The Seaside Detective Agency_The funniest Cozy Mystery you'll read this year

by J. C. Williams

  When she was close enough to see the spectacle in her back garden properly, she looked down in disgust. “Officer, I recognise this person. I saw this man earlier, entertaining himself in his car,” she said. “He’s a filthy beast!”

  Sam was now so cold he couldn’t muster the energy to even try and defend himself any longer.

  The rather-less-sympathetic officer pulled a notepad from his pocket and flipped it open. “We had a call from a neighbour about a peeping Tom, but this, ah… gentleman, as it were… claims he’s a private investigator, hired by a man to get proof his wife’s been cheating on him.”

  “Me?” the old woman said incredulously. “I’m seventy-four years old! The chance would be a bloody fine thing!”

  After a fashion, and with a phone call to his office, Sam’s credentials were confirmed. With that, he shuffled to his car, soaking wet, only wearing one shoe. He had no idea which house his intended target had gone into — he was past caring — but he was getting out of there while the getting was, as they say, good.

  Sam climbed into the driver’s seat of his car and turned the key in the ignition… but there was nothing. The engine made a half-hearted attempt to turn over, but the sound of combustion was replaced with the all-too-familiar click-click-clicking noise and then a pathetic whimper from the engine. Sam placed his head on the steering wheel and only his frozen tear ducts prevented him from crying. The only good news was that he no longer had to pee; he must have done it already in the fishpond, either from the shock of the cold water or the fright.

  “I need a new car and a new job,” he moaned.

  Abby used her pen to twirl the errant strands of hair that ran down the side of her face, like spaghetti around a fork, and she pressed the tip of the pen to her pursed lips as she stared intently at Sam. She was jiggling in her chair like a blancmange, and trying her damnedest to stifle a laugh. It didn’t appear that she’d be able to hold out much longer.

  “What??” asked Sam.

  Abby raised her eyebrows. “Nothing,” she insisted.

  “Well stop bloody staring at me, then!” said Sam.

  Her barrier of self-control finally broke and her laughter, along with a tumble of words, burst forth in one continuous wave: “On-your-arse-in-a-fishpond- covered-in-shit-oh-my-word-I-wish-I-was-there-to-see-that-HA-HA-HA-HA!”

  “It’s not funny, that pepper spray hurt! Look at my eyes!” he said, sounding like a cheap hypnotist. “I’m still in pain!”

  Abby was convulsing with laughter now. “Ow! Ow! Stop it, my side hurts!” she said. “You’re killing me!”

  Sam could see the humorous side of it all, in retrospectacle, but the skin around his eyes cracked every time he smiled. He leaned back in his chair and sighed.

  “Abby, I came to work here because I genuinely wanted to be a private investigator. I knew my early aspirations were mostly romantic notions, like uncovering a global terrorist cell or reuniting the local earl with his stolen treasure. But, seriously. It’s what, March? So far this year I’ve been a glorified debt collector, found a stolen classic car that wasn’t stolen in the first place, and now I’m rolling in dog shite trying to get photographs of some randy old tart that’s cheating on her husband. It’s not how I imagined private investigating would be!”

  Abby leaned forward, her demeanour now deadly serious. “Sam, you’re not just a private investigator,” she said. “You’re a really bad private investigator.”

  “Abby, you’re supposed to be my friend!” protested Sam. “I’m nearly jumping out of the window here!”

  “You work on the ground floor, Columbo,” said Abby. “If you’re going to do that, at least go upstairs. Besides, it’s not all that bad. At least you’ve got a nice car, a full head of hair, and a successful love life, yeah?”

  Sam picked up a rubber squeezy stress-relief ball from his desk and lobbed it, bouncing it directly off Abby’s forehead. “Hey!” she protested. Those stress-relief balls really work, he thought to himself, as he presently felt much better.

  He swivelled his chair back around and looked out the window. The view from his desk always put a smile on his face. Peel was an idyllic seaside town in the Isle of Man, steeped in history. It was a sedate experience and a complete contrast from, say, dry-humping a complete stranger on the London Tube every morning. The angle he’d positioned his desk gave him Peel Castle as a backdrop, and the beach that would be packed with tourists in the summer months. Today, however, it was pouring down and frequented only by a particularly hardy dog walker, dragging his pooch through the salty wash that sprayed over them. Or was it the other way around, the dog walker dragged along by his pooch? Sam couldn’t tell from this angle.

  ‘Eyes Peeled’ was the imaginative name of the detective agency, an homage to its enviable seaside location. For an island with a minimal crime rate, many questioned the need for a PI firm at all, and, lately, Sam was starting to agree with them.

  Frank, the guy in the office who nobody was quite sure what he did, interrupted Sam’s daydream. “We’ve got a walk-in, sat in reception,” said Frank, happy he had something important to say for once.

  The team of investigators all looked at each other in confusion. “Are you certain?” Sam asked, searching Frank’s face to see if perhaps he were taking the piss.

  “See for yourself,” said Frank, puffing out his chest and nodding towards the reception area. He looked very pleased with himself. No one ever turned to him for answers.

  Sam craned his neck, but he didn’t have a good view of the reception area from where he was sat. “I can’t…”

  “We’ve never had a walk-in,” Abby interjected. “Four years and not one person has walked in off the street.”

  “They have today,” replied Frank, shuffling paper in an attempt to look both industrious and important.

  “Maybe they’ve come into the wrong office by mistake?” offered Sam. “What do they want?”

  Frank looked down his nose, over his glasses, studying the lined notepaper on his clipboard for several long, arduous seconds, tracing his finger from one line to the next. There were no actual notes written there, but no one else could see that, and all eyes were turned to him. “Hmm. Not sure,” he replied, finally.

  “Why did you just look at your…?” said Sam, shaking his head. “You know what, never mind. Look, she’s probably lost her cat or something. Can you get some details from her, Frank, and I’ll call her back later on?”

  “She’s hot,” said Frank, and you could tell he’d been waiting for just the right moment to drop the other shoe.

  “ON IT,” replied Sam immediately, taking a tie from his drawer. “I’ve got this one.”

  Sam walked down the corridor to the virtually redundant interview suite, adjusting his tie as he went. The blinds were partly open, and Frank hadn’t been wrong — the woman looked stunning, from what he could see. He opened the door with vigour, adopting the persona of a professional, sophisticated PI.

  “Sam Levy, at your service,” he said, in an artificially deep voice, closing the vertical blinds for dramatic effect.

  Sam took a seat directly opposite where she stood, her back to him. She was admiring through the window the view of the Peel Castle, it seemed. Sam was also admiring the view from where he sat. She wore an elegant 50’s style floral swing dress and straw hat, which brought an element of colour to an otherwise overcast day. She added to the air of mystery by continuing to stare out of the window.

  Sam cleared his throat. “How can I help?” he asked.

  “You’re a private investigator?” she replied.

  “I am. How may I be of service to you?”

  She turned and sat across from Sam, who was now taken aback by a glorious smell of perfume and her classic beauty which was enhanced only by her immaculately applied makeup.

  Sam was as vacant as a feline after catnip. She took her hat off and shook her auburn hair, which brought him back to his senses like a slap in the face. He leaned back in his
chair as the realisation hit him: That’s the bloody woman I was following.

  He shifted in his seat uneasily, unsure what were her motives.

  “I’m being followed,” she said softly but firmly. “I’ve been to the police, but nothing has been done. It’s been going on for weeks.”

  “I don’t mean to offend, Missus…? Miss…?” Sam said, clearly poaching.

  “I’m not married, and my name is Beth,” she replied.

  “Beth. What makes you think you’re being followed, Beth?” continued Sam after an awkward silence.

  “I’ve seen several people following me. I just know. Someone was following me just yesterday, and he wasn’t the first.”

  Sam started to sweat. “And, em, where was this?” he asked.

  “Near to the house I’m staying at, but this one looked scruffy, like a vagrant. Also, he smelt awful when I walked past him.”

  “He was probably in his stakeout clothes, which he’d usually leave in his car, hence, the smell?” offered Sam, weakly.

  “What?” she said, cocking her head slightly.

  Sam swerved it. “That is, do you know why anyone should want to follow you?” he asked, regaining his deep-voiced yes-I’m-a-professional-PI affectation.

  She stared at him with her intense brown eyes. “People have their reasons,” she said cryptically. “You don’t need to concern yourself with the why. I just want you to find out who it is that’s following me. If I know who that is, I can figure out the rest.”

  Sam eventually returned from the meeting with his tie half undone and impressive sweat patches under his arms.

  “She must have been nice,” said Abby in reference to the dark, damp patches on his shirt. “Are you okay?” she asked when there was no response.

  Sam struggled on his answer. “I’m not sure. I’ve just been given a job that I’m pretty sure even I can’t muck up.”

  “Oh, and that would be?” asked Abby.

  “I’ve just been hired to find myself,” he said.

  “You mean spiritually?” Frank asked, expecting a laugh. He was met only with stern looks, however, as his moment was now clearly over. He looked down at his desk and shuffled some papers, pretending to busy himself.

  Sam elaborated on the meeting, checking through the notes he’d taken.

  “Sam,” said Abby in an assured tone, once he was done. “Surely you have to tell her there is a conflict of interest?”

  “Of course. I will. But, technically, due to me being useless, I didn’t technically find her — I just happened to be in the vicinity — plus, she didn’t recognise me.”

  “You need to tell her!”

  “I will,” Sam insisted. “But there’s something going on here. She said she’s being followed by several persons, plural. So it’s not just me. She also said she wasn’t married!”

  “So she lied. So what?” asked Abby.

  “Well someone’s lying, but that doesn’t mean it’s her. She is very pretty, after all,” Sam explained.

  “What does her being pretty have to do with whether she’s lying or not??” said an exasperated Abby.

  “Whoever hired us to follow her insisted she was his wife. That’s clearly a lie,” Sam replied, ignoring Abby’s objection.

  Abby now stood over him. “How are you going to tell her you’ve completed an investigation and managed to find yourself? She’ll think you’re mental and probably phone the police, and the last thing you need is any further police scrutiny.”

  “Yes,” Sam agreed. “But the thing is, she’s clearly nervous and unsure who’s following her. I know I’m one of them, but if there are several others who’ve also been following her, who were they? And more importantly, why were they following her?”

  “So, how do you see this one panning out?” asked Abby.

  “Well, the person who’s paying me must also be paying the others, I imagine,” Sam mused.

  “But he’s your client, not her!” Abby protested.

  “Yes, Abby, but he’s lying by saying she was his wife,” Sam explained patiently. “And what do we actually know about this guy? The job came in over the phone, and we’ve never met him, see? So I’m actually helping her by taking her money to look for myself. At least this way I can figure out what exactly is going on, and, importantly, for her, who else has been following her.” And, then, “She needs me, Abby.”

  Sam was proud of himself. He strutted back to his desk like a resplendent peacock.

  “This is all going to end in tears,” declared Abby.

  Sam tapped his pen on his desk. “There’s something going on here. I don’t know what it is, but it’s big. I’ve got a feeling about this, and when Sam Levy has a feeling, he…”

  But Sam had lost his intended audience as Abby, bored, had gotten up and left the room. Undeterred, he took the picture of the woman he had out from his desk drawer and sat back in his chair, gazing at it, and stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  “You’re hiding something, Beth,” he said aloud to no one but himself. “And Sam Levy is going to find out what that is.”

  Chapter Two

  The Little Explorer

  T here was something captivating for an inquisitive child visiting the Isle of Man, with glens to explore, hills to climb, and countless beaches to forage for discarded treasure. As a boy, Sam couldn’t understand his friends who’d want to sit on a plane for hours to sit, in the end, bored, next to a swimming pool, dripping with sweat. In the weeks leading up to his summer holidays, Sam would pester his grandparents who lived on the Island with thoughts on where they should visit — often to previous locations where he hadn’t completed his exploration. Six weeks, two with his own parents to keep them company, simply wasn’t enough. His grandparent’s house was a quaint fisherman’s cottage with a view over the Port St Mary harbour that was absolutely breathtaking. A narrow road separated the cottage from a stone-covered beach, where he’d look for washed-up exotic-coloured glass polished over the years by the salt in the sea. Sam would always complain that he couldn’t go on the beach when the tide was in.

  He’d never forget the summer of 1984, sat on the seawall as the waves lapped below, where his feet dangled.

  “I’ve made this for you, Sam,” his grandad had said with a broad smile. “It’s a coracle — a small wooden boat for you to paddle around the harbour when the tide’s in.”

  It was, and still remains, the greatest gift that anybody had ever given him. Sam could recall the mien of pride on his grandmother’s face, looking on from their white wooden porch as her husband handed over what he’d been working on the entire year between summers.

  At the end of the school holidays, he was pleased to catch the ferry home and see his parents, but the feeling of leaving the Island, and his grandparents, was awful. He’d count the days till he could return once again.

  In later life, Sam lived all over England, but wherever he worked he’d always ensure he was no more than a few miles from the sea. He’d been happy on his own, but then he found Lilly, the love of his life. She was intelligent, beautiful, and ambitious. Sam didn’t want to live in London, but he followed his heart and settled down — in a cramped, one-bed flat near to Canary Wharf where the monthly rent was the price of Sam’s first car.

  He was devastated when his grandparents died within a few months of each other, but they knew that by leaving the house to their ‘little explorer’ the house they loved would be cherished. Sadly, Lilly didn’t settle into the more placid way of Island life and wanted to return to London. This left Sam with a difficult choice: what colour he’d decorate after she left.

  The dark, bitter-cold days of March gave way as the optimistic flower buds in Sam’s garden indicated spring had finally arrived. Sam stood — as he did every morning — in the doorframe of the compact wooden porch outside his stone cottage, drinking his morning cup of tea.

  The track outside his gate was a popular route for tourists to circumnavigate the pretty seaside town. There were sever
al cottages in a row — all oozing a nostalgic, nautical theme — and those passing couldn’t resist peering over the ornate garden wall to absorb the feeling of a time gone by. Sam was the perfect host and would frequently invite inquisitive passers-by in for a drink of something. It was part of the charm, and the reason he enjoyed waking up there.

  Sam smiled as a young child scampered over the seawall, followed closely by his parents struggling to keep up. It was something he’d done numerous times himself as a child — and many times since, returning from the pub at the conveniently located Albert Hotel.

  “Morning!” he called out, raising his cup up in salute before draining the contents.

  It’d been at least two weeks since he’d last heard from Beth, and he was starting to think that there wasn’t anything to uncover after all. If anything, he began to think she was a bit of a crackpot. She wouldn’t give him her phone number, for starters. Nothing new there, for Sam. But, from a client, that was unusual. She would insist on phoning in for any possible updates from him, but, unfortunately, despite his best efforts, there was nothing to report. He’d stopped following her, so there was that. So at least she had one less person showing an interest and pursuing her.

  “What time do you call this?” asked Abby before he’d even had a chance to take his coat off.

  Sam scowled back. “And good morning to you, also!”

  “I told you I had something to show you!” she said, foraging through her oversized handbag for her notebook.

  “I know,” said Sam. “But I assumed it was going to be, well, boring. Anyway, it’s still before 9 a.m. so I’m not exactly late. Where is everyone?” he asked in reference to the office looking like the deck of the Mary Celeste.

  “Cheeky bugger! I do so tell you interesting things!” replied Abby. “And the rest of them have been called into Harry’s office. It looks as if the office of five is soon to become two.”

  “What??” exclaimed Sam, with clear panic in his voice. “Is he laying people off?” He cradled his face in his hands. “I need this job. Nobody else would ever employ me.”