Murder on Maple Lane

A Maple Lane Mystery – Book 1

Nobody ever expected Maple Lane to be the scene of a murder. It was the kind of quiet street where people watered their lawns at 6 p.m. sharp, waved to neighbors without really knowing their names, and left their doors unlocked—not out of trust, but out of habit.

That all changed the morning they found Gary Finch dead on his porch swing.

It was a Tuesday. The sun had just crested the treetops when Abigail Lane, Maple Street’s most inquisitive baker, was walking her dog Winston. She wasn’t one to gossip, but she had a mental catalog of every resident’s daily routine. Gary Finch always came out at 7:15 a.m. to drink his coffee and yell at squirrels. But this morning, he was out early—and unusually quiet.

Abigail slowed as she neared his yard. Gary sat slumped on the swing, coffee mug on the ground, one arm hanging awkwardly. His face was pale. Too pale.

Winston barked once. That’s when she knew.

Gary Finch was dead.

The paramedics arrived too late to do anything. The coroner confirmed it shortly after: blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Murder.

By noon, the entire street buzzed with theories. “Probably a drifter,” said Eleanor from across the street. “Someone from outside. It’s never one of us.”

Abigail wasn’t so sure. She’d spent the last ten years quietly observing the residents of Maple Lane, and Gary Finch had more enemies than friends. He’d fought with his neighbor about a tree branch, yelled at kids riding bikes too fast, and once reported a woman three doors down for “excessive Halloween decorations.”

She couldn’t help herself—Abigail decided to investigate.

She began at the scene.

While the officers talked to neighbors, Abigail slipped around the side of Gary’s house. She wasn’t trespassing exactly—just “checking on Winston’s favorite bush,” as she explained to Officer Riley when he raised an eyebrow.

That’s when she noticed it.

A small red maple leaf, smeared with something darker than sap. Blood?

More interesting: it was pinned beneath the edge of a muddy men’s boot print—and Gary Finch always wore slippers. Abigail snapped a picture with her phone and kept walking.

Her next stop was Dot’s Diner, the heart of local gossip.

“Gary dead?” Dot asked, pouring her coffee without needing to ask for her order. “Can’t say I’m shocked. He was a cantankerous old goat.”

“Did he have any enemies?” Abigail asked.

Dot raised an eyebrow. “Besides half the town?”

Abigail stirred her coffee, thinking. “Anyone particularly angry with him lately?”

Dot leaned in. “Well, he did threaten to sue Mitch Turner last week. Said his tree was dropping leaves in his yard and ‘clogging his aura.’ Whatever that means.”

Mitch Turner, the yoga teacher who believed in crystals and compost. Could the tree feud have boiled over?

Abigail paid for her coffee and walked two blocks to Mitch’s cottage. He answered the door in socks and a tie-dye shirt, incense trailing behind him.

“Did you kill Gary Finch?” she asked bluntly.

Mitch laughed nervously. “I... uh... I try not to kill people. It messes with my chi.”

“Dot said he threatened to sue you.”

Mitch nodded. “He did. Over leaves. I told him he should meditate instead. Look, I didn’t like him—but murder? That’s not me.”

“Where were you this morning between six and seven?”

“I was setting up for my sunrise yoga livestream. It’s on YouTube if you want to check. Timestamped and everything.”

An alibi. A digital one, no less.

That evening, Abigail reviewed her photo of the bootprint. It wasn’t Mitch’s style—too heavy, too workmanlike. She thought back to Gary’s feud with someone else... the tree trimmer! Last month, Gary had gotten into a screaming match with Luis Delgado, who trimmed trees on the block.

Gary claimed Luis “butchered” his front maple. Luis said Gary shoved him off his own property.

She found Luis at home the next day. He looked stunned when she asked him about Gary’s death.

“I didn’t do it,” he said quickly. “Yeah, we argued—but I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Boots like that?” she asked, pointing to a pair by the door. Thick soles, wide tread—like the print she’d found.

Luis looked down. “Yeah. Why?”

“Mind if I take a photo of the sole?”

To his credit, he didn’t protest. She snapped a picture, thanked him, and left.

Back home, she pulled up both photos. The pattern matched. Perfectly.

She turned the evidence in to Officer Riley, including timestamps, photos, and notes. He listened politely but didn’t seem convinced until forensics confirmed: the bootprint at the scene matched Luis Delgado’s boots.

When they arrested him, Luis confessed. Said Gary pushed him too far—threatened his business, insulted his family. One shove turned into a swing of the pruning shears. One mistake. One death.

The next morning, Maple Lane felt different. Still quiet, still tree-lined—but a little less innocent.

Abigail stood on her porch with Winston, sipping coffee, watching the neighborhood adjust.

She hadn’t meant to get involved.

But now, people were stopping to say hello. Asking if she’d “figured anything else out.” Smiling more often.

Maybe Maple Lane had needed a mystery.

And maybe... she was the one to solve the next one.