A Corpse at the Cove

by Blythe Baker

  I tossed a wave over my shoulder and let the door bang closed behind me, the daylight almost immediately ridding me of any worries about the woman’s prediction.

  CHAPTER 2

  We grabbed cheeseburgers from a diner by the beach, and ate them as we walked to the ferry. I knew Page would never approve of greasy red meat as dinner, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. I didn’t become the favorite aunt by listening to all of Page’s rules, after all. Besides, I knew Blaire would never tell.

  Blaire groaned as she chewed a huge mouthful of her burger. “This is so much better than mom’s turkey burgers. I mean, her turkey burgers are pretty good. But this,” she pointed to the wrapper in her hand, grease dripping down the paper and falling to the ground, “this is way better.”

  I nodded in agreement. “One of the hard truths of life is that the things that taste best are usually terrible for you. I mean, think about it. Does anyone actually claim their favorite food is carrot sticks or spinach? No. It’s cheesecake and fried chicken and pizza.”

  I ripped off a chunk of my burger and dropped it on the ground for Jasper. He launched himself at it, practically falling over as he clamped his jaws over the patty and swallowed it whole.

  “I know that,” Blaire said. “It’s why mom implements a cheat meal every week.”

  My head snapped towards her hard enough that I tweaked a muscle in my neck. “A cheat meal? No, she doesn’t.”

  For as long as I could remember, Page had been a health nut. Even when we were teenagers, she ate half a grapefruit and bran cereal for breakfast while berating me for my colorful, sugary cereal of choice. She was normally done with yoga for twenty minutes and was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a weird mixture of Apple Cider Vinegar and lemon juice when I finally stumbled out of bed and groggily went to the kitchen to make my first cup of coffee.

  Blaire smiled, her eyes lit up and amused. “I saw her eat THREE milk chocolate bars last week. For breakfast.”

  My mouth fell open. “Fun-size or regular size?”

  If it was possible, Blaire’s smile grew even wider. “King.”

  “King size?” I balked, shaking my head, hardly able to believe it. “I would have paid money to see that.”

  “Just ‘accidentally’ walk in the bathroom after she claims she is going to ‘soak in the tub,’ and you can see it for free. She hides a cheese can behind the guest towels.”

  I took another bite of my burger and shook my head. “You are wise beyond your years, Blaire.”

  She shrugged. “At least when it comes to my mom. I figured it out when I was only ten years old, but she managed to keep it a secret from dad.”

  Our conversation dropped into a companionable silence, and the sun setting over the ocean cast the world in shades of oranges and pinks, making for the perfect sherbet afternoon.

  The sun was sinking quickly behind the horizon, and the ferry ride was quieter than normal, filled with work weary commuters who had office jobs in the city, but lived on Sunrise Island. Though we’d been on the island for three months already, this was only the third time I’d ridden the ferry to or from the island. The air felt so much cooler than it did on land. Even sitting on the beach was nothing compared to the brisk breeze whipping over the ocean.

  Besides, I had rather lost my taste for the beach. Something about finding a dead body buried in the sand really ruins your appetite for sun tanning. Nathaniel Sharpe’s murder would have been nothing more than a local curiosity to me had he not been buried on the private beach that had come with my purchase of the bed and breakfast. My discovery of his body had set me on a course that I’d never imagined taking—searching for clues, following up on leads, and, ultimately, solving the case. Not to mention, nearly getting myself murdered in the process.

  Martin Little was just as much, if not more, to blame for my sudden disinterest in beaches as Nathaniel Sharpe. Especially since Martin Little was the one who buried Nathaniel Sharpe on my beach, and then tried to bury me when I discovered his secret. The whole debacle still felt too bizarre to be real. Surely I, the previous bank teller who was dumped by her boyfriend and fired on the same day—oh, did I forget to mention that my boss was my boyfriend?—couldn’t possibly be an amateur sleuth. Nevertheless, it seemed that was what I’d become.

  After solving Nathaniel Sharpe’s murder, I’d then gone on to attend the fateful dinner party that saw the bed and breakfast’s first guest, Holly Belden, murdered along with the party’s host, Robert Baines. Trapped in Robert Baines’s mansion due to a tropical storm the island was still recovering from, I’d followed a few hunches and discovered Jimmy, owner of the only decent restaurant on Sunrise Island, had killed them both. Not only had dinner parties been suddenly added to the list—just after beaches—of places I no longer cared to frequent, but Jimmy’s restaurant closed its doors for good. Of course, I was glad Jimmy’s Daily Catch had closed because it meant Jimmy was behind bars where he belonged. The trouble was that I now had nowhere to order seafood I could guarantee wouldn’t give me food poisoning. The general store’s pre-packaged, refrigerated sushi was definitely not an option, though I had caught myself eyeing it a bit more frequently.

  Plus, if the island lost any more businesses, there was a risk that the tourist crowd would dry up. Sure, most people came to the island for a fun day at the beach, but there had to be other things for them to do, too, especially if we wanted them to stay overnight at the Sunrise Bed and Breakfast. Which we decidedly did, considering Page and I had both poured all our savings into renovating the large Victorian house. If the business failed, we had no back up plan. Page had just finalized the sale on the house she’d shared with her (now) ex-husband in Houston, and I had bailed out of my apartment’s lease six months early to move to the island. The early cancellation fees alone had been a deep cut into my savings account. So, seeing Sunrise Island’s murder rate skyrocket and the best restaurant on Main Street close hadn’t exactly left us feeling super confident. Though, I tried to remind myself that we had a house full of guests, and were booked through the rest of the summer.

  The island came into view on the horizon, the pastel-colored houses along the beach standing high on stilts to avoid high tide and flooding, looking like a picture-perfect postcard you’d find in a rack at the gift shop. The kind of image you’d see and say, “Yeah right, that place couldn’t possibly exist.”

  The first time I’d seen the island, I’d been drawn in by the sapphire blue water lapping against the sand, the beach houses nestled amongst the palm trees. On the mainland, palm trees felt artificial to me. Like a kind of tourist trap. They were planted everywhere—outside of banks, in the medians of the roads, all through my old apartment complex. It felt as if I was being manipulated into believing that, even though the nearest beach was at least a forty-five-minute drive, I’d been blessed to live in a tropical paradise. On the island, though, the palm trees looked natural.

  I also remembered being surprised by the empty beach. Beaches on the mainland were almost always crowded with people—moms smearing sun cream on their screaming children, couples holding hands, college kids throwing frisbees and drinking beer from red solo cups like they were in a spring break movie. Of course, now I knew that the first time I’d seen the island, it had simply been too early for tourists. The ferry only carried people to and from the island twice a day, once in the early morning and once in the late afternoon. Visitors to the island disembarked on the early ferry, sun hats and fanny packs in tow, and began filling the beaches by mid-morning. That was another reason the Bed and Breakfast had been doing so well. People were willing to pay for a night at the B&B to ensure they had access to our private beach, one of the few stretches of sand that wasn’t clogged with people by 2 PM. Apparently, whether a body had been found in the sand was a minor concern.

  “Do you see anything, Aunt Piper?”

  Blaire’s voice drew me out of my thoughts and I turned to her, eyes wide and confused.

  S
he gestured to the beach, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the railing, her brow furrowing as she looked over the water. “You know, like a body or a clue? Or is it more of a tingling feeling you get, like a sixth sense?”

  I stared at her, hoping she could feel my icy glare reaching deep down into her soul. Blaire, as impervious as always, didn’t seem too affected, though. She continued staring at me, actually waiting for me to respond to her ridiculous question.

  “There aren’t going to be any more murders,” I said with finality, reaching down to pet the top of Jasper’s head, scratching the extra fluffy spot behind his ear. “And even if there were, I wouldn’t be able to sense them. I haven’t come into contact with any radioactive material or been sent here from another planet. This isn’t a comic book. It’s real life, and real people died.”

  “Oh, relax,” she said. “I’m only kidding about the extra sense thing. But you should be on the lookout for anything suspicious. You heard what Cibil said.”

  I turned to face her, trying to make sure she heard me and that my words wouldn’t be misunderstood. “That woman was a joke. Her predictions were vague and nondescript. People like her say things like that so that when you’re rushing down the stairs and you trip and fall, you can remember she told you not to hurry. Or when a poisonous snake turns up in the backyard, I’ll remember that she told me danger was lurking nearby. It’s a ploy to bring back customers and steal their money. She has to give everyone a prediction, otherwise she doesn’t get paid.”

  “We didn’t pay her,” Blaire said, not addressing anything else I’d said. “She gave us our palm readings for free. That doesn’t exactly sound like some money hungry fake to me.”

  “Are you honestly saying you believe what that woman said?” I asked.

  Blaire shrugged.

  I shook my head and turned back to the ocean. Sunrise Island was so close now I could make out several clusters of picnicking families on the beach, lounging on beach towels while they ate their sandwiches.

  “Don’t mention any of this to your mom,” I said, thinking about Page’s strong aversion to anything even slightly mystical. “The last thing I need is for her to hear that I not only let you wander around the city by yourself, but that you were also manipulated by some nut job with a crystal ball.”

  “She didn’t have a crystal ball,” Blaire muttered, but she nodded in agreement when I fixed her with a stare.

  The speakers on deck sputtered to life, and through the thick static we heard, “Welcome to Sunrise Island.”

  Despite my insistence that Cibil’s prediction had been a hoax, I found myself scanning the beach one last time, looking for anything even remotely out of place.

  CHAPTER 3

  Mason was waiting for us, leaning against the driver’s side door of his blue sedan. I’d almost forgotten he’d promised to pick us up, and I was relieved to see him. The thoughts of murder and dead bodies that I tried so hard to keep at bay had begun creeping up, thanks to Cibil’s prediction and Blaire’s insistence on talking about it. But one look at Mason and his windblown dark hair, and the thoughts floated away, as insubstantial as vapor.

  It was hard to believe I’d once suspected Mason of killing Nathaniel Sharpe. I also couldn’t believe I’d ever thought him to be stand-offish, little more than a stereotypical reclusive artist, tortured and lonely. When we’d first met, I’d been trespassing on his property and snooping through his boat house in search of evidence that would point to him being a murderer. So, naturally, I hadn’t received the warmest of receptions. Then, we’d met again at Robert Baines’ party, and he’d stuck close to my side all night, admitting later that he had wanted to protect me. I felt like a regency romance heroine. Like if Elizabeth Bennett hunted serial killers, but still ended up with Mr. Darcy in the end.

  Mason waved to us, his face lighting up in a smile that made my stomach flip. “Did you find anything?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, silently panicking. Did he know I’d been searching the beaches for a sign of another dead body? Was my obsession with murder that obvious?

  He pointed to the large, non-descript plastic bag I was carrying. “Looks like you found at least a few things for the B&B.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah,” I said, shaking my head, ridding myself of my paranoia. “I grabbed some bookends and a few vintage books for the bedside tables. No lamps yet, though. I might go online and order some from a few Etsy stores.”

  Mason nodded and turned to Blaire. “What about you? Did you find anything cool?”

  Blaire raised one eyebrow. “In an antique store? No, I didn’t.”

  She slipped into the backseat like a cat, moody and unimpressed. It felt odd considering she’d been so cheerful, even playful, for most of the day. Mason shot me a confused look, and I shrugged, chalking the swift mood change up to teenage hormones.

  We melded into the light traffic of cars driving off the ferry, and headed down the main road towards the island’s “shopping district.” That was what the signage called the area, at least. Though, in reality, it consisted of a General store, a hardware store, a now closed seafood restaurant, a coffee shop called The Drip, and a few gift shops. After a few weeks on the island, I’d found a small grouping of boutiques and antique stores butted up against a residential area towards the back of the island. The shops were all in small, brightly-colored houses that had been renovated into store fronts, making the area feel eclectic, like a hidden gem. I’d been recommending it to the bed and breakfast guests as a replacement for Main Street, hoping to give them a taste of the character the bed and breakfast crowd craved.

  I’d been wanting to become more involved with the island’s local government—attend city council meetings, petition for more stores and tourist attractions, try to be an active part of improving the island—but the drama of dead bodies and murders had kept me pretty busy. Plus, though no one directly said anything to my face, I had the suspicion that the island somehow blamed me for the sudden upheaval in their quiet society. Though I hadn’t directly harmed anyone, I’d been the person who discovered the crimes and, more or less, solved them. Without me, both incidents may have been quietly swept under the rug, which, as bad as it sounds, is what a lot of people prefer to being confronted with the harsh reality that their quiet seaside home has a dark underbelly.

  The gravel road that led to the house was as bumpy as ever, my joints feeling as if they could vibrate apart, but as soon as Mason turned into the driveway, it smoothed out. I’d paid an unforgivable amount of money to have the long path to the house paved. Page and I had fought over the issue for a few weeks, but the relief I felt transitioning from the uneven road to the smooth driveway was well worth the cost, and I hoped the guests would think so, as well.

  The three story Victorian house faced the road at an angle, the front corner rounding off in a tower that stretched all the way to the attic where Mrs. Harris, the house’s previous owner, still lived. That had been another lengthy fight with Page. She hadn’t exactly been aware of Mrs. Harris’ existence prior to moving in, and when Mrs. Harris welcomed us with delusions and visions of the future, Page was less than thrilled. So far, though, the old woman had been rather quiet. Occasionally, she camped out in front of the window, and I worried her old-world clothing would make the guests believe she was a ghost, but luckily no one had mentioned her slightly unsettling presence yet. The roof was broken into a series of peaks and gables that gave the whole structure nice dimension, and the large porch that wrapped around the front and both sides welcomed guests in like a smile. It had been practically falling apart when we’d first bought the house, sight unseen, but we’d had it repaired to its original state. The intricately carved posts and railings looked like lacework rather than wood, and provided the exact kind of character Page and I had been searching for.

  I opened the passenger door and Jasper bounded out of the car and sprinted across the freshly lain grass. We’d gone most of the summer with a dirt yard, but the landscapers
had finally laid the sod, and it was amazing how much of an improvement it made. Seeing the place done—save for a few last-minute decorations—made me think, for the first time, that everything could really work out.

  “Whose car is that?” Blaire asked, pointing towards the side of the house.

  I hadn’t noticed the car when we’d pulled up because it was parked under the shade of the large oak tree in the front yard. We had a modest parking lot, but it was already full.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “It wasn’t here when we left this morning.”

  I walked closer to the car and noticed the license plate. It was a rental, definitely an out of towner.

  “Probably just a last-minute guest,” Mason said, brushing it off.

  I shook my head. “We are already fully booked. All of the guests are parked in the lot.”

  Just then, the front door burst open, slamming against the freshly painted siding, and loud voices echoed out across the grass.

  “This is outrageous. Absolutely outrageous!” a man shouted, a suitcase swinging wildly in his hand, almost as if he were fixing to shotput it through a window.

  Page followed him, her mouth set in a straight line. “I’m sorry, sir. There isn’t anything I can do.”

  “Nothing you can do,” the man scoffed, stomping down the front steps. “You could treat your guests with a little respect. That’s what you could do!”

  “Your check bounced. Perhaps if you had a credit or debit card I could run, I could help. But as it is—” Page’s voice trailed off as she saw me, and I noticed her cheeks redden, clearly embarrassed to be caught in such an awkward moment by her daughter and younger sister.

  “Even if I did have a credit card, you already gave my room away! Some service. Take the ferry all the way over here only to find out your room has already been given away. I’ll be warning everyone I know away from this place.”