by Penny Plume
The Last Resort in Lost Haven
Book One of the Lost Haven Cozy Mysteries
Penny Plume
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Penny Plume First Readers Club
THE LAST RESORT IN LOST HAVEN
Book One of the Lost Haven Cozy Mysteries
by Penny Plume
THE LAST RESORT IN LOST HAVEN
Copyright © 2018 Penny Plume
All rights reserved.
ISBN978-0-9983933-7-7 Paperback
978-0-9983933-6-0 eBook
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Introduction
Folks visit Lost Haven year-round for many reasons.
In the springtime they can sail into the protected marina off of Lake Michigan and come ashore for the festive Spring Cleaning Jamboree, annual grand opening of Lilac Park, and friendly (but obsessive) grilling competitions between the town’s chefs and any mere civilians willing to try.
During the summer the beaches are warm with fine, soft sand and the restaurants offer fresh, locally-sourced food on breezy decks with live music. Wealthy families from Chicago open their summer homes along the high dunes and rush into the rolling freshwater waves, eager to get that first sunburn out of the way.
The fall color tours are among the nation’s very best, and there are dozens of small family farms where you can stop for fresh apple cider, warm donuts, and snow predictions. When the autumn sun sets over the great lake, the seasonal haunted attractions open their creaking doors to send people of all ages screaming and laughing into the night.
Even though the marina is frozen solid during the winter, Lost Haven continues to bustle with a small but internationally acclaimed film festival, art expos, ice sculptures, and a carefully maintained Christmas Village straight out of a child’s sugar plum dreams.
The ice mountains created by Lake Michigan’s frigid tides bring photographers in from all over the globe to capture them and the infamous Lost Haven Lighthouse, encased in a shell of frozen crystals.
And no matter what time of year it is, people travel to Lost Haven to enjoy local wines, microbrews, and savory coffee blends while they try to find Sanctuary, the legendary ghost town buried beneath the shifting dunes. They are always welcomed by Lost Haven residents, who tell campfire stories of Sanctuary with a wink and a smile.
Then one Thursday night in early June, murder came to Lost Haven.
It was most unwelcome, and when the truth finally came out—all of the truths, really—that murder turned out to be just the beginning.
1
Jenna Hooper snapped the last two folding chairs open and scooted them around until they formed something close to a circle with the love seat and other chairs. A small round table in the center held a tray of cookies, brownies, lemon bars, and celery sticks. Steaming carafes of coffee and tea stood near short towers of stackable ceramic mugs.
She was in the small sitting room at the back of her store, The Welcome Shoppe, which was intended to be the first place tourists and seasonal residents stopped when they arrived in Lost Haven. She carried all sorts of Lost Haven collectable items: keychains, license plate frames, coasters—crap, really—but her store was always busy. She wanted to believe it was because everyone was interested in the history of Lost Haven, and her personal collection of books and essays about the small coastal town was irresistible.
She gazed at the bookshelves lining the walls of the sitting room. Signs written in her hand let folks know:
“Please feel free to read!”
“Borrow if you like!”
“Only copy in print: Please handle carefully. :)”
She probably needn’t worry about that last one. No one handled the books but her, and she rarely cracked them open because she already knew everything written, sketched, and photographed within them. No sense damaging the bindings just so she could run a finger along the rough, imperfect paper, examine the graceful swoops and sudden corners of the elegant fonts, and enjoy the delicate, slightly musty scent of slowly degrading history.
As for the newer essays, well, she’d written those…and it seemed improper to constantly re-read one’s own writing.
Still, Jenna felt the pull of the books. She wanted to lock the shop’s front door, pour a cup of coffee and curl up on the love seat. Spend the evening with the men and women who had made Lost Haven great. Hear their voices, visit with their families, and share their dreams.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like real people. Some of them were nice enough and got the benefit of the doubt, at least at the beginning. Jenna had read plenty of books beyond her Lost Haven collection, including some psychology texts, and she suspected she might have a small, undiagnosed social anxiety issue.
Or most people were just rude morons with no self-awareness or ability to take responsibility for their actions.
Maybe a bit of both.
The electronic bell mounted inside the front door jangled her away from the books. She touched a soft leather spine — The Encroaching Dune by Gilbert Winkle — and turned away to greet her visitor.
This was not a time for books or dreams.
No, this night was about to be ruined by something Jenna had dreaded all day, week, month: a meeting.
The visitor was Belma Winkle, owner of Winkle’s Fine Chocolates & Sweets, one door north of Jenna’s along Main Street. She often told her customers you could not trust a skinny chocolatier, and if that logic were true, Belma could be trusted with nuclear launch codes. Her hair was large with brown swirls frosted in silver and a very light green at the tips, giving her head the vague appearance of a chocolate mint cupcake.
This was not an accident.
She bustled toward Jenna, somehow managing to navigate the narrow aisle lined with driftwood picture frames and Lost Haven shot glasses without nudging either, and when she got close she flapped her hands and pursed her small mouth into an upside-down macaroni.
“Oh Jenna. Oh come now.”
Jenna was confused. For a moment she thought Belma was going to cry over the reason for the meeting, and she struggled to find something to say or do to comfort the woman. Then Belma pushed past her, through the ring of chairs and leaned over the snack tray.
“See, dear, how you have my dark chocolate caramels pushed against these—what are they? Lemon bars? I suppose you could call them that…anyway, Jenna, the powdered sugar will get on the chocolate and just ruin the texture. Ruin it!”
Jenna watched while Belma plucked one of the celery sticks off the tray. She expected the woman to slide the firm, cubic chocolates away from the moist bars, but Belma mashed the celery into the powdered sugar and scooped the lemon bars away from her chocolates, piling them into a quivering yellow heap.
Belma stood up and examined her work. “There.”
She turned, holding the ce
lery like it had been tainted with Ebola, and looked for a place to drop it.
Jenna put her hand out.
“Oh, you’re a saint,” Belma said. She draped the stalk across Jenna’s palm with a grimace, then dusted her hands together. When she turned back to the tray Jenna stuck the celery in her mouth and pulled every last bit of lemon bar off it, then crunched.
Belma jumped like someone had jabbed her with a shovel, then frowned at Jenna, who shrugged.
Belma’s face softened. “Well, dear, I didn’t want to even think about it, much less say it, but this could be our last night as neighbors.”
Her chin started to tremble, and this time Jenna was ready.
“We’ll be fine, Belma. He can’t tear down the Main Street shops—they’re historical landmarks.”
“But his lawyers—”
“Are all going to have boats in the Lost Haven marina because of what Kavanaugh is paying them, but it won’t get them this street. Now you aren’t thinking about selling, are you?”
“Me?” Belma pressed a hand to her chest. “Child, Winkle chocolate has ruined teeth in Lost Haven for four generations, and I’d eat one of those lemon turds before I’d even think about selling.”
“What lemon turds?”
The voice startled both women, making them flinch and turn in unison. Lawrence Donald stood near the cash register, scowling at them. He owned Elegant Confections, three doors down from Jenna and about half a world too close to Belma.
“The lemon turds you put out to lure hapless tourists into that dungeon you call a bakery,” Belma said. “And I appreciate it, because after one taste they have to cleanse their palates with my chocolates. I hear about it all the time when they come into my shop to buy more.”
“Why, so they can murder a dog?” Lawrence spent another moment serving Belma a withering stare, then turned to Jenna and broke into a dazzling smile full of perfect white teeth. “Jenna. Always a pleasure.”
“Lawrence,” Jenna said. “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”
“Nothing stronger?”
Jenna looked at the carafes, a worry line appearing between her eyebrows. “I didn’t even think about that.”
“It’s fine,” Lawrence said with a wink. “I had a little something before I left the shop.”
“Well,” Belma muttered, just loud enough for Lawrence to hear, “that explains your recipes.”
“You two argue like my parents,” Jenna said. It had the desired effect of shocking both of them into silence. Jenna lifted the rest of the celery stick in victory and was about to take a bite when the worry line reappeared. Something had been hunkering in the back of her mind since Lawrence arrived. What was it? Lemon turds…getting startled…
She pointed the frayed stalk at him. “Why didn’t the bell ring when you came in?”
He peered back at the door, then looked at Jenna with a shade of pity. “The door was open when I got here, sweetie.” He made an obvious effort to not glance at Belma. “I think some of your guests were raised by savages. Or Republicans.”
Belma gasped. “My family goes back to the founding of Lost Haven, and even before that!”
“Yes, we all know,” Lawrence said. “It’s practically the town motto.”
Belma huffed. “It’s you new people who are the savages, painting everything crazy colors and opening a candy shop on the same street as mine—and the street’s only a block long!”
“It’s a long block, and I own a confectionery, not a candy shop, you sugar clown. And it’s one of the founding families who’s trying to tear it all down to build a hideous resort, so take that back to your family tree and hang yourself with it.”
“Enough,” Jenna said. “You don’t have to be friends, but if you want to stay neighbors you need to learn to get along. If Mr. Kavanaugh heard you two talking like this he’d do whatever he could to turn you completely against each other.”
Lawrence’s eyebrows went up. “Bribes?” Jenna pointed the celery at him again, and Lawrence grinned. “I’m only joking. Unless it’s a halfway decent bribe. Or cab fare for Belma.”
It was the samples of Belma’s sweets and Lawrence’s confections that kept The Welcome Shoppe busy. Those, and free samples from every other baker and food shop in Lost Haven. The owners stocked the samples each morning and checked them throughout the day, and the passive-aggressive (though sometimes just aggressive) rivalries were a constant source of amusement for Jenna.
The other businesses in Lost Haven—small art shops, clothing stores, beach necessities—kept tidy displays in Jenna’s store with promises of discounts and exclusive “Only in Lost Haven!” items.
Nearly everyone who had samples in the Welcome Shoppe had given Jenna a copy of their store’s key, for the times when supplies ran out and she needed to re-stock at odd hours. It was a simple matter of leaving a Post-It note with something like, “Took three sailboat-shaped coasters. See you soon!”
The resulting keyring was crowded enough to make a janitor whistle with envy, and Jenna considered it her daily workout if she had to lug it more than a block.
Overall, she was happy to send visitors to the other stores; any money spent in downtown Lost Haven was welcome, but she was less than thrilled with the predictable conversations when it came to her role as town historian. Those typically went something like this:
Jenna would say, “Oh, you should try some of that Winkle chocolate, it’s the best in the state. Maybe the Midwest.”
Tourist: “Mm! You’re right, this is fantastic! Where can I get more?”
“Out the door and turn right, you can’t miss it. And that sunset painting on the wall, yes, right above the chocolate, you can get a small print of that at the gallery next door to Winkle’s.”
Tourist: “Stellar! This town is simply amazing.”
Then Jenna would get excited. “Oh, you don’t even know. I have every history book written about Lost Haven right here, and they are fascinating. Please feel free to browse, sit and read, and ask any questions that come up.”
Tourist: “Huh. Would you look at that. Books. Well, thanks for the chocolate!”
And off they went.
It was certainly nice to help them and the other shop owners. But it would also be nice if someone stayed with Jenna and her books, just for a little while.
The door chimed again as Wilford Tunney shuffled through. He was close to eighty, if not squinting at it in his rear-view, and owned the Lost Haven Art Gallery between Winkle’s and Elegant Confections. It was the largest business on Main Street—nearly double the square footage of Winkle’s—and almost everyone along the block was ready to snatch it up the moment Wilford retired from the business. Or life, whichever came first.
Jenna wasn’t interested in the space. The Welcome Shoppe didn’t need to be any bigger, and even though she’d like to expand her reading collection for visitors, as town historian she already had all the literature about Lost Haven in her small nook. The thought of displaying them all face-out on long stretches of bookshelves was appealing, granted, but most of them had blank faces with nicks and scratches. Water stains.
She didn’t need the space.
She met Wilford outside the ring of chairs and gave him a warm hug, resting her cheek on the thick turn-down collar of his black sweater. On cue, Wilford acted surprised, embarrassed, and said, “Oh, be still my heart.”
He slid a wrapped peppermint out of his sweater pocket and pressed it into Jenna’s hand. “For your date later tonight.”
“Wilford, you know I don’t have a date.”
“But, Garrett…?”
“That’s been over for a while now. Remember, right before Christmas?”
“That’s it,” Wilford dropped his hands helplessly. “There are no more true men left in this world.”
“Witness,” Lawrence said.
They all heard Sherri Lander talking before the door opened. She pushed through, the electronic bell drowned out by her laughter. Her cell phone was c
lamped between her ear and shoulder so her hands could focus on carrying some kind of iced coffee drink and a small, shivering dog.
“I know!” She said. “I know, right? I know!”
Wilford nudged Jenna’s arm and whispered, “She knows.”
“I know!” Jenna whispered back, fighting a wicked smile.
Sherri owned the Beach Life Fashion Boutique, on the far side of Elegant Confections. She stopped in front of the four others, who stood there blinking while she smiled at each of them and continued on the phone. “Exactly. Oh, don’t I know it. Hey, hon? Hon! I have to go. Yeah, there’s a thing. No, not a thing, a thing. M’kay, bye!”
She handed the drink to Jenna and leaned in from the waist to kiss her on the cheek, left the drink in Jenna’s hand and smooched everyone whether they liked it or not.
“Hi hon. Muah. Hon. Muah. Hon. Muah.” Then she lifted one of the dog’s trembling paws—which had pink toenails—and waved at everyone. “Say hello to Mr. Wolfie!”
“Hi Wolfie,” Jenna said. She scratched the dog’s thin, floppy ear, and Mr. Wolfie’s large eyes stared at her hand like it was an alien ship here to abduct him. Sherri treated the dog mostly like an accessory, which was a shame, but every time she set him down he rushed toward the nearest person, skidded to a halt between their feet, and hopped up and down on his hind legs until they scooped him up. It was probably best for everyone—including Mr. Wolfie—that Sherri carried him like a purse.
She did exactly that, cupping the trembling dog with one arm, and said, “Sooo, this whole thing is a bummer, right? Such a shame.”
