feel quite so peaceful. The bunting still fluttered. The village green still buzzed with quiet activity. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed. But here, by the hedgerow leading to Hawthorne Manor, something felt… off. Dixie gave a small, low woof. I glanced toward the path, then back at the glove in my hand. “Alright,” I said slowly. “We’ll just take a quick look. And then we’re going home.” Dixie’s ears perked up. “That does not mean ‘charge ahead like a maniac,’” I added quickly. She was already moving. “Dixie—!” The lead went taut again as she bounded forward onto the path, pulling me after her whether I liked it or not. And that, as it turned out, was the moment everything started to go wrong.