Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Nikki Andrews
Oil & Water
Copyright
Dedications
Author’s Notes
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
It wasn’t exactly a luncheonette, but close.
Three tables, with two chairs each, filled one side, while the rest held a compact kitchen, a small counter with a register, and a display case of cold bottled drinks. Racks of bagged chips, candy bars, fridge magnets, and postcards covered most horizontal spaces.
“Haven’t cleaned the tables yet in heah,” Danea tossed over her shoulder. “Mack! Coffee done?”
“Two minutes,” a masculine voice replied.
“Cinnamon rolls just out o’ the oven. Gimme a minute, and I’ll get a slice for ya with the coffee.”
Ginny nodded agreement and strolled to the single, salt-stained rear window. The place was only about thirty feet deep and ten wide, tight quarters for any shopkeeper. That explained the tables out front.
The sun balanced on the horizon now, and the direct shafts of light nearly blinded her. The rocks rising up in the cove cast long, black fingers across the water, and the damp, seaweed-covered stones of the beach reflected glints into Ginny’s eyes. She scanned the curve, from the pines she’d just passed under, across the parking lot, past the restaurant, and out to the fabulously costly private homes at the tip of the neck. As her eyes adjusted, she could pick out more details—fish bones, bird droppings, a twist of netting, many shells. She puzzled over a large, shadowy lump, and her breath caught.
“Danea,” she croaked. “You’d better call the police.”
“What for?”
“There’s a body on the beach.”
Praise for Nikki Andrews
“Ginny Brent has been asked to judge at the prestigious art contest, Oil and Water, in Maine. Little does she know she’ll be involved in a murder before she can say ‘Blue Ribbon.’ Author Nikki Andrews has taken a little known profession and a little known location and turned them into a fascinating tale you won’t want to put down. Do yourself a favor and read this first class mystery!”
~Liz Delisi, author
~*~
“I found this story to be an intriguing blend of mystery, art, and Maine. The details about the location made you feel as if you were there.”
~Mary St. Peter
~*~
“The characters came alive, and the setting was so real I felt like I was in Maine with them. Even though I fingered the wrong person as the villain, I thoroughly enjoyed reading Oil & Water.”
~Nancy Siemienowicz
Oil & Water
by
Nikki Andrews
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Oil & Water
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Nikki Andrews
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by RJ Morris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2018
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1898-1
Published in the United States of America
Dedications
To Danea, Alisoun Hodges, Kristina Russell, and Colleen Grebus, for letting me use their names.
~*~
To the good people of Ogunquit, who endure noisy tourists and nosy writers with grace and forbearance.
~*~
To the staff of Art Experience, who inspired this series, and to all artists, who inspire my soul.
~*~
To my editor, Lori Graham, for her wise guidance,
and to RJ Morris for her incredible cover art.
~*~
Most of all, of course, to Dave,
who does the dishes while I write.
Author’s Notes
All the places in Oil & Water are real…more or less. Some may have been imported from elsewhere, undergone a name change, or operated differently than depicted. One or two exist only in my head, but that’s a real place, too.
The inlet of the clicking rocks is exactly as described, and just as mesmerizing.
Chapter One
“If it’s tourist season, why can’t we shoot ’em?”
Ginny Brent drummed her well-manicured fingers on the steering wheel and glared at the stoplight on Route 1 in York, Maine. Although she’d left home early on this Thursday morning, she was already hitting a lot of traffic with license plates from Vermont, Massachusetts, New York, Quebec, and farther afield. She discounted the cars from her home state of New Hampshire; what were neighbors for, anyway?
Ginny justified her bit of misanthropy by reminding herself she had a serious reason for heading to Ogunquit, the “beautiful place by the sea” as the original inhabitants had called it. The prestigious Oil & Water Art Council had invited her to act as a judge at the semi-annual exhibit, being held this year just at the start of the maddening, crowded, busy—but profitable—tourist season. The arts festival, traditionally held on Father’s Day weekend, was the first hurrah of the summer season. Earlier in the year, the weather was too iffy to plan on any outdoor activities. Snow in May was not unheard of.
Ginny had nearly declined the invitation, but her employees at Brush & Bevel Gallery overrode her worries.
“We can take care of business for a weekend,” said Elsie Kimball in her quiet, assured way. “We’ve done it before.”
Sue Bradley raved about the baked goods at the bed and breakfast where the council had reserved rooms for the judges. “I hear they’re the best of Down East. Besides, you deserve the honor. After all the work you’ve put into the arts scene here in New Hampshire and all the nice things people say about your judging critiques at local shows, Oil & Water is lucky to have you. Go let someone else take care of you for a weekend. Just make sure you head out on Thursday, or you won’t get there until it’s time to come home.”
The idea of being pampered certainly appealed to Ginny. The Council covered most of her costs for the weekend and offered a small honorarium. In exchange, her duties were light. She would attend the reception, cast her ballot as judge, and spend a few hours Saturday and Sunday as a docent in the Council’s big tent at the fair, where each artist would have a booth. To top it all off, she could deduct any additional expenses from her taxes.
So here she was, stuck between a van full of what appeared to be Cub Scouts ahead of her and an impatient couple in a Mercedes with its top down, riding her rear bumper. She wasn’t worried about her business. Elsie and Sue were capable, and she was only a phone call away. However, she did regret her decision to leave I-95 at the York exit and follow US 1 north. She had allowed enough time for a side excursion to Cape Neddick and the Nubble Lighthouse—or so she thought. She’d forgotten how congested the vacation hotspot could be, even this early
in the summer. As she waited at yet another pokey light, she consulted a detailed local map. Maybe she could take some back roads her GPS wouldn’t recommend to get over to 1A. No. That road, right along the ocean, would probably be even more jammed, especially as the day was becoming unseasonably warm. The side trip was out if she wanted to reach Ogunquit before midnight.
Restlessly, she turned on her radio and searched for a strong signal. Just as the light turned green two cars ahead of hers, she tuned in a news report. As she made it through the intersection and caught up to the next jam, she heard the tail end of a report about a feud over lobster traps being pulled illegally. Such squabbles were a perennial problem throughout the lobster-fishing grounds, and Ginny took notice of this one only because it happened near her destination. Once the traffic started moving again, she forgot all about it.
****
Ginny cut a couple miles off Route 1 by weaving through some residential streets. Back on the highway again, she stopped at a clam shack and indulged in a lobster roll. It had a bit too much paprika for her taste, but the roll was perfectly toasted and she was very hungry. The freshly brewed iced tea was the perfect complement to wash the sandwich down and left her feeling renewed for the remaining few miles. Once she worked herself back into the flow of cars and waited at yet another light, she called ahead to the Cobble Cove Inn to confirm her arrival.
“I’ll be a little too early to check in,” she mentioned to the clerk who answered.
“No problem, Ms. Brent. Mr. Shattuck is here waiting for you and the other judges. There are light refreshments in the dining room for all of you.”
How thoughtful. She tried to remember who Mr. Shattuck was. Another judge? No, wait, he was one of the driving forces of Oil & Water. His name was on the invitation: A. Lincoln Shattuck. She sincerely hoped his parents hadn’t named him Abraham, but she doubted she would ever ask.
The line of traffic moved even more slowly until Route 1 became Main Street and the cars approached the intersection with Beach and Shore Roads, the two main streets of the town. “Dysfunction Junction” lived up to its nickname as pedestrians, cars, and the signature trolley buses came to a near standstill. The three-way junction could have used a traffic cop to improve the flow. Still, a holiday atmosphere prevailed. People smiled and waved each other through.
She turned obediently when her GPS instructed, followed its directions into the town, and after another ten minutes of stop-and-go driving, arrived at the inn. A tumble of early roses softened the sunny end of the clapboard house. Tall, graceful evergreens and the ferns at their feet swayed in the light breeze, adding their distinctive scent to the tar-tinged sea air. Ginny relaxed instantly. Nothing could beat the aroma of the ocean mixed with balsam, roses, and ferns.
Except, possibly, ginger and cinnamon. Whatever light refreshments were on hand, obviously they were extremely fresh. Ginny slid out of her car, brushed the creases out of her sea-green cotton slacks, and stretched before heading inside. She couldn’t see the ocean from the front of the house, but she swore she could hear it. Even if the gentle shush was only the wind in the trees, she felt refreshed and soothed, as she always did near the water.
The front door opened, and a man stepped out onto the wide, covered porch. He held a mug in one hand and a plate in the other. He set them down on a small table between two lavishly cushioned wicker chairs and waved to her. Ginny returned the gesture, locked her car, and climbed the two steps to the welcoming shade. “Hello, I’m Ginny Brent.”
He took the hand she extended, holding it between both of his. “So glad to meet you. I’m Linc Shattuck. It’s wonderful to have you here. I’ve heard so much about you.”
For some reason, Ginny blushed like the teenager she’d been far too many years ago. Perhaps it was the way he cupped his fingers around hers, as if he would kiss them. Or maybe it was the warmth in his voice. He was tall and fit, with the kind of hair that can only be described as silver. He bent slightly to smile into her eyes. No one had looked at her like that in a long time.
“I must look a mess,” she demurred. “Traffic was horrendous.”
“Not at all, not at all. Here, sit down. The cookies are still warm. How do you like your coffee? Or tea?”
“Coffee, please. Black, one sugar. But don’t fuss, I can get it.” She tugged her hand from his, and he let go, just enough so her fingers slid through his. What a flatterer. Better watch out for him.
“It’s my pleasure, really. Our rooms aren’t ready for us yet, but I’ll get your coffee while you freshen up, if you like. Then we can chat on the porch.” He gestured gracefully through a sitting room toward a door discreetly labeled “Necessary Room.”
It certainly was necessary, Ginny thought as she washed her face and hands, ran a comb through her blonde-over-graying hair, and freshened her lipstick. Feeling renewed and a lot less sticky, she strolled back to the porch. Linc was not there, but a cup steamed lightly on the table. She bit into a ginger snap and took a sip from the cup. The coffee was fresh, hot, and very good. She stood at the porch railing, glad to be on her feet after the long drive, and let her mind drift.
Voices in the sitting room brought her back to the moment. “You’re kidding,” Linc said, apparently into a phone. “Yes, of course…If you think so, yes, we’ll go ahead… Well, it would be easier than pulling all his work out of the show… Fine. I’ll talk with you at dinner.”
Ginny turned her head as he stepped through the door. The change in him staggered her. He’d gone pale. His hand shook as he raked it through his hair, and the twinkle in his rich brown eyes was gone. He slumped into a wooden rocking chair and tapped a slip of paper against his lips. His coffee steamed unnoticed on the little table.
“Linc?” The name felt awkward in Ginny’s mouth. “Mr. Shattuck? Are you okay?”
He clattered to his feet while the correct social phrases spilled disjointedly from his lips. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…please sit, um, have a seat. So good of you to come…” He ran his hand over his mouth. “Sorry, I—I’ve had a shock.”
She set her hand on his. “What is it? Can I help? Are you all right?”
He gripped her fingers. “It’s dreadful. I-I don’t know what to say.” He raised his eyes to hers. “I’m doubly glad you’re here, Ginny. One of our artists—Bill Thompson—he’s…missing. That was his partner on the phone. Bill was out painting off Ogunquit Beach and was supposed to be home by now. But he’s late, and his—oh, God—his color box washed up on Israel’s Head.”
She freed her fingers from his, plopped into a chair, and set her coffee down absently. “Are you sure it’s his?”
Linc dropped into the other chair and covered his eyes with a hand. “John recognized it, and it had Bill’s name inside.” He gulped. “A pleasure boat found his skiff floating loose half a mile out.”
Chapter Two
I will not get mixed up in another mystery. I will not. Despite her unspoken vow, Ginny’s heart plummeted. So much for her pleasant weekend away from her business. Crime had a way of catching the most unsuspecting and innocent people in its net. Perhaps she should turn around and go home right now.
Linc leaned toward her. “Thank God you’re here, Ginny. We’ve all heard how you solved Jerry Berger’s murder last year—”
“That was pure luck, and anyway, my employees did most of the work. I couldn’t—”
“That’s not the way I heard it.”
She stood up straight. “Well, no matter what you’ve heard, I know what happened. I have no special skills as a detective, and I don’t want anything to do with this. I’m very sorry the man—”
“Bill Thompson,” Linc supplied.
“—is missing, but I really can’t help. Leave it for the police.”
Linc got to his feet and faced her with an apologetic gesture. “My dear Ginny, of course. Forgive me. The shock, you know. I can’t honestly call Bill a friend, but I’ve known him for a long time. He’s a fine artist, and it’s been a privilege t
o watch his skills grow. We could always count on his help for the art show.” He shook his head.
He’s practicing a memorial speech on me in case he needs it. What a phony! Ginny decided she would keep her distance from Linc as much as she could, given the circumstances. It might be tricky; they were bound to be thrown together all weekend, at the fair and the other events surrounding it. To her relief, just then, the door opened, and a slim young woman emerged.
“Ms. Brent? I’m Camille Shepard. I’m sorry your room wasn’t ready when you arrived, but I could show you up now. Can I help with your luggage? Mr. Shattuck, Clyde will be out in a moment to show you to your room.”
The interruption couldn’t have been more timely. With a sense of escape, Ginny followed Camille down a hallway and up a flight of stairs. The room turned out to be larger than she expected, with a four-poster double bed under a blue and white canopy and a matching comforter. Two armchairs flanked a wide window looking out over a lawn, and a painted chest of drawers supported a TV and telephone. A small fridge sat in one corner, topped by a microwave, with the supplies for making coffee on that. In another corner, beside the window, stood a desk and chair. There was a meager but sufficient closet, and the sunny bath was amply stocked with fluffy towels. Nautical-themed wallpaper created a cheerful atmosphere, and the scent of the roses drifted in.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable here. The password for the WIFI is on the desk. If you need anything, just press zero-nine and one of us will answer. Any questions?”
“No, thank you, Camille. Oh, yes, one question. How far is it to the water?”
Camille grinned. “Depends on what you want. There’s the long way—you could go back down to Shore Road and follow it out onto Perkins Cove, or catch a trolley over to Ogunquit Beach. Or you can take the short way. Turn right out the front door and keep going until you get to the little lighthouse on the Marginal Way. Left if you want to go into town, right to the Cove. Either way, you’ll be walking along the ocean.”
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