Rosefield has moose, a ski resort, and new this season, murder. Come for a visit. Bring your buds.

Looking for an alpine vacation? Or do you long for the rural life where cows number greater than folks? Nestled amongst the Green Mountains of northern Vermont, Rosefield is the perfect setting to escape your problems and enjoy a cozy mystery. Within these borders, you’ll encounter over a hundred color illustrations to enhance your respite.

Maybe you’ll meet one of the locals. You might share a chair with Joey Rogers, skier extraordinaire and self-proclaimed hero of this small town. Or spot Happy Smith slicing through the glades on his snowboard—as long as it isn’t Grandma Day. Enjoy an après ski at the Bent Pole, and you’ll receive impeccable service from the best bartender in town, Jane Reech. And who knows? Maybe you’ll help Sheriff Peggy McStoots figure out whodunit.

You might even meet Rodney Buric II, the man responsible for the resort’s latest rebrand. Because who wants a mountain without an extra thrill? Sure, you’ve been to resorts with their fancy villages and high-speed quads. But have you ever experienced a . . . Murder Mountain?

Murder Mountain is the first in the Rosefield Series, with its sequel, Day Trip to Jay Peak, coming soon.

There’s a humdinger of a situation if you’re stackin’ what I’m choppin’.

Things are tense in the fictional northern Vermont resort town of Rosefield. A subtle cold war brews between multigenerational Vermonters and the “flatties” — that is, tourists and other outsiders. The precarious status quo is shattered when a ne’er-do-well ski bum is found dead on the mountain with a knife protruding from his chest. It’s up to salt-of-the-earth Sheriff Peggy McStoots to track down the killer.

Vermont native Owen Curvelo fills his debut murder mystery with more than 100 illustrations from artist Katya Strasburger, beginning with a detailed map of Rosefield Mountain Resort (tagline: “Bring Your Buds”). The world of Rosefield and its colorful inhabitants comes to vivid life in these images, from small ones that break up the text to full-page “stills.”

In addition to artistic renderings, Murder Mountain is chock-full of Vermont references. Example: Twentysomething skier Joey Rogers rocks out to fictional band the Rutland Rotary Boys, whose singer, Seth Alltheway, and guitarist, Hector Yacoven, might well be allusions to Vermont’s real-life blues-rock all-star Seth Yacovone.

— Jordan Adams of Seven Days.

Here's an excerpt of Jane Reech tending Rosefield Resort's bar, the Bent Pole:

Plenty of unfamiliar faces stopped in as well. Flatties upon flatties, which should’ve added dimension, but . . . nopers. Had the rebrand brought them to Rosefield? Jane asked one couple with an overwhelmingly flat appearance.

“Why are you here?” she questioned after delivering them two pints of Bacon.

“We ordered—” started the male.

“A drink I don’t know how to make.” Jane tapped her fingers on the bar. “Answer the question.”

“Uh,” stammered the female, “w-we wanted . . .”

“. . . A vacation with more excitement,” finished the male. “Honey, she’s part of the ‘Murder Mountain’ act. Play along.”

“Oh. I was scared for a moment. How thrilling!”

Jane stomped away before she slapped a flatty. She questioned several others, whose responses only increased her frustration.

“My hubby and I skied a Magic Mountain, a Presidential Mountain, Buttermilk, Powder, and Bald Mountains. Never a Murder Mountain!” Flat.

“I’m a murder mystery writer, here for research.” Flatter.

“We’re spiritualist skiers. We carve with the dead.” Flattest.

Jane felt her backhand tighten up. Could she keep herself contained? She almost flew over the bar at a custy wearing his jeans tucked into ski boots, a helmet-mounted MyView, and a twenty-year-old pad of wickets. But when he dropped a twenty-dollar tip, Jane forgave all those offenses. Actually, despite their vertical challenges, most of the flatties tipped well. Maybe she should share this chair.

Here's an excerpt of Peggy McStoots speaking with the State Trooper Commander about the murder investigation:

“Hi, Bob.” He was barely visible behind his shiny oak desk covered in framed achievement awards. Peggy sat in the opposing over-cushioned chair.

“Hi, Peggy.” Bob removed his wide-framed glasses and cleaned them with his green Statie uniform.

“Your troopers are finally using my proper title.”

“Who, Cassie?” Bob laughed. “She’s a rule follower. I don’t care if the folks in Rosefield want to call you ‘sheriff.’”

“I never asked for the title, but they’ve used it since the day I started.”

“I’ve always liked ‘Sheriff McStoots.’ Although, ‘Sheriff Strongman’ is a little . . . stronger.”

Peggy sighed. She had dated Bob when they attended Enosburg High School together, a mistake she still regretted. Forty years, a marriage, and three daughters later, Bob thought some chemistry remained between them. “About the autopsy report . . .”

“I have it.” Bob tapped a folder on his desk. “How about I tell you what’s inside?”

Peggy considered grabbing the folder and stomping out, but she risked offending him. Then Bob might order his troopers to resume their Rosefield patrol. “What did you find?”

“Timmy died within moments of the knife severing his aorta.”

“A knife to the ol’ blood bumper.” As Peggy diagnosed a month ago.

“No signs of struggle. Whoever stabbed Timmy caught him by surprise. If somebody murdered him.” Bob sniffed. “My detective nose points to a suicide.”

Bob’s ‘detective nose’ was about as valid as his actual one. “Timmy didn’t struggle at all?”

“No bruises, scrapes, nothing under his fingernails.” Bob stuck his hands out, then thrust them towards his chest. “Suicide. Bag it, tag it, and call the game warden.”

“What about the piece of flannel?” Peggy debated telling him what Rufus described earlier, but then she’d have to reveal her source. Bob would laugh her out of the barracks. “If he killed himself, how did it end up in his hand?”

“Maybe it was his lucky fabric.” Bob flipped open the folder and searched through the pages. “Like you, my forensics guy’s convinced someone murdered Timmy. He’s excited about a hair he identified on the flannel. Nonhuman. Canis lupus familiaris.”

“Black or chocolate?”

“Yellow. Did Timmy own a Labrador?”

“Noper. Tell your forensics guy to contain his excitement, as it’s most likely Tug-Tug’s. Everyone who visits Cody’s General Store rubs his belly on their way in, even jerks like Timmy. Did he discover anything on the knife?”

“No other DNA besides Timmy’s.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing of note.” Bob shut the folder and slid it across his desk. “There’s your copy.”

“Thank you.” Peggy stood up.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” said Bob, hopping to his feet. “A new Italian/seafood restaurant opened in St. Albans. I reckoned you might wanna taste. My treat, of course.”

“Sorry, guy.” Peggy had prepared a lie for this eventuality. “I promised to watch Lyndsay’s kids so she could rest for a night.”

“You can be a little late.” Bob trotted around his desk and grabbed her shoulder. “Remember the nights we shared in high school? Cruising dirt roads in my green van with the white racer stripes and vinyl interior. I still maintain it, you know.”

“No.” Peggy recalled the van—mostly its stench. Wet dog mixed with body odor and a pinch of urine, not too dissimilar to how Bob currently smelled. “A grandmother’s duty never ends. Maybe next time.” She turned and stepped to the door.

“I almost forgot, we heard from our out-of-state connections about Timmy’s missing years.”

Peggy stopped.

“He ski-bummed up and down the Rockies, working at most of the major resorts.”

“Which leaves a lot of holes in his timeline.” She sighed. “Do you have a list of all the resorts?”

“I do.” Bob smirked. “Plus how long he worked at each. I’ll email it to you.”

“Thanks. Goodnight.” She stomped back down the hallway. Cassie snoozed, so Peggy didn’t bother her with a farewell. She hopped into the Road Runner and drove home, encountering two (two!) stoplights.

Here's an excerpt of Happy Smith playing dominoes with his grandma, but he can't concentrate after she asks for a mysterious favor:

Once the coffee finished brewing, they moved to Grandpa’s oak dining table he chainsaw-carved thirty years ago as a wedding anniversary present.

“Before we play,” said Grandma. “I hanker a favor.”

“Anything.” Happy laughed. “Ope. Not anything. Remember when you dared me to shoot a rifle from horseback like the cowboys? I almost broke my neck!”

“Whatever doesn’t break you will make you.” One of Grandma’s favorite sayings and a mantra she drilled into her two boys. A primary reason Uncle Pete and Happy’s dad grew into two of the toughest guys in Rosefield.

Grandma grabbed an envelope from her purse and slid it across Grandpa’s table. “I need you to deliver this to Peggy.”

“Sure.” Happy scratched his head. “Uh, which Peggy?”

“Sheriff McStoots, your ‘beloved’ Mary Anne’s mother.”

“Hah.” Happy flipped the letter over and felt the seal. She licked the glue, but he could probably steam it open. “What’s it about?”

“I’ll only tell you if you swear to bring it right to Peggy. No peeking.”

“I swear on the soul of my favorite shotgun.”

Grandma raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, okay.” Happy contemplated his sweet baby Remi. “I swear on the soul of my favorite hunting rifle.”

Grandma raised her other eyebrow. “And?”

This required the ultimate deal. Happy would stay strong. His curiosity wouldn’t overpower his love for Remi. “If I peek, she’s yours.”

“All right then!” Grandma slapped knee. “You know Diane Robbitet? She manages Cody’s deli.”

“Yepper, she prepares the best sandwich in town, large enough to dislocate your jaw.”

“Well, Diane and I partnered for team cribbage, and she learned this from her cousin Florence. You might know him from the Sled. He lives in Stowe.”

“Unrung bells.”

“Doesn’t matter. Florence told Diane about an alternative version of cribbage, with brand-new rules.” Grandma giggled and squirmed in her seat. “Two cribs. Two!”

“Why don’t you tell Peggy at cribbage night?”

“She hasn’t attended since the murder investigation began. She’s determined to identify the killer by summer. No distractions. A shame, Peggy’s my favorite partner when we play team cribbage.”

“You could call her.”

“I hate these new phones, worse than computers. Too many buttons and pictures. Besides, I want Peggy to witness the official rules printed out. She’s gonna jump right out of her Jeep!” Grandma giggled and shook her arms in a happy dance. Happy hadn’t seen her this excited since Uncle Pete bought her a new four-wheeler.

“Why don’t you deliver it yourself, then?”

“Because I’m old. I only leave this house to kick your ass on the way out. Or the occasional cribbage night. Just complete the task and no more questions, or I receive your rifle.”

Happy bit his lip and nodded. Grandma always cut a shrewd but fair deal. “Okay.” He put the envelope in a pocket. “With that deer tied to the grill, shall we proceed to what’s important?” He reached over to the sill and grabbed the cloth bag.

“If I remember, I won the last two weeks in a row.”

“Your dementia just turned on.” Happy spread the dominoes across the table. “You haven’t won since they invented electricity.”

“You insult my memory? When you’ve clearly forgotten how well I crack a belt?”

They laughed and slapped knee. They chitchatted through three games, addressing every essential topic: snow accumulation, the upcoming sledding season, the Powder Crew’s exploits, and gossip from cribbage night.

Grandma won every match, and she bragged about it all the way out of the farmhouse. “Come back after you watch one of them YouTube things,” she called from the porch. “It’s spelled D-O-M-I-N-O-E-S.”

“Love you, Grandma.” Happy pulled out of the driveway with his head hung.

He never stood a chance, no way he could focus on dominoes with that letter in his pocket. What did it really contain? Grandma could out-lie a lawyer, but Happy knew her since he popped out of his Mama. The letter didn’t involve Deli Diane, her cousin, or cribbage. She needed to send Peggy a message, but why not deliver it herself? It required all of Happy's willpower not to open the letter on the drive home. Whenever he felt his fingers scrape at the seal, he considered his dear Remi. He couldn’t abandon her after all their hunts together.

After hiking with the Powder Crew, Happy forgot all about the letter. Nothing like a twelve hundred foot vertical up and down to work the worms out of the hay. Well, at least until he returned home and noticed the letter on his dining table, once more calling to his natural curiosity. No, he’d remain steadfast, for Remi’s sake. He’d bring it to Peggy in the morning on his way to work.

He brought it to his truck, at least, but Happy forgot to stop as he drove up Left Mountain Road. No problem, he’d drop the letter off after his rental shop shift. Except that didn’t happen, either. He had a month before the next Grandma Day. He’d decide by then what was more important, his favorite hunting rifle or discovering his grandmother’s secret.

To celebrate our release on Google Play, we're offering Murder Mountain at a 50% discount. Maybe you should hop on the chair before the trails are skied off.