The Seaside Detective Agency - The funniest Cozy Mystery you'll read this year (The Isle of Man Cozy Mystery Series Book 1)

by J C Williams

  “I’m trying to put the stupid thing down!” Joey protested. I’ve been trying! But it's stuck!”

  Like a scrappy Yorkshire terrier picking a fight with a Rottweiler, there was still some fight left in Mr Clover — though some of the wind had been taken from his sails, and his garden trowel now drooped in his hand. “I’ve been in the war, you know!” he managed, and gave his trowel a bit of a wave like it was the Union Jack.

  Which war Mr Clover had been in was unclear. Judging from his advanced age, it could very well have been any of them. Or all of them.

  Blood continued to run down Joey’s hand, and, bizarrely, seemed to be acting as a lubricant. Joey could feel it beginning to give way, and took advantage of this by giving it a tremendous tug. Considering the force exerted, when his hand eventually did come free, the result was that it was released with the speed of a champagne cork.

  The momentum caused Joey to stagger sideways, and his out-of-control fist continued on its trajectory like a comet — in this instance, Haymaker-Levy. Joey grimaced as it made impact, coming to an abrupt halt on Mr Francis Clover’s chin.

  “Old-timer? Are you, um… okay?” asked Joey, stood peering down on the unconscious pensioner, though he was afraid he already knew the answer. “Crud,” he said, knowing he had to act fast. Joey had been outside the cottage for less than four minutes and had already destroyed the fence and sparked the neighbour clean out. Things were not going according to plan. Granted, there’d been no real plan to speak of. But, still.

  “Come on, you're coming with me,” he said, picking Mr Clover up and placing him under his arm like a roll of carpet. Joey tried to rest the gate in its original position, but it simply collapsed to the ground (much like Mr Clover had done).

  Joey entered the cottage and placed his unexpected companion in a high-backed armchair located in the hall and looked for any sign of Mr Esposito, or indeed anybody — but the cottage turnt out to be empty.

  “Joey, are you okay in there?” said a whispered voice from the front garden. Joey jumped with a start.

  Abby cautiously poked her head through the doorframe. Her gentle expression was replaced by one of fury. “Bloody hell, Joey!” shouted Abby. “We thought you'd been attacked! You told us to go if you weren't back in two minutes. That was ten minutes ago!”

  “You don't follow instructions very well, then, do you?” Joey replied.

  Abby was seemingly less nervous in his company by now, judging by the slap she threw in the direction of his right shoulder. “We were worried about you!” she said. She took a deep breath in an attempt to placate her racing heartbeat.

  The placating didn’t last very long.

  “What the actual fuck??” she screamed, jumping backwards. “Who the hell is he?” she said, pointing to the slumped figure in the armchair.

  “I think he lives next door?” replied Joey with a casual shrug, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. “I didn’t catch his name.”

  Abby moved a step closer. “Great,” she said. “Do you have a habit of collecting bodies wherever you go? So what’s he doing in this chair? Is he dead?” she asked.

  “Relaxing, at the moment,” Joey replied with another shrug.

  Abby could see the man was no threat, primarily by the fact there was no motion save for the river of saliva travelling down the fellow’s chin. She placed her fingers against his neck. “He's alive,” she announced.

  “Great,” said Joey, distracted and not really listening.

  Satisfied the shovel wouldn't be required for another corpse, Abby began combing the cottage. It didn’t take long as it was tiny. “There's nothing here?” she said after a very short while.

  “There’s nothing here,” Joey confirmed.

  Joey opened the fridge door for something to eat, but the shelves were empty. “What about this?” he said, picking up a yellow sticker that appeared to have lost its stick from the front of the fridge door and dropped to the floor. “In your line of work, it might be considered… a clue? Anything of importance there?”

  Abby's eyes widened. “Maybe, Joey… maybe,” she said, reading the note. “What time is it now?”

  “Three p.m.,” Joey replied.

  “This note says ‘four p.m. at C O’,” said Abby, now pacing, and with her right hand placed on her chin. If she had a beard, she would have been stroking it.

  The front door crashed open, causing Joey to take an immediate defensive stance and reach for his gun.

  Madeline stood in the doorway with a garden fork in hand, like a Roman centurion. “Oh. Okay, are we?” she said. “Well that’s nice to know. I've only just been sitting in that car scared shitless, so don’t worry about me or anything! Abby, you said to give you three minutes and it's been eight. I’ve been counting. Manually.”

  “The two of you are both useless at following instructions, then!” advanced Joey.

  Madeline held her chest. “I'm glad you're both okay, at least,” she said, on the verge of hyperventilating.

  “We’re just finishing up here,” Joey told her. “Have a seat, if you want. We’ll be done soon,” suggested Joey, knowing she hadn't yet seen the (formerly) trowel-wielding pensioner.

  “Thanks,” replied Madeline. “Don’t mind if I do, actually.”

  It worked out better than Joey had even hoped, as she eased her bum into the seat without even looking down behind her first. She encountered an obstacle, of course — in the person of Francis Clover — but her focus remained on her surroundings and not on the seat beneath her. And so she wriggled her cheeks on the lumpy chair, seeking comfort, like a cat circulating a sofa before finding an agreeable spot.

  Madeline froze, and the blood drained from her face as a pair of bony hands gripped her by the waist. She twisted her head, and, witnessing in true horror-film fashion the spectre of an old man emerging from the seat cushions, wailed like a banshee.

  “Oh, I say,” said Mr Clover. “This is a wonderful turn of events.” He hadn't expected to find an attractive female gyrating on his lap, one would imagine. “I could quite get used to this.”

  “You filthy thing!” shouted Madeline, as she realised this was in fact an actual person and not a phantasm, and, in response, managed to skillfully jump, twist, and slap Mr Clover in the face in one fluid movement.

  “I was in the war, you know!” protested Mr Clover.

  Rather than intervene and bring the affair to an end, Joey stood and laughed a laugh that sounded like it originated from his feet.

  “We don't have time for this!” shouted Abby like a schoolmarm. “Madeline, stop getting Mr, em…”

  “Francis Clover. At your service,” said Francis Clover. “And at yours, my dear,” he added, in Madeline’s direction, with a wink.

  “Leave Mr Clover be, and stop getting him overexcited,” Abby admonished.

  “I’ve been in the war!” My Clover said again, though no one knew quite why.

  Madeline, nonplussed, was about to respond but Abby spoke again first.

  “We've not got time for shenanigans! We don’t have much time to figure out where the others are going to be. If we don't figure out where ‘C O’ is, and stop them going there, they'll meet those fake FBI knobs and—”

  “Get their heads blown clean off,” said Joey.

  Abby stared at Joey for a moment. “Thanks for that, Joey!” she said, sensing the distress on Madeline’s face. She placed a hand on Madeline’s shoulder, but knew the aid and comfort it provided was very limited. Abby was all nerves herself.

  “Hang on. Where am I?” asked Mr Clover, a bewildered expression over his face. “I thought I was in Heaven, a moment ago, but…”

  Abby's compassion was required elsewhere, and she moved over to Mr Clover. “You're just next door, my lovely,” she said in a soothing tone. “You must have had a fall. Because my friend,” she said, pointing to Joey. “Found you outside and brought you in to make certain there was no permanent damage.”

  “The war…” he sa
id, his voice trailing off. “I was…” Mr Clover kneaded his forehead. He knew something was amiss, but what it was, precisely, was out of reach. Eventually, he dusted himself down and edged slowly towards the front door whilst keeping a distrustful eye on Joey.

  Joey was unaware of Mr Clover’s eyes on him. His consideration was elsewhere, instead inspecting something he'd recovered from the darkest recess of the cupboard. “A doughnut!” he said. “Guys, I found a doughnut! I didn’t think you even had doughnuts over here. Just crumpets or something.”

  “We’re not savages,” Abby replied in disgust, and then turned her attention back to Mr Clover.

  “Should we take you to hospital?” she asked. But, as she moved forwards, Mr Clover redoubled his efforts at retreat. Realising her offer of further assistance would be rebuffed, Abby raised her hands to show her attentions were friendly.

  “I was in the war,” he muttered. “I was in the war. I know things. I know loads of things. They tried to get it out of me, but they couldn’t. Not Francis Clover. Nossir.”

  “Francis,” Abby said, gently. “I don't suppose you saw my friends that were staying here, did you? A woman with auburn hair and a baldish man? It’s important. They’re in trouble. They’re in danger.”

  Mr Clover thought for a moment. “That fence,” he said with a glimmer of recognition. He gave Joey another suspicious glance, but his recollection was still too cloudy to pull it all together. “Someone interfering with the fence. It’ll come back to me. It’ll come back. I still have my mind. My mind is…”

  “It’s alright, dear. Take your time,” said Abby, soothingly.

  “Wait,” said Mr Clover. “Hang on. I saw the woman you mentioned. I did see that woman. But the bloke she was with wasn't bald. He had dark hair, but it looked like it didn’t belong to his head. Terrible hairstyle. Terrible. One of those moptops that are fashionable these days, I expect, since those four lads became popular. The Ladybirds. That’s them. I remember things. I do. I still have my mind”

  “One of Esposito’s men must have taken Emma?” said Madeline. “We’re too late?” she asked, clearly in distress.

  “No!” Abby immediately replied excitedly. “Hold on.” She turned back to Mr Clover. “Could it have been a wig, Mr Clover?” she asked.

  Mr Clover thought for a moment. “I suppose it could’ve been, at that,” he replied. “That’d make more sense, now I think on it, since I haven’t seen those moptop hairstyles for a few years now.”

  Abby's face lit up as she placed her hands over Madeleine's shoulders. “That must be Sam!” she said, all but jumping on the spot. “He has this fascination with wigs that he's started to do when going deep undercover,” she explained. “Well, he's only done it the one time. But this is the second time.”

  She returned to Mr Clover once more. “He wasn't wearing ridiculously tight shorts, was he? Oh, never mind. At least we know they're both alive. Mr Clover, just one more thing,” she said, doing Miss Marple proud. “Did they give you any clue where they were going?”

  “Why would they tell me?” asked Mr Clover. “I look like a nosey neighbour? Oh, wait,” he continued, with his memory fog lifting further. “I think I did ask the fella, now you mention it. He said he was taking her to his favourite spot on the Island,” he said. “Right, I’m going now,” he added abruptly.

  He exited the cottage and walked up the garden, one eye over his shoulder. He must have forgotten about the gate, which he attempted to open but encountered only its remnants.

  Abby waved and gave a smile. “Thank you, Mr Clover! You’ve saved lives today!”

  “It’s what I do,” Mr Clover muttered to himself before disappearing again into his own garden.

  “Joey, you broke that gate, you should go and fix it. Also, Joey, I don't think you should eat that doughnut, it's got green bits on it. If you fix the gate, I'll buy you a new one. Maybe a whole bag,” she said, tapping him on the back, just as he was about to pop the entire doughnut into his mouth in one go.

  “The green bits aren’t supposed to be there?” Joey replied. He examined the doughnut, contemplating whether he should eat it anyway.

  “So where's he taken my sister??” interjected Madeline. “We don't have much time!”

  “I know, I know,” said Abby, pacing once more.

  “Well where is his favourite spot on the island?” pressed Madeline. “If we don't get to them before the fake FBI goons, my sister is as good as dead.”

  Abby recounted every nonsensical conversation she'd had with Sam. Her brain was at bursting point, because there were a seriously large number of nonsensical conversations to consider. She started to laugh, suddenly, which infuriated Madeline.

  “This is serious! Why are you laughing? Think!” Madeline demanded.

  “I bloody am,” said Abby. “But he's been coming to this Island since he was a kid. And, also, once you know Sam, he does talk a lot of shit. I'm trying to filter out the shit, but it's difficult. And also pretty funny.”

  “Are you totally deranged? Have you also had a blow to the head?” asked Madeline, incredulous.

  “Do you know what he does?” asked Abby, wistfully. “On a cold day, if we need to go out in the car, he'll run out and start the engine so the air is warm when I get in. Oh,” she continued. “For my birthday, he paid for a full mariachi band to surprise me at work — violins, trumpets, and guitars. The full ensemble. The timing wasn't great as I was in the middle of telling a woman I'd found her dog — well, what was left — when the Mexicans burst in.”

  Abby sat down. “Oh, god! Sam,” she said, as the tears flowed. “I always treat him like he's some sort of idiot, but he cares, I mean he really does.”

  “I think this doughnut is still good,” said Joey to no one in particular.

  Madeline slapped her hand on the table, hard. “Snap out of it, woman! Get your shit together! You having a trip down memory lane isn't going to help him! Is it??”

  “I know,” moaned Abby. “But he loves everything about this place. It's why he moved over here.”

  “He must have one special place,” said Madeline. “Think.”

  Abby raised her hands aloft as if seeking divine inspiration. “He loves going up Douglas Head. He takes his fish and chips and mushy peas up there and watches the boats come and go. He said it always reminds him of how excited he used to get, as a kid, when the boat finally arrived after the long journey across the Irish Sea.”

  “I think these green things are supposed to be there,” Joey remarked.

  “We don't have time for a history lesson!” said Madeline.

  “Alright, alright! I’m just trying to work out what ‘C O’ could mean.” Abby placed her head on the table and covered her ears as if drowning out any distraction. Then she lowered both hands and strummed her fingers on the table, much to the annoyance of Madeline. “It’s how I think,” Abby told her.

  “I definitely think these green things are supposed to—” Joey began.

  “I’ve got it!” screeched Abby, who raised her head like a startled meerkat. “C O… must mean Camera Obscura. There’s one on Douglas Head! Come on, we have to go and warn them!”

  “What the hell is a Camera Obscura?” Madeline asked, chasing after Abby.

  “Come on, Joey, you’re driving! We need your skills!” Abby called after them. “We need to get to Douglas Head tout de suite and warn Sam and Emma! And, Joey? Step on it!”

  “Coming!” Joey shouted back. And, then, to himself, “This is still good.” And he popped the doughnut into his mouth before exiting the cottage and getting underway.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Camera Obscura

  T he Isle of Man is steeped in nostalgia, mementoes from a time when numerous passenger ships struggled to keep pace with the influx of passengers. The Island was once littered with Victorian innovations, designed to part eager tourists from their hard-earned wages.

  One such curiosity was the Great Union Camera Obscura, located in an env
iable position on Douglas Head, perfectly positioned, ironically, to keep a watchful eye on those ferries that’d completed the journey across the Irish Sea. It was a fairly intimate, wooden structure — like a miniature circus tent — that contained eleven camera lenses, giving its inquisitive patrons a voyeuristic window in which to peer in on their fellow visitors in the surrounding areas below. Like many prosperous seaside towns, the advent of cheaper package holidays had resulted in a decline in visitor numbers over the years. Despite this, the Isle of Man was able to retain, to a large extent, its proud heritage — including, as it happened, the unique structure perched precariously on the hillside.

  Madeline sat in the passenger seat giving a series of overemphasised breaths to convey her impatience. “You know what, Joey? If you were looking for an alternative career, you could always be a driver for Miss Daisy?”

  Joey looked out of the corner of his eye and resisted the temptation to lean across her, open the door, release her seatbelt, and throw her onto the road. “So you’re saying I have the mellifluous voice of Morgan Freeman? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “I was referring to your leisurely pace!” Madeline countered.

  “You want I should get arrested for speeding?” he said simply.

  Abby leaned forward from the backseat just as they crossed over a bridge that spanned the attractive quay area of the Island’s capital, Douglas. “Just take a left here, Joey. Head for the breakwater over there,” she said, pointing at a considerable concrete structure that kept the often turbulent Irish Sea at bay. “Up there,” she indicated. “That’s the Camera Obscura.”

  “That’s definitely where they’re going to be?” asked Madeline. “My sister and your friend?”

  Abby took a gulp. “Yes. Well, I think so. I can’t imagine what else ‘O C’ might stand for. This must be it. It has to be.”

  Madeline stretched her neck for a better view, which, to Joey’s frustration, meant her leaning across, over his line of sight. He once again resisted the urge to throw her bodily from the car.