by Nic Saint
Alistair hadn’t been handsome, not dashing like the men in the books she liked to read at the time. He certainly wasn’t a young Mr. Darcy, or a prince, duke or Scottish laird. In fact he was a farmhand working for her parents. He’d saddle up her horse when she decided to go riding and was, she frequently thought, very fresh with her.
He told her he would marry her someday and she laughed him off at first, not giving him the light of day. But when he kept repeating the mantra day after day, she started becoming intrigued.
He had a rough-hewn quality about him and an energy that made up for what he lacked in the looks department. He was energetic and eternally optimistic and would sing her songs as she entered the stables—songs that made her blush but simultaneously made her smile.
He bought her flowers—though later she discovered he actually simply swiped them from her mother’s rose garden—and started writing her letters. Poems, no less. She figured he swiped those as well, from some book he’d stolen from the library, but later he told her he’d written them himself. And they were lovely, simply lovely.
Slowly but surely she’d fallen for the boy and when they shared their first kiss, behind the stables, she realized for the first time that her preconceived notions of dukes and barons and lairds were nothing compared to the honest goodhearted man Alistair Long turned out to be. Before she knew it she’d fallen in love with him.
And she never stopped loving him, not even after all these years.
She gazed at her reflection in the vanity mirror and found that while her hairs had turned gray and her face lined, she still looked very similar to the young woman in the picture, the same way Alistair had still been that same boy.
It was in the eyes, she thought. The eyes hadn’t changed.
And she was just thinking about Rob and Ruth again and what to do about the inn when she heard a soft rustling sound. It had come from the window and as she gazed into the mirror she thought she detected a movement. Turning, she let her eyes drift across the heavy drapes, which were drawn to keep out the early spring chill.
Finally, when no more sounds emanated, she decided her ears had been playing tricks on her and she put cold cream on her face, then started wiping it off. Suddenly her eyes went wide when she saw the dark figure looming up behind her, towering over her with murderous intent, a club held high over his head. It was that nice scones man but he didn’t look so nice now.
She yelled in horror as the club crashed down on her skull.
Chapter 39
‘There’s nothing more to be said.’
Overly dramatic. Rob crumpled up the note and tried again.
‘I can’t go on living like this. I’m sorry. Rob.’
He frowned. Christ, why was it so hard to write a suicide note? Because it was his final communication with his loved ones, that’s why. And he didn’t want to make a lousy last impression. He stared at the words for a while and shook his head. Nope, this wouldn’t do.
He was sitting in the small internet room downstairs. Though the inn now had Wi-Fi in every room his parents had still kept the office, which also held a fax machine, printer and a desk where people could do such arcane tasks as writing letters.
The desk was actually a holdover from an era when writing letters still involved an inkwell to dip one’s quill into. The hole for the inkwell was still there and he idly brushed his thumb against the coarse wood, wondering how many people had sat at this desk, struggling with the same issues he was now facing.
Luckily for him, when he’d still been fully employed and affluent, he’d taken out life insurance with a reputable company. If he kicked the bucket now, Maggie would be well provided for.
He took another swig from the bottle he’d swiped from the bar. His head was swimming and he had the vague impression he was being overly dramatic and not seeing things straight. He didn’t care. He was going to end this miserable life right now, if only he could get this damn suicide note written.
He pressed the spacebar on the computer and typed ‘suicide notes’ into the google search window. If he couldn’t get something original down on paper, he might as well rip off someone else’s last words. Maggie would never know. He frowned at the screen, and quickly dismissed the first few. “Too long,” he muttered, then paused.
‘Don’t forget to walk Fifi—his leash is behind the kitchen door.’
Mh. He liked the sentiment, but it seemed hardly appropriate.
‘I hate you—I hate you—I hate you.’
Too dramatic.
‘Goodbye, cruel fate. And now the time has come to say goodbye—’
Bleary-eyed, he stared at the screen, then switched off the computer and took another swig from the bottle, quaffing deeply and profoundly. Finally he decided that simple was best, so he scribbled, ‘See you in heaven or hell, whichever you like best. Love you always. Rob.’
Then, placing the note in his pocket, where he knew the police would be most likely to find it, he rose unsteadily and walked to the door. He hadn’t thought this through, but seeing as he disliked pain intensely, he’d decided against slicing his wrists, jumping in front of a train, drowning in the ocean, or hopping from the bell tower. None of these greatly appealed to him and besides, where would he find a train at this time of night, or a bell tower for that matter? There was always the ocean, of course, but he’d always disliked taking cold baths.
No, he’d go quietly into the night by dumping all the sleeping pills he had in his possession in his drink and glugging down the lot. He’d simply pick a nice spot, get cozy, and do his thing.
He wobbled down the lobby, which was now deserted, and burst into song. In a stentorian baritone, he warbled “Should Old Acquaintance be forgot, and never thought upon…”
Not bad, he reckoned. He would have made a great singer, and for some reason he suddenly burst into tears. The room was swaying, and he wondered why suddenly the earth was moving. Hitherto he’d always found the inn built on a sturdy foundation but tonight there was definitely something wrong with the works. He squinted and saw that he’d finally made it to the door. He opened it and was hit by a blast of cool night air. Them ocean breezes, he decided.
This was exactly why he’d chosen the blue pill—or was it the red? The ocean was too cold and not at all a nice way to end things. An owl hooted from a nearby tree and he waved at it. “Hiya, fella. I’m here!” he mumbled, swaying in the breeze, the bottle of booze still clutched firmly in his hand.
The owl, seemingly indignant at the disturbance of his nocturnal peace, gave another hoot and took flight.
Rob frowned darkly, feeling that even the owls of this world were abandoning him now. Then he made a throwaway gesture, deciding that since everybody ignored him, he would ignore them in return. See how they liked them apples.
He waddled to the wooden bench on the porch, and plunked down, settling in for the duration of the rest of his life, however short it would be. Then he took the bottle of pills from his vest pocket, dumped its contents into his mouth and washed it all down with Scotch. Not a bad way to go, he decided, and emptied the bottle.
He suddenly felt bone-tired, and figured that a nap was in order. So he lay down on the bench, closed his eyes, and promptly went to sleep.
Chapter 40
Mrs. Thomson hadn’t had a good time in Happy Bays so far. First there was that dreadful business with the murder and then, just when they decided to go on a little fishing trip, the engine had broken down and they’d been bobbing about a mile out from Montauk for what seemed like hours, waiting for the coast guard to come to the rescue.
Accommodation aboard the boat had been spartan and to make matters worse a freak storm had blown in and turned the ocean into a choppy soup, sending both her and her husband to the railing to upchuck their breakfasts.
When finally they returned to shore, soaking wet and freezing cold, they decided that a hot bath and fresh set of clothes were in order and had arrived at the inn only to discover they’d been given the
room next to a couple of screamers, negative energy coming off them in waves. Even while soaking in the hot tub she’d been able to follow the arguments word for excruciating word and it had soured her mood even more.
They’d had their dinner and had decided to turn in early, simply wanting this day to finally end and start fresh the next morning.
And that’s when the banging had begun. First there was a loud scream coming from somewhere overhead and then the sound of a heavy object falling to the floor. It might have been her imagination, but she had the distinct impression someone…was being murdered!
She immediately raised her husband from his slumber and when he stared at her as if she’d lost her mind, she repeated, “Someone’s being murdered!”
Grumbling, he rose and phoned reception. A sleepy male voice answered and when he told the man a murder was taking place in the room directly above theirs, it was obvious that the news was badly received, for the phone was immediately thrown on the hook.
“Such lousy service!” Mrs. Thomson vociferated, then pointed to the phone. “Call 911. And don’t give me that look. This is murder, I simply know it is!”
Her husband directed a pointed look at the nightstand, where an Agatha Christie was lying open on page thirty-one, but gave in and dialed 911. The operator didn’t hang up the phone, though she did seem a little skeptical when she announced that she would send a unit by.
Five minutes later, dressed in her nightgown, Mrs. Thomson descended the stairs to the lobby to await the patrol car. A young man emerged from the small room behind the reception desk, rubbing his eyes. “Evening, ma’am. Anything I can do for you?”
“Not you,” she said huffily and tripped over to the door to stare out.
“Pardon?”
“Lousy service,” she muttered under her breath and left it at that.
Moments later a car did pull up and a gangly policeman strutted over, hiking up his pants. He didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but then this was Happy Bays, not New York City. The moment the officer entered she launched into her story and ignored the receptionist’s muffled chortle. The cop, to his credit, didn’t burst into chuckles, but asked the receptionist which room was directly above the Thomsons.
“Mrs. Long,” said the young man cheerily. Then, as he realized the implication, he blanched and brought a hand to his freckled face. “Oh, no!”
As the realization hit that in a household where the husband has just been murdered it isn’t all that unlikely for the wife to meet the same fate, things suddenly moved very quickly indeed. Moments later the three of them were pounding up the stairs, and mere seconds had elapsed before they were hurrying down the corridor to the room in question.
The cop ordered Mrs. Thomson to stand back, then entered the room with the receptionist. Mrs. Thomson, who’d never let a man order her around before in her life and wasn’t about to do so now, followed on their heels. When she saw Mrs. Long lying on the floor of her bedroom, eyes wide open and staring into nothingness, she fought two conflicting emotions. One of horror and sadness at the fate that had befallen her hostess, the other of satisfaction that she’d been right all along.
Chapter 41
Night had fallen and Felicity was having a nightmare. She dreamed that something had happened to Rick—that he’d come under fire from a terrorist outfit in Paris and had been gunned down. The outfit, a small posse of white-bearded maniacs in red hats, belonged to a religious cult called The Santas. They claimed they were the real Santas as opposed to the false ones posing in department stores.
And since Rick had dressed up as Santa for a piece he was doing on the holidays, he’d insulted their religious beliefs and had to die.
The last image impressed upon her retina before she awoke with a start was the lead terrorist, pumping out bullets from his submachine gun, all the while uttering his battle cry of ‘ho ho ho!’ and Rick lying on the floor, surrounded by Christmas presents and being nuzzled by a reindeer wondering what was going on.
She sat bolt upright in bed and realized it wasn’t the terrorist crying ‘ho ho ho’ but the ringing phone on the nightstand that had awakened her. She picked it up and blinked to read the display. Stephen Fossick. What did he want in the middle of the night?
She pressed the green button and hoarsely rasped, “Yes?”
“Fee! If you’re not at the Happy Bays Inn already, get your butt over there right this minute!”
“Why? What’s the emergency?”
“Haven’t you heard? Mary Long has been murdered.”
Sleep disappeared as if wiped away with a squeegee. “What?!”
“Bludgeoned to death. Better get over there if you want to catch the scoop.”
One minute later, still a little bleary-eyed, she was waking up Alice, who was sucking her thumb and apparently dreaming sweet dreams of her Hollywood hunk, for the moment she jerked awake, she muttered, “I love you too, Reece.”
“Get up, honey,” she urged. “Mary Long’s been murdered.”
It was a testament to Alice’s remarkable capacity for deep sleep that she muttered, “She can’t be murdered. We haven’t interviewed her yet.”
“Well, it’s too late for that now, unless you can talk to the dead.”
Alice was unperturbed. “Wouldn’t that be something? We could solve any murder. Just have a little chat with the murder victim.”
“Let’s go, sleepyhead.”
“Gotta notify the team,” she muttered as she crawled out of bed.
Felicity admired the Hello Kitty pajamas. “Team? What team?”
“You know, the team. We’re a team now, honey, remember?” She counted on her fingers. “You and me, the holy trinity, and Reece.”
Felicity’s eyebrows rose. “You’re gonna drag Reece out of bed?”
“Sure thing. He wanted to be on the team, he has to do what we do.” She searched around for her pants, then started dragging them on over her pajama bottoms. “This is the real world, Reece Hudson, no movie set. In the real world detectives get out of bed at an ungodly hour—what time is it anyway—Christ! It’s only one o’clock!”
Felicity stared at her friend, hands on her hips. “Yeah, terrible, isn’t it? Why couldn’t that murderer have waited until tomorrow? So inconsiderate.”
Alice got the gist. “Poor Mary. Who would want to kill that nice old lady?” She flapped her arms. “And who’s next on the hit list? This town is turning into a den of violent crime!” She wagged a finger. “We need to put a stop to this, Fee. This is getting out of hand.”
Felicity couldn’t agree more. She just hoped Reece’s father would have that chat with Chief Whitehouse soon, so they could finally be a more active part of the investigation. While they both stumbled down to the living room, Alice was already on the phone, alerting the other members of the team that stirring events had taken place.
As they were racing out the door, she said, “They’ll meet us there.”
“Reece too?”
Alice hesitated. “I haven’t called him yet.”
“Probably for the best,” opined Felicity as she fired up the van’s old engine. With a few coughs it sputtered to life and they were off in the direction of the inn.
Alice stared out the windshield morosely, then turned to Felicity. “Maybe you can call him. I mean, we can’t simply exclude him, you know. He told us he wants to be a part of this so we need to keep him informed.”
“All right,” huffed Felicity as she snatched the phone from Alice’s hand. She pressed connect and grimaced when Reece’s sleepy voice came on. “Someone here to talk to you,” she grumbled, then pressed the phone against Alice’s ear.
Alice gave her a dark frown, then caroled into the phone, “Reece! Hi! It’s, um, it’s Alice. Remember me? Alice Whitehouse? The girl who mistook you for a pigman? Haha.” She swallowed. “There’s been another murder and I was just wondering if—just thinking that—just—”
Felicity, tiring of this charade, snatched the phone from her fri
end’s hand. “Mary Long’s been bludgeoned to death. The team is meeting at the inn in five minutes.”
“Damn, that’s terrible!” the man said. “I’ll be there in three.”
She blinked, surprised at the crispness of his voice. From asleep to wide awake in seconds flat. She didn’t know how he did it. “See you there,” she said curtly, then disconnected. Feeling Alice’s cold stare, she asked, “What? If I’d let you handle it, it would have taken forever. Time is of the essence here, hon.”
Alice shook her head. “I hate it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re my older sister.”
Felicity grinned. She’d never actually seen Alice’s vulnerable side. She reached out and patted her head before Alice swiped her hand away.
“I hate you,” Alice grumbled.
“Yeah, yeah. I love you too. Now let’s solve a murder, shall we?”
An unintelligible sound came from Alice’s throat which she interpreted as a yes.
She stomped down on the accelerator and raced through town at a healthy clip, her lips tight and her face set. This was her town, she thought, and no one had the right to start killing off its inhabitants.
“Fee?”
“Mh?”
“Let’s catch ourselves a killer.”
She grunted her approval. “Let’s, indeed.”
Chapter 42
“So where did you find him?” Virgil asked, tapping his notebook with his pencil. He directed an inquisitive stare at the Brit seated in front of him. The young man looked disheveled, his sallow face liberally sprinkled with pimples and his carrot-colored hair pointing in all directions.
“I dunno, mate. I was just passing by, going for a gasper, when I saw this bloke passed out, innit? At least I thought he was passed out. Then when I tried to wake him up—”
