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

by J. C. Williams

  “You can call yourself Mister,” replied Emma. “When you’re a sadistic psychopath?”

  Sam screwed up his eyes as if considering this to be an option. “Carry on,” he requested.

  “Mr Esposito is a gangster,” explained Emma. “If you met him in the street, you might think he was harmless. But trust me. He isn’t. He’s involved in organised crime all over the world.”

  “Including forgery?” asked Sam.

  “Including forgery,” said Emma, taking a further sip of water. “You only have to look at the money for that Viking cross, or the painting for Mr Justus. It’s easy to see why Mr Esposito is involved, and why he was so upset when I told him I wanted out. I said I’d complete the last few jobs for him, and he gave me the impression that I was retiring with his blessing. That is, until I received word that he might not be as pleased to see the back of me as I’d hoped.”

  “So, do we know who Mr Justus is yet?” asked Sam, glancing towards Abby, and then back to Emma. “How’s he involved in this? Innocent victim?”

  “Good god, no!” replied Emma. “Mr Justus is just stupid and very, very greedy. He’s been buying artwork off Mr Esposito for years. Only, with this one, as I said, I made a mistake. A mistake he’d have picked up on in an instant. He’s not stupid in that respect.”

  Sam nodded, but he still didn’t really have a clue. “Why the hell has he been buying fake paintings for years?”

  “He… doesn’t exactly know they’re fake,” Emma replied. “As I said a moment ago, I only ever forge artworks which are never likely to come into the view of the general public. Mr Esposito tells me what to forge, and he arranges the sale. In the case of Mr Justus, he was told the paintings he was buying were stolen, which is why he would then buy them at a significant discount. And then, presumably, sell them on and make an enormous profit. So, stupid and greedy. And with the continued demand, Mr Esposito must have decided that it was too much of a business risk to let me go.”

  “How did you end up involved with someone like him?” asked Abby.

  Emma’s body deflated. “I was — well, still am — a good artist. He bought a couple of my paintings from an exhibition. I had no idea what he was or what he did. We met socially a couple of times, and he was, well, charming. I met him several times more in situations that, unbeknown to me, he’d engineered. I mentioned that I’d always wanted to own my own gallery, and before I knew it he was handing me the keys to my own business in London. He asked me to copy a picture for him, which I did. And another and another. I suppose I was naïve or turned a blind eye. Either way, the business expanded into other galleries all over the world. Before long, I was in too deep. And as if this situation couldn’t get much worse, Mr Justus will now know that the painting he’s in possession off is a fake, and it won’t take a genius to figure out he’s been buying fakes for years.”

  Emma looked at them solemnly. “They will kill me if they catch me. And I don’t mean to drop you guys in the shit. But if the house has been watched, then, well, you’re kind of now in this mess with me.”

  Sam’s cheeks flushed. “You cheeky bi–”

  “Sam,” Abby admonished, holding her index finger aloft.

  “What?” Sam protested. “I was going to say biscuit.”

  “Anyway, she’s got a point,” Abby told him. “Neither of these two, oh, Mr Men, I think I’m going to start calling them—”

  “That could get confusing,” interrupted Sam, knocking Abby off her stride.

  “What could?” she asked, slightly put out.

  “The Mr Men. What about Mr J and Mr E?”

  “But that’s not funny,” said Abby. “Whereas Mr Men is funny because it’s a book.”

  “No, but think,” Sam replied. “Mr E. Mystery. Ha! It’s good, right?”

  “Right,” replied Abby, though unconvinced. “Emma,” she asked. “Which one do you like? Mr Men? Or Mr J and Mr E?”

  Emma looked pained, “I’ve got two psychopaths trying to kill me and you think I care about what I should call them??” She stared at Sam and Abby like a parent chastising a child that’d been caught shoplifting.

  “I thought mine was clever,” Sam moaned, looking down at the floor.

  Emma realised that these two, Sam and Abby, were pretty much her only hope at this point. She inhaled deeply. “Abby’s,” she let out as she exhaled. “Let’s go with Mr Men, I suppose. I don’t know the book. But it’s easier to say.”

  Sam shuffled his feet, moping.

  Abby flicked her head in victory, giving Sam a smug look, her eyes half-closed like a sniper taking aim.

  Abby turned back to Emma. “Why don’t we just hand you over to the police?” she said, matter-of-fact.

  Emma took her head in her hands. “You think this is about me?” she said in disbelief. “I don’t care about the police, I’m working with the police,” she continued. “Well, the FBI, that is,” she added.

  Sam had a puzzled expression, as if someone had farted, and he was trying to work out from whence the bottom-burp had emanated. “The… the FBI?” he said, innocently.

  “Yes,” replied Emma. “They were my ticket out of this entire fiasco. I work for them and get evidence against… Mr Men… and they let me go. Well, that was the plan, anyway. Until they inform me that Mr Esposito has taken my sister hostage. If I go back to the FBI, he’d think nothing of hurting my sister.”

  Sam continued his pose of sniffing the air. “The FBI?” he repeated. “The FBI, you say?”

  “What do you want from us?” asked Abby. “We can’t get you off the Island, and we’re certainly not going up against the bleedin’ Mafia on your behalf.”

  “I just need a bit of time. I need to think. I need to sleep. Once I’ve got a clear head, I’ll figure out what to do. I can sleep here, on the floor,” she said, pointing, as if they didn’t know where the floor was.

  Abby looked at Sam. “Sam. The old man’s holiday home. Have you still got the key?”

  “Yeees…” replied Sam with great uncertainty. “But that’s only in case of emergency. He’ll go nuts if we—”

  “This would qualify as an emergency,” she said, once again cutting him off with a swipe of the index finger. “Emma, you can stay there,” Abby asserted. “I know it’s empty at the moment. It’s in the middle of nowhere. You’ll be safe for a few days.”

  Emma’s eyes were red and puffy from crying, “Thank you,” she responded. “Thank you so much. I need to figure out how to keep my sister safe. She has nothing to do with this… this mess,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion.

  For someone eager to distance themselves from this sordid affair, even Sam surprised himself when he announced, “I’ll help you find your sister.” He swelled out his chest, like a cheap superhero. All that was missing was a flick of the cape.

  It was now Abby’s turn to take on the role of the fart sniffer, and snarled at Sam, “We will help her find—”

  “That’s right, Abby.” And, positions reversed, Sam was now the one to flick his index finger. He then continued on, like Gotham’s finest, fists clenched, back arched, and with his chin proudly elevated. “Never fear, Emma. My associate and I shall indeed come to your aid.” And, turning back to his ‘associate’, he said, “Abby, you wanted another case to put on the website? Well, we’ll soon be able to put on The Case of the Missing Sister.”

  “That’s a shit name,” said Abby, dowsing Sam’s flames of vigour. “Promise me one thing?” she asked.

  “Anything,” said Sam.

  “Promise me you’ll get another wig. I really enjoyed working with Lloyd,” she said, smiling broadly.

  Chapter Nine

  Watching You Watching Me

  L axey in the Isle of Man was stunning. A tranquil village in the east of the Island which boasted a considerable heritage in the Island’s former mining industry, it is also home to the world’s largest working waterwheel as well as a main hub on the electric railway. With a glorious beach and spectacula
r views, it remains a destination of choice for tourists trying to recapture a sense of nostalgia, and, perhaps, an ice cream while absorbing the glorious Manx countryside. It was an obvious destination to own a holiday home to cater for the enthusiastic tourist trade, but, today, a chocolate-box cottage tucked away in this pretty little village was host to one of the most prolific and successful art forgers currently in operation.

  With Emma safely dispatched — for now — at the holiday cottage in Laxey, Abby drove up the narrow roads, roads clearly designed for a time where the motorcar was a distant and unforeseen consideration. She pulled to a gentle stop as crossing lights flashed red, and a moment later an electric tram passed in front of them. Abby smiled, as she spied a small child on the tram — her face pressed to the glass — waving at the waiting traffic.

  “Aw, I used to always do that,” Abby said warmly, waving back and using two hands for full effect, until another child — likely the little girl's brother — pushed his way into view and extended his middle finger in Abby’s direction.

  “Little tosser!” said Sam, sticking his head out of the window closely followed by his extended arm with a backwards victory sign held firmly aloft.

  “Sam!” said Abby, trying to stifle laughter. “I’ve never seen you like this! What’s gotten into you? And you can’t do that!”

  “Can and did,” Sam replied, chin held up, and unrepentant.

  “I bet you were just like that little boy when you were small. You know. Doing what he just did.”

  “Rubbish!” Sam insisted. “I came into this world fully grown!”

  Abby shook her head, laughing, as the tram passed in front of them on its coastal journey towards Douglas. Once clear, she shifted into gear and reengaged in their own journey.

  “Something’s on your mind,” Abby said, serious now once they’d been on their way for a bit, looking over at Sam.

  “What? No,” Sam answered.

  “There is. I can tell by the way you breathe,” she told him.

  “By the way I breathe?” scoffed Sam. “There’s only one way to breathe, I’ll have you know, and that’s in and out. And even I can manage that most times.”

  “When you’re thinking — really hard — you slow your breathing, like you’ve forgotten how, and then take in a really big lungful. So, I can tell you’ve got something on your mind.”

  “According to you,” Sam replied, defiant, like a little boy got caught dead-to-rights picking his nose but denying it anyway.

  “I know you, Sam,” Abby continued. “You do it when you’re doing something mentally taxing — for you, like a crossword, or, say, tying your shoelaces.”

  “That shoelace knot is tricky, it’s not my fault!” Sam replied, and they both had a laugh. After a quiet pause, however, Sam confided softly, “It’s true, though. Look, I think I have made a bit of a mistake,” he said, his head bowed.

  “You mean about the shorts you’re wearing?” Abby replied. “I kinda agree, they’re a bit… neat.”

  Sam looked wounded. “No, not my shorts. That’s the fashion,” he insisted. “Abby, I’m being serious now. As I said, I think I might have made a little mistake.”

  “Do I need to guess? Because I’m a good guesser,” Abby came back.

  Sam was only half paying attention to her teasing, and so misheard ‘guesser’ as kisser. It took him a moment to realise his mistake before carrying on.

  “Right. Sooo,” said Sam in a drawn-out manner before getting to the point. “You know when I said to Emma that the painting I gave to Mr Justus’ people…”

  “Yes…?” Abby replied expectantly.

  “Weeeell… I may have said it was the one from the crate?”

  “Yes…?” Abby replied expectantly yet again. Then she abruptly switched off the car radio. “Wait,” she said. “You mean that’s not the one you actually gave her? That’s more than a little mistake, Sam!” she shouted.

  Sam, for his part, recoiled like the head of a startled tortoise.

  “Are you going to tell me that you gave the correct one, and that poor woman thinks a crazed lunatic is trying to kill her because you made a little mistake??”

  “No,” he offered, unconvincingly. “Okay, I think so. Well, I know so. It’s good news that at least there’s one less crackpot trying to hunt her down, no?” he said trying to create a positive spin.

  Abby’s fingers clattered on the steering wheel like a team of horses’ hooves. “I suppose so,” she finally conceded. “I could throttle you at times, Sam Levy,” she added. “But if Mr Justus has truly buggered off, then we only have to worry about this other nutjob. This Mr Esposito.”

  Abby continued to tap her finger on the steering wheel as they drove along, but the clattering at least was reduced to the sound of one horse as opposed to a team of horses.

  Sam wasn’t comfortable with awkward silence — but went with it, taking the opportunity to soak in the vibrant green countryside of which there was an abundance on this glorious, sun-kissed afternoon. His mind was working overtime, and, as such, he tried to regulate his breathing for fear of passing out.

  “You weren’t being serious, were you?” he eventually asked, hesitantly.

  “About throttling you?” confirmed Abby.

  “No, about the shorts. I thought I carried them off quite well.”

  “Sam, they looked like they’re painted on you. I’m sure you could almost see your…” she said, unwilling to complete the thought aloud.

  It went quiet again, but not awkward. Well, at least not on Sam’s part — he was just biding his time…

  “So. You were, eh, looking at what the big dog has got tucked away, down there, were you?”

  Abby had predicted the protracted response was coming, but she couldn’t prevent a tinge of rouge caressing her cheeks nevertheless. “It was hard to miss,” was her reply.

  Sam nodded happily, pleased as punch. “Thanks!” he said, fit to burst.

  “That’s wasn’t a compliment!” countered Abby, deflating Sam’s pride. “Rather a reflection on how tight your shorts are.”

  Sam held his gaze for a moment longer than usual, and he looked at her carefully. Abby was a little too short for the driving position, he observed. When she pressed the clutch, it was as if she needed blocks on the end of her shoes; her nose was all but pressed against the windscreen. He was a PI, after all; he noticed things.

  “I can see you watching me,” said Abby. “Out of the corner of my eye. Are you going to say something about the way I drive?”

  Sam smiled. There was no logic for the timing of his current thought process, and, on reflection — in view of the present hostage situation and criminal intent, especially — he thought it ill-advised to share what was on his mind. But it’d been bouncing around in his brain, anxious to be released.

  He pressed his fingernails into the palms of his hand and bit the inside of his lip. He bobbed his head as his inner turmoil was reaching a crescendo — it was now or never.

  “Abby,” he said tentatively, clearing his throat in the process. He waited for a response, but it was not forthcoming.

  “Abby,” he said once again. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” said Abby, quick as a flash.

  The response caught Sam off-guard, and for a moment his confidence levels collapsed like a wet cardboard box. He sat with a heavy heart for a moment until he became aware of the pain in his mouth where the gnawing had drawn blood. He spoke to himself, a stronger part of his psyche giving him confidence; there was a pep talk occurring in his head like a prize-winning fighter about to enter the ring.

  “Abby,” he ventured once again, but there was no response.

  Abby for her part wasn’t being rude, at least not intentionally. Sam was whimpering like a petrified vole, and she was simply concentrating on driving (and reaching the pedals).

  Sam carried on. “You know how I said I’d take you out to dinner one time? Well, you probably do
n’t, but I did.”

  Abby’s eyes shifted furtively, as Sam continued.

  “Well, if it’d be okay. With you, I mean,” he said, fumbling with his hands, absently searching for remaining hairs. “I just wondered if you’d like to, you know, go out for something to eat. Together, I mean.”

  Abby sat bolt upright. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she said harshly, her voice tinged with anger. “I do not need this shit right now.”

  Sam’s confidence level had not been terribly high to begin with, despite his internal pep talk. If he’d been a prize-fighter before, he was now sat in the corner, on a small stool, beaten and bruised, a wet towel draped over his head, and Burgess Meredith shouting “Yer a bum!” in that gravelly voice of his into Sam’s ear.

  Sam pressed his head against the window. He was too embarrassed to even look at Abby. He gave a pitiful sigh, and his exhaled breath fogged the cold glass, obscuring his view.

  “We’re being followed,” Abby announced.

  Sam barely stirred, until she repeated it once again with even more urgency. He reluctantly turned his head round and was startled by both the appearance of a sleek black car positioned directly behind them, as well as its proximity — millimetres from their rear bumper.

  “Maybe they’re just trying to get past?” offered Sam, desperately.

  “The one in the passenger seat has got a gun – they’re not out for an afternoon drive!” shouted Abby. “Phone the police! Now!”

  Sam patted himself over frantically. “Bollocks! My phone’s in my coat. Which is in the boot of the car.”

  Abby’s voice was now shrill and at a pitch that would cause audible injury to canines in the vicinity. “What the hell is it doing there!” she screamed. “It’s of no use to us there!”

  Sam was proper panicked, looking over his shoulder at the man now indicating, with his gun, that they should pull over to the side of the road.

  “It’s the shorts, Abby!” he shouted back. “My phone didn’t fit in the pocket because they were too tight!”

  “What did I tell you!” Abby yelled back.

  “Oh, goddamn these fucking shorts!” Sam exclaimed, cursing uncharacteristically. And, then, “You’re going to have to speed up, try and outrun them!” he instructed, ever helpful.