Excerpt: Seeing the Elephant (Vacationland Murders Book 1)

I’ve been a passionate fan of mysteries since I was a kid and starting with Donald J. Sobel’s Encyclopedia Brown Books and the Hardy Boys series, then moving on to Chandler and Hammett, Christie and Mosley, Connelly and Lippman. Seeing the Elephant is my first mystery novel, set on the coast of Maine. It’s in the beta reader process and hopefully a polished manuscript in search of an agent this summer. I hope you enjoy this excerpt.

Chapter One

Christmas Eve, 1995
Jupiter, PA

After a day of gray chill and threatening skies, the snow was falling in earnest as the SUV with the flashing light bar sped through the darkened streets. Holiday garlands bent under the weight of the fresh snow, drooping like the shoulders of the panhandlers in Pittsburgh, seeking one last nickel of holiday goodwill. Chief Hughie Dalusio glanced out at the decorations and sighed, thinking of his sagging waistline. “No pie for me tomorrow,” he promised himself, knowing all the while that he didn’t mean it.

“What was that?” asked Charlie Hanscom, glancing over from the driver’s side.

“Huh? Oh, nothing,” grunted Hughie. The Jupiter PD vehicle lurched and slid suddenly, the tires losing their grip in the ever-increasing drifts of snow. “Just watch the road, Charlie.”

“I’ll watch the road as long as I can see it,” Charlie muttered. “When the hell are those plows going to get out here? It’s building up fast.”

Hughie didn’t bother to answer, choosing instead to stare out the window at the swirling streets. He shivered at the thought of getting out of the warm car and plunging into the snowstorm. His own fault, he knew. He could have taken Christmas Eve off but he hadn’t. Three years in a row, he thought. Tracy was not pleased. Her parents were in town and she wanted the entire family to go to Midnight Mass. Hughie didn’t have the heart to tell her that he liked working Christmas Eve so he wouldn’t have to deal with Tracy’s family and Midnight Mass. Not his idea of a merry Christmas, not a chance.

“Shitty night for a homicide, ain’t it, Hughie?”

“Is there a good one?”

“Yeah, when my ex-wife calls about her alimony. Come on, you know what I mean, it being Christmas Eve and all that.”

Hughie looked at his old friend. “Charlie, you know I hate the holidays. Give me a quiet weekend fishing in July and I’m happy.”
The Bronco rolled along Route 7 in silence, the emergency bar casting an eerie, bloody lightning effect on the swirling clouds of snow. After few minutes, more flashing lights appeared in the distance through the snow and dense trees. They turned up the narrow driveway and threaded their way up to the Braisie house.

Charlie pulled in alongside another Jupiter PD vehicle, off to the side of the volunteer fire truck. Hughie stepped down from the Bronco and glanced around. What should have been a postcard scene of a lovely home amidst the snow and pines and Christmas lights was anything but. He was immediately assailed by the strong smell of wet smoke. A volunteer firefighter, Carl Whittaker he thought, though it was was hard to tell, was off to the side of the truck, hunched over and retching. What the hell was going on here, Hughie wondered.

He and Charlie turned toward the house tucked among the towering pines. Multicolored lights were draped along the wide front porch and a jolly, plastic Saint Nick perched precariously on the roof, hanging on to his reindeer for dear life. Canvas hoses snaked from the truck around to the right. He followed them and saw the blackened timbers of a large shed. Steam rose in a few spots as a stream of water from one hose played over a few remaining hot spots.

“Merry fucking Christmas, Hughie.”
Larry Gorman, the chief of the Jupiter volunteer fire department, stepped out of the shadows. His face was ashen and not, Hughie thought, just from the cold.

“What’s up with the shed?”
“We don’t know the cause of the shed fire yet, but the family is in the house,” Gorman replied.

“Alright. I’ll go take a look.”

Warren Vasco stood by the door to the house. Hughie had seen the look on the young patrolman’s face before, the wide eyes, trembling hands, pale face, and the almost visible attempt at iron control to prevent anyone from thinking you’re ready to piss your pants or spew chunks all over your boots.

“You’re doing ok, Warren,” Hughie said quietly to him. “Just take some deep breaths. Charlie and I are going to go inside. You just keep everyone else out, okay.”

The young man nodded stiffly. “Okay, chief.”

“Good man.” Hughie turned to Charlie.

“Alright, let’s go see what we’ve got.”
They stepped through the door into an explosion of Christmas spirit. Garlands of paper chains festooned the doorways. Parades of elves and snowmen and reindeer cavorted along bookshelves and red baize-covered tabletops while one bay window and the table before it were covered by a holiday village. Tiny skaters on a glass frozen pond slid jerkily across the surface in a never-ending figure eight. The living room was thick with the scent of the pine tree in the corner, ablaze with lights and glittering with ornaments. But there was nothing out of place here.

Charlie led the way back into the house and stopped with an audible gasp upon entering the kitchen.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.
Hughie gently pushed him to one side and entered the kitchen, chill from the cold and snow flurries that blew in through the partly open back door.

This room was also decorated in red, and Hughie felt his gorge rise. No wonder Whittaker was losing his dinner and Vasco was pale as a sheet.

He assumed that the body in the center of the room was Brian Braisie, but they’d need some other way to confirm it given how the face was largely gone. His wife, Mary Lynne, was readily identifiable however. Her face was unmarked but for the spray of blood across it, perhaps from the gunshot that killed her husband, but her chest blossomed scarlet. She lay atop a small, motionless form. Hughie walked gingerly across the room, crouched, saw the still face of a little girl, her eyes vacant and dim.

The sound of an ambulance siren grew in the distance. Hughie looked up at Charlie.

“Any neighbors nearby?”

Charlie shook his head. “Vern and Diane Brackett are closest, maybe a quarter mile away. I’ll talk to them, see if they heard anything, but with the snow and distance, it would be a miracle if they did.”

Hughie looked around the kitchen, taking in the death, the pot on the stove, the cookies on the kitchen table, the photos of smiling girls on the fridge.

“Oh shit,” Hughie breathed.

“What?”

“This is Bethany,” the chief said, gesturing to the dead child. “The Braisies have two kids, don’t they?”

“Yeah, I guess they got two daughters…” Charlie trailed off. “Fuck! Where’s the other kid?” He turned back toward the front of the house, shouting, “I’ll check upstairs.”

Hughie yanked open the back door and burst out onto the wooden deck. To his right, stairs led down toward the smoldering shed. The ground around it was a churned mass of slush and footprints. He knelt down and played his flashlight along the top of the new fallen snow. If she’d come out the back door, she might have made a run for it before the snow began to fall but if there’d been a bit of snow already on the porch…yes, there, slight indentations where footsteps packed down the first bit of snow and were almost but not entirely filled in.

“Charlie,” Hughie bellowed. “I think she’s outside.”

Moments later, Charlie was by his side.
“See,” said Hughie, playing his flashlight along the snow, “very faint hint of footprints.”
They followed the footprints down and promptly lost them among the mess by the shed.

“Do you think she was inside there?” Charlie asked.

At Hughie’s shout, Larry Gorman left his crew and came over.

“Larry,” said Hughie in a low voice, “was anyone inside that shed while it burned?”

Gorman stared in shock. “No, why?”

“One of the Braisie girls is missing, and we think she came outside, possibly running from whoever killed her family.”

“Holy mother of God,” the fire chief breathed.

Hughie turned in place, playing the flashlight across the unbroken snow of the backyard. Nothing.

“I want to take a look on the far side of the shed and the woods.”
The three men quickly ran around the wreckage and looked out at the deep woods before them.

“We’re going to need a search party, maybe dogs, if she’s deep inside there,” Charlie mused.

“No, we won’t,” Hughie replied. He pointed toward spots of red faintly visible through a fresh layer of snow.

They began combing the woods, following the faint blood trail, walking three abreast as the sound of the fire crew faded behind them.

“Christ! I found her!” came Charlie’s startled cry five minutes later. Hughie and Gorman barreled through the whipping branches to Charlie’s side as he knelt in the snow next to the small, still form and a jagged upthrusting slab of stone. Charlie gently brushed snow off the prone body, revealing blond hair matted thickly with blood.

“Turn her over.”

Charlie nodded and rolled the still form over.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he whispered. “It’s Tanya Braisie.” He looked up at his chief, anguish in his eyes and for a moment, Hughie knew that Charlie was thinking about his own kids, safe and warm at home waiting for Santa to fill the stockings overnight.

“Who would do this, Hughie?”

The chief of the Jupiter police department could only look down at the cold, bloody child at his feet and shake his head. “I have no idea, Charlie. But I want the bastard.”

Chapter Two

“Audrey Grossman is not going to be happy when she gets back,” I muttered. The door behind me creaked and I turned to see Margot Anderson enter. The young patrol officer removed her sunglasses while avoiding the shards of broken glass by the door.

“Did you say something?”

“No, not really,” I replied. “What’s it look like outside?”

“No other signs of damage or break-in around the rest of the house, Jeff. Just the door.”

“Alright. Why don’t you head over to the Standish place and Otis Poddry’s house. They’re the closest on either side. See if they heard anything. I’ll talk to Roni.”

“Will do, boss,” she said and left the house. I followed her out and took a seat next to the young girl on the porch swing.

“Hey, Roni. Thanks for calling us. You did the right thing. How long has Audrey been out of town?”

Veronica Cates, high school junior and my own dogs’ favorite pet sitter, pushed a lock of black hair out of her eyes. “It was a last minute thing. She called two days ago and said she needed to go out of town suddenly and asked if I could pet sit. She said she wasn’t sure how long she’d be gone. Maybe just a few days, possibly a week or two. Can I go in the house, Jeff? I need to check on Valentine, make sure she’s ok.”

“Valentine?”

“Miss Grossman’s cat.”

“Sure. In a few minutes. Margot and I will just need to take a look around first. Were you coming over every day?”

She nodded. “Yeah, Valentine is kind of old, doesn’t have many teeth so she can’t eat that hard food you put in a feeder. I need to come over and give her canned food every day.”

“So everything was good yesterday? What time did you come over?”

“Same time as today, came over after school.”

“When was that?”
“Four-ish. Volleyball practice is done for the season so I get out earlier than usual. Everything was fine yesterday. I went in, hung around for a little bit.”

I looked at her curiously. She shrugged.

“Valentine gets lonely so Miss Grossman likes me to do homework or watch some TV for a while so Val can curl up and get some attention.”

“What time did you leave?”

She thought for a bit. “I think it was around five. Yeah, definitely right around five. I caught the last part of that new Keanu Reeves movie on TV. Watched it to the end, then left.”

“And today?”

“I got here, saw the broken window, and called you. I didn’t go in, but I really want to check on Val.”

“Do you know where Audrey went? Maybe have her mobile number?”

Roni nodded. “She went to Chicago to take care of her nieces. I guess it was an emergency. Her sister just had a baby but had some serious medical issues.” She pulled her iPhone out of her pocket. “Want her number?”

A second later, Audrey’s contact card popped up on my screen.

“Thanks. You okay hanging out here for just a bit? I’m going to go inside and take another look around. Margot should be back soon. Then you can go in and check on Valentine.”

The house was cool, a welcome break from the early June sun that hinted at a hot summer to come. Other than the glass by the door, there was little overt evidence of a break-in.

The living and dining rooms appeared untouched as did the kitchen. Each room had light sand colored walls and walls covered with wide selection of bright paintings of landscapes and bird. I knew for a fact that some of that artwork had cost Audrey a pretty penny both from the galleries in town and several auctions over the years. But those paintings had no worth to someone breaking into her house. They’d be too bulky to haul away and too hard to sell for anything close to their value. At least they didn’t trash the art out of spite or in a stoned haze.

This was the fourth house break in nine weeks, and whoever was doing it seemed to be taking care not to make a major mess everywhere. If they’d really wanted to make trouble, they could have wrecked each of the homes. Instead, they limited their depredations to the likely locations of valuables.

I climbed the stairs and found the shambles I expected in what I assumed was the master bedroom. A jewelry box was overturned and the carpet was littered with pearls from a broken necklace. Drawers had been pulled out and dumped on the bed and the floor. Two twenty-dollar bills lay out of sight beneath the bed, hidden by the carelessly tossed bedding. Sloppy, I thought. Go to all the trouble to break in and you miss some of the cash. Maybe Audrey had left enough lying around that missing forty dollars wasn’t worth the effort.

The screen door opened and closed downstairs with a loud thwack.

“Jeff?” Margot called.

“Upstairs.”

Together, we checked out the remainder of the house. There was no additional damage beyond some closets that had been roughly searched, a desk in the home office that apparently had been tossed, and a moderately pissed off old cat who crawled purring into Roni’s arms when I called her into the house.

The cove was bathed with the orange light and growing shadows of late afternoon as I drove back into town, the investigation, such as it was, wrapped for the time being at Audrey’s house. With nothing left to do, I covered the broken window with a sheet of plywood, said goodbye to Valentine, and let Roni lock up as Margot hit the road and continued her patrol.
The Shelton’s Cove, Maine, police department headquarters was quiet as I parked the truck and headed inside. Lorraine Wallach, our daytime dispatcher, gave me a wave and pointed toward the back as she headed for the door.

“The chief wants to see you, Jeff.”

I waved in reply and wandered back to my boss’s office. Chief Todd McClernand, my father’s younger brother, was on the phone and waved me in.

As he continued his conversation with some member of the community, I pulled out my phone and began pursuing the news and the Google alerts for interesting crimes in the region. It was a quiet day today. Several small drug busts, including a meth stash on the outskirts of Augusta. A failed bank robbery in Portland. Seriously, I wondered. Who tried to knock over a bank these days?

The shootout down in Boston certainly sounded a bit more dramatic, perhaps something out of a low-rent Ben Affleck movie. Headlining things was the announcement that Agostino Nicolo Lombardi, head of his titular crime family, had been been killed near Providence. Speculation was running rampant that factions in the once-fearsome New England mafia were knocking each other off to gain dominance. I chuckled, remembering my time in school in Providence and the lingering laughter at the city’s defunct slogan from years before. “Providence harbors the best.” Yeah. That one didn’t last long in the one-time home of the regional branch of the mafia.

Uncle Todd hung up the phone and groaned.

“Next time Angela Bliss calls to lodge a formal complaint against any of a number of children, dogs, fast drivers, slow drivers, or peeping toms, you get to take the call.”

I shook my head. “Nope. Last time I tried, she declared she wasn’t wasting her time on a wet-behind-the-ears police officer who was nothing but a disturbance in her high school American history class. I told her to instead take some pride in the fact that one of my degrees is in American history, and it’s all because of her. That argument didn’t work so she’s all yours. Or you can pawn her off on Margot. She’s got a good attitude for people like Angela.”

The chief leaned back in his chair. “Alright, Angela aside, what’s the deal with the break-in?”

I glanced at my notes. “Same as the first three. Owner out of town. Limited damage inside, bedroom and office tossed for easy-to-carry valuables. I reached Audrey at her sister’s place in Chicago. Audrey said she had roughly two hundred and fifty bucks in cash tucked away upstairs and a bunch of jewelry. It’s pretty much all gone. Her sister is still in bad shape following complications during a tough pregnancy, and Audrey is helping with the kids. She’ll fly home as soon as she can and get us descriptions or photos of any jewelry or other valuables that have gone for a walk. Not much we can do at the moment beyond putting the word out about the stolen items and see if they turn up. Whoever went in was quiet and clean. The neighbors didn’t report hearing anything but given the distance between houses and the intervening woods, it’s unlikely they would have. I’m going to check in with a few people who might have heard something on the underside. Never know what might come of that.”

“Trevor?”

“Among others.”

He nodded. “Okay. Write it up.”

I started to rise but his hand gestured me back.

“Remember that writer I told you about?”

I nodded. “The one who wants to hang out with us? Experience the thrill of small town policing?”

The chief nodded. “Yup. I’d like you to show her around.”

“Did I lose a bet or something?”
He grinned. “You can pawn her off on Margot or Ollie when necessary, but they’re both too junior to be her primary liaison. Since Maxine is on vacation, Miss Wrentham will be all yours, starting tomorrow. Don’t get her shot or anything.”

I snorted. “Like that’s going to happen outside hunting season. Okay, I’ll make sure she gets the nickel tour, some ride alongs, the whole shebang.”

“Thanks. Oh, and stop by Captain’s place when you get a chance. He mentioned you owe him five bucks to cover your backgammon losses.”

“He cheats, you know.”

Uncle Todd laughed. “Yeah, but your grandfather has been doing it for eighty-seven years and is very, very good at it.”

The pounding drums from the band’s cover of “Tumbling Dice” were making my head throb as Mitch wove his way back to our small table at Perfidious Albion. Somehow, he avoided spilling our refills despite the dancing crowd. Divine Providence, I thought.

“Another Irish red for you, and a Guinness for me,” my best friend shouted above the noise.

I toasted him and took a swallow. “Thanks.”

He glanced back in the direction of the band. “Interesting rendition.”

“Charlie Watts is simultaneously saluting the guy’s ambition and rolling in his grave.”

Mitch laughed and scarfed down two jalapeño poppers. “So, how was your day, Deputy Dawg?”

“Quiet except for another house break.”

“Did you catch them?”

“Nope, long gone.”

Mitch sighed theatrically. “And so goes the thankless toil of the guardians of justice.”

“And what filled the day of the most progressive religious leader in Shelton’s Cove?”

Mitch scoffed. “I hit the road early for Portland where the bishop was hosting his bi-annual conclave with the rectors from along the coast. It baffles me how a man so brilliant in the pulpit and insightful with parishioners can be so dull when talking business, as it were.”

“You have all the fun.”

The band wrapped up the song and announced they were taking a break. There were a few hoots, a modicum of cheers, and then the interior of the Fid settled down to a boisterous hum of voices and clinking bottles.
Jessica Cavas emerged the crowd and sauntered up to our table. She ruffled Mitch’s hair.

“Hiya, Red. Long time no see.”

“Hey, Jess, how’s it going?” Mitch replied.

“Better if you were dancing with me,” Jessica replied as she nudged him with her hip.

She smiled at me. “Hey, Jeff.”

“Hi Jessica. You’re look good tonight.”

“Thanks,” she replied before turning her smoky gaze back upon Mitch. “I’m serious, Mitch. You need to get up and dance with me.”
He sipped his beer. “There’s no music playing.”
Jess wrapped her arm around his shoulder and leaned into him, sultry and close. “We can make our own,” she said with a wicked giggle.

Mitch was saved, temporarily at least, by the arrival of other members of the posse. Margot sketched a salute with her beer as Lily Cho and Dena Garrett made rude gestures toward a cluster of leering college kids.

“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” I said.

“We’re not quite all here,” answered Margot. “Melanie’s grabbing another drink.”

“What’s that you said?” Dena asked me.

“Just an old song, ignore my rambling.”

She took the beer from my hand, sipped, and handed it back. “Old soul, that’s what you are, Jeff.” Then she winked. “That’s okay. I like older men.”

“Thanks, Dena. You smell nice tonight.”

She grinned. “Splurged. Thirteen dollars from Amazon and I smell amazing.” She laughed and then broke off. “Hey, I heard there was another break in today.”

Margot groaned. “Man, word gets around fast. Yeah, it’s the fourth one. Out at Audrey Grossman’s place. She was out of town, emergency visit to her sister in Chicago.”
Dena put down her beer. “I hope it was nothing serious. Maybe she’ll have a chance to get out, see the sights. I was there last October to see a client, found this awesome Italian place with a huge wheel of parmesan cheese in the window by the door. While I was waiting to get seated, I kept breaking off bits and nibbling on them.”
“That’s very classy, Dena,” laughed Lily. Turning back to Margot, she said, “I hope they didn’t trash the place. Why do people do shit like that?”

“Nope,” Margot replied. “Barely touched the place. Just broke a window to get in and ransacked the bedroom looking for jewelry and stuff. ”

“Pick someplace else to hide all your gems, ladies,” Mitch said.

Dena sipped her beer. “Who found it?”

“One of the kids from the high school, pet sitting while Audrey was out of town.” I nodded and tipped my bottle in Lily’s direction to change the topic from local crime. “Only two more weeks of school. You must be looking forward to summer.”

She laughed. “I love those kids, I really do, but fuck, they are exhausting. A roomful of crazed ten-year-olds will confirm your desire either to have a family or be celibate.”

“Which one is it?” Jessica asked.

“Well, it sure as hell ain’t celibate,” laughed Lily, then she blushed. “Sorry, Mitch.”

“It’s okay, Lily. I’m not celibate either.”

Jessica choked on her beer and flushed a deep shade of red.

“You okay there, Jess?” Mitch bumped her with his shoulder.

“Yeah,” she coughed, “but you really will be celibate if you do that to me again.”

Now it was his turn to blush right up to his dark red roots. “Gee, look at the time. I think the band’s about to start playing again,” he said as he rose and dragged Jessica into the crowd.

I leaned back in my chair as the band did indeed begin to warm up again. Dena winked at me. “Gonna come dance?”

I shook my head. “It’s been a long day, and I’m going to call it a night soon, head home.”

“Okay, your loss” and with a grin, she and Lily headed back into the fray as the band launched into Stevie Ray Vaughn’s “Pride and Joy.”

Margot looked at me. “I need to go find Caleb. He was somewhere over there.”

“Alright. You’ll make sure they all get out of here okay?”

“Yes, dad,” and I could feel the good-natured eye roll she gave me as she smirked and turned away.

The band settled in and the crowd’s enthusiasm grew. I was wondering if I was beginning to suffer permanent hearing damage when Melanie Branscom placed a beer on the high top table and leaned on her elbows across from me. Her blond hair hung loose about her shoulders.

“Hi there,” she shouted over the music.

“How’re you doing?”

“It’s too loud. Wanna go outside?”

I took a last swallow of beer, stood, and gestured grandly toward the door.

The musical thunder settled into a muted throb as we crossed the street to the harbor boardwalk. The June evening was cool and comfortable, only a few clouds in the sky, and none obscured the bright moon or its reflection in the waters of the harbor.

“It feels good to get outside, even for just a few minutes,” she said, running her hands through her blond hair.

I agreed and leaned my elbows on the wooden rail.

“Haven’t seen you around much, lately.”
She stared out over the water toward the boats at their moorings. “I had to leave town to finish up part of the project I’ve been working on.”

“How did it go?”

She rolled one shoulder as if loosening it up as she replied, “Almost done. Only one or two more things to wrap up.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“I guess so. Of course, the drawback to finishing a long-term project is you stand around asking ‘what do I do next?’”

I looked at her sharp profile.
“And what are you going to do next?”

Melanie smiled. “Take you up on your offer to go sailing sometime soon, for one. Then, I think I might move on, maybe head west. I’ve never spent much time in places like New Mexico or Colorado. Benefits of being a software engineer in the era of remote work, I guess. I can live pretty much anywhere and work for anybody.”

“Moving from the coast of Maine in June to the summer heat of Arizona? Sounds like a seasonally inept choice to me.”

She laughed. “You’ve been a good friend these last few months I’ve been here, Jeff. Thanks.”

“It’s my pleasure. I try to be nice to newcomers from away. Unless they’re drunken tourists who get rowdy. Then I get stern and intimidating. I’m part of the local color.”

Melanie turned her back on the Cove and watched a couple cross the street arm in arm, her head resting on his shoulder, and enter the Fid. The volume of the bass track swelled for a moment until the door swung closed.

“You’re really thinking of leaving?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes I think maybe it’s time I did something different with my life, tried something new, let myself become someone new, for a little while at least. What about you? Are you ever going to leave?”

I shrugged. “I’ve left. I’ve come back. I’ve thought about whether I’ll stay here forever. Sometimes I just don’t feel like it but then…” I trailed off and stared out at the boats bobbing at their moorings.

Melanie gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Don’t ever leave or, if you do, be sure you come back. I’d hate to think of this town without you here.”

“Oh, I’m going to become a fixture like my grandfather. The town would collapse if he weren’t here shoring it up. Let me know when you want to go sailing and don’t go leaving without saying goodbye.”

Her teeth shone briefly in the moonlight as she gave me a luminous smile. “Will do,” she said then straightened and walked back into the Fid.

Some time later, I rolled up the long, wooded drive to my house. As I arrived, Jasmine and Cuff, my two Siberian huskies, hurled themselves at me with the spasmodic glee of two dogs who had been convinced I would never come home. They cavorted around me as I walked across the deck and lawn to the edge of the Rookery, the granite bluff that extended north from Shelton’s Cove.

The two dogs waited for my approval and then launched themselves down the wooden stairs to the rocky shore thirty feet below. I sat on the top step and stared out at Penobscot Bay and the Atlantic beyond. The tide was coming in, slow heavy rollers that tumbled along the rocks before hissing back into the sea. Along the horizon, lights moved south, a ship heading to Portland or perhaps Boston and beyond. I leaned back against the railing and enjoyed the gentle sea breeze.

It was silent but for the waves and the rustling of the pine trees that encircled the old house. It was a house that had seen multiple generations of McClernands come and go. I thought about Melanie’s words. Would I ever leave? Could anyone or anything get me to leave for good? Would I really get to the point of being eighty seven and still here like my grandfather? The deep forest surrounding me insulated the house from the distant rumble of tires on Route 1, leaving me alone with the night sounds and two crazy dogs that were barking at some flotsam or jetsam washed ashore below. I whistled for the beasts and turned back toward the house and bed.

I finished my morning run as dawn was arriving, circling back into the center of town, having left my truck and gear at the station. The harbor and streets were enveloped by a deep Maine fog touched by the red gold of sunrise. The fog reduced the waterfront to faint shadows and muffled the sounds of lapping waves, clanging buoys, and the ting-ting of halyards on aluminum masts. No cars rolled through town at this hour. There were no shouts of friendly greetings, barks of laughter, or chiming social media alerts. Everything was smothered and softened.

Maggie smiled as I stepped through the back door of The Foreign Correspondent.

“Hey, we’re not open yet. Are you here for your weekly protection payoff?”

I smiled back. “Just a poor weary officer of the law in desperate need of sustenance.”
“And hot and sweaty, too,” she said. “Don’t come another step into my kitchen. I don’t care if you are my favorite cousin. I’ll bring you something, you grub.”

“I’m your only cousin,” I called to her retreating back.

Barbara, the longtime assistant manager waved at me from across the room as Maggie poured me a cup of tea and handed me a hot, fresh breakfast sandwich. “Here you go. This one’s on the house. Now, off with you, you freeloader. Go eat then go shower. Some of us have to work for a living.”

I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, covertly slipped a $10 bill into her apron pocket, called out a goodbye to the rest of Maggie’s dawn patrol, and headed back out into the fog.

Distorted shapes loomed as I wove among the sculptures in Veteran’s Memorial Park and found a bench at the base of the gently sloping hill. Maggie’s food was, as always, outstanding. I leaned back against the bench and inhaled the thick, moist sea air. On a clear day, I’d be looking out over the harbor toward Finian’s Bar and Kidd’s Mound with the swells of the Atlantic beyond. But now, I was lost among the rolling mist in which the shadows of several trawlers rippled and flowed.

Then I heard a voice.

“I was a stranger in the city

Out of town were the people I knew

I had that feeling of self pity

What to do, what to do, what to do?”

The singing stirred me from my reverie. Someone behind me, among the sculptures, had broken into a smoky rendition of Gershwin. Her voice was rich and, while not loud, carried easily through the gradually brightening fog. I turned and peered behind me to see if I could spot the singer.

“The outlook was decidedly blue

But as I walked through the foggy streets alone

It turned out to be the luckiest day I’ve known.”

Shades of Ella Fitzgerald in that voice, I thought. Then it broke off with a velvety laugh, as though the singer had realized how she was verging into 1930s movie musical territory. But there was no orchestral swelling or appearance by Fred Astaire, just the cries of several gulls and the distant rumble of a truck ignition.

Another throaty laugh, the click of a foot kicking a small rock, and then she continued.

“A foggy day in London town

Had me low and had me down

I viewed the morning with alarm

The British museum had lost its charm”

My mother loves Gershwin and Ella. I’d listened to this song innumerable times, knew it by heart, could still hear my mother singing it under her breath as she sat at her desk, deep into some financial prospectus or market analysis. Part of me considered joining in now, but then I remembered that a college girlfriend had declared that me singing anywhere but in the shower might be a violation of the Geneva Convention.

The voice grew louder and, for just a moment, I glimpsed purple hiking boots and the bottom half of a pair of shapely light walnut-colored calves peeking out beneath the edge of “Heart of the Sea,” the sculpture nearest me. Then, the fog swirled in as she began to sing once more and move away.

“How long, I wondered, could this thing last?

“But the age of miracles hadn’t passed

For, suddenly, I saw you there

And through foggy London town

The sun was shining everywhere.”

I sat back, closed my eyes, and finished my tea as Gershwin’s words and a smoky voice well suited for a dark, intimate club vanished into the morning.

Chapter Three

Abigail Wrentham jumped back onto the curb as a police SUV, light bar flashing, sped past her. She stared after it and wondered what spurred it on. A bad traffic accident? A rampaging moose? Murder most foul? Perhaps she’d ask when she arrived at the police station later. Fodder for the next book.

She’d left her car in the small municipal lot three blocks back from the waterfront and was strolling along the narrow harbor streets of Shelton’s Cove when she’d almost been flattened by the police unit. The town was a cute little place populated by the mix of t-shirt stores and high-brow art galleries, ice cream shops and intimate little bistros one often found in seaside tourist towns. It wasn’t the height of the season yet, she knew, but the streets felt pleasantly crowded with families and strolling couples.

Several items in a gallery window caught her eye and she crossed the street to take a closer look. The first was a brightly colored poster advertising the Lobstah and Lighthouse Festival, scheduled for later in June. A monstrous red lobster clung to a lighthouse tower. The crustacean waved one massive claw as it channeled its inner King Kong. “I, Clawdius says ‘Don’t Miss the Fun’” the poster declared.

Next to the poster was a vivid explosion of colors and shapes. It was a large piece, framed in a pale wood, and the paint appeared to vibrate before her eyes, a visual hum that captured her. She was surprised to see such an urban graffiti-inspired piece featured so prominently in the window of a gallery in this little Maine town. Every other gallery she’d passed filled their windows with seascapes and sailing ships, lighthouses and shorebirds. Clearly, whoever owned this place wanted to set it apart. She stood on the sidewalk, ignored the passersby with their children and pets and simply fell into the painting. The layers and arcs of colors brought her eyes to something new everywhere she looked, a maze from which she doesn’t want to escape. After a few moments, she shook her head and pushed open the door. The Mermaid Gallery, she read on the sign above as she stepped inside.

A small dachshund bolted across the gleaming wooden floors toward her, claws skittering and clicking. He skidded to a halt and stared adoringly up at her. Abigail laughed, reached down so he could smell her hand, and then scratched him behind the ears.

“Hello,” said a bright cheery voice. “I see Howie is prostituting himself again.”

The dog had collapsed to the floor, rolling onto his back, wriggling his legs in ecstasy. Abigail gave his tummy another rub and straightened up.

“He’s apparently a professional,” she replied.

The woman behind the counter laughed. “Years of practice,” she said. “Good morning and thanks for coming in. I’m Sylvia. Can I help you find anything?”

“Abigail, and I was interested in the graffiti piece. It’s fantastic.”

Sylvia nodded, her gray ponytail bobbing along. “Yes, isn’t it? It was painted by Kim Barrett, an artist down in Portland. I’ve had good luck with their stuff. Plus, I’ve never been wholly enraptured by the seascape style. I sell the touristy stuff because visitors ask for and expect it. I’m not going to turn down the business, but it’s not really my style, personally. It’s a heretical thing to say around these parts but truthfully, I lean more eclectic.”

Abigail glanced around at the art on the walls, small sculptures and glasswork in cases, the mobiles hanging from the ceiling and nodded. “I like your selection. How much is the Barrett piece in the window?”

Sylvia looked at her appraisingly, perhaps wondering if Abigail was really a buyer or just curious. “$3,200,” she finally said.

“I’ll take it,” Abigail replied. “Can you hold it here for me? I have an appointment and don’t want to lug it around or leave it in my car.”

“Of course, I’ll be happy to,” Sylvia said with a started look before scribbling out an invoice and keying it into the register. “Are you in town long or just passing through?” she asked.

“Renting a place for the summer. Just arrived last night, only started wandering around early this morning.”

“Oh, well then, welcome!” She held out a hand. “Sylvia Prence, owner of The Mermaid. I hope you’ll come in again during your stay. Howie certainly won’t complain.”

“Abigail Wrentham, and Howie makes an excellent ambassador,” she said, giving Sylvia’s hand a shake before waving her watch over the payment scanner. “I’ll try to be back before you close this evening to pick it up.”

She was almost to the door when Sylvia called out, “Did you say Abigail Wrentham? Have we met before?”

Abigail gave her a quick smile. “No, I don’t think so. Thanks again for holding the painting,” and she stepped out on to the street.

The Shelton’s Cove police department was a nondescript building up the hill from the harbor and the sculpture garden through which she’d wandered that morning. A trim young woman in uniform sat behind a thick glass partition and looked up with a smile.

“Hello. May I help you?”

“Yes, I have an appointment with Chief McClernand.”

“Name, please?”

Abigail told her and, after a few moments of quiet conversation on the phone, an older man channeling hot Brian Dennehy from Silverado strode from the back, opened the door, and waved her in.

“Ms. Wrentham. I’m Todd McClernand. Nice to meet you. Let’s go back to my office to chat.”

He led the way toward the back of the building and gestured her into a seat in his airy, sunlit office.

He settled himself behind the desk and looked closely at her. “So, you are here doing research for a new book? Interested in the goings-on of a small-town police department?”

“Yes, I’m planning to set my new book in a town like Shelton’s Cove. I’m renting a place for the summer and-”

“Deer Bluff Cottage.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re renting Deer Bluff Cottage. Nice place, scenic, quiet. I expect it would be a good spot to do some writing.”

“Ummm…yes. How did you know?”

“Small town, Ms. Wrentham. You’d be surprised at what we know here at the Shelton’s Cove PD. Plus,” he added with a laugh, “Brenda LaValle, the owner, is an old friend. She couldn’t wait to tell me that a famous mystery author was going to be staying in her place. She’s been pretty discreet otherwise, though.”

“Well, yes, I plan to be here for a while to do some writing as well as explore the area. As I said in my inquiry, I was hoping to spend some time with members of the police department to get a sense of what goes on during the everyday course of business.”

Chief McClernand nodded and then press a button on his phone. “Lorraine, would you find Jeff and ask him to come to my office?”

With that, he released his finger and looked up at Abigail. “Well, we’ll be happy to provide you with access to the department, give you some ride-alongs with on-duty officers, within reason and so long as it doesn’t interfere with our normal course of business. Will that be sufficient?”

Abigail nodded. “Absolutely. That’s more than generous.”

“Alright then, Lorraine will get you all set up with the necessary health and safety waivers. I’m going to assign you a liaison officer. I just ask and expect that you obey any instructions given to you by any of my officers to ensure your safety. If you’re on a ride along and told to stay in the patrol car, that’s not a suggestion, for example. It’s for your safety. If you can’t abide by that, we won’t be able to help you.”

“Of course,” she replied as the door behind her opened.

“You needed me, chief…oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were busy.”

“Come on in, Jeff. Detective Jeff McClernand, this is Abigail Wrentham. She’s the author I mentioned who is interested in getting some background on the department for her next book. I’d like you to serve as her liaison.”

She rose to greet the man and hesitated before thrusting out her hand in greeting. He was a big man, tall and lean, at least five or six inches over her five foot nine. Hazel eyes looked back at her under a shock of light brown hair.

“Hi, detective.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Wrentham,” he said with a quick shake of her hand.

“Jeff, I’ve given Ms. Wrentham a quick overview of how we’ll be able to help her as well as expectations for her safety.”

The younger man nodded and glanced back at Abigail. His eyes flickered down, and she realized he was taking in her purple L.L. Bean hiking boots. He looked back up with an odd smile on his lips.

“Nice boots. Great for early morning walks. Chief, if you’re all set, I’ll take Ms. Wrentham with me.”

“Excellent. Lorraine’s got the paperwork for her.” The chief stood and shook her hand again. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Thank you, Chief McClernand. I hope we can talk at some point. And please call me Abigail.”

He nodded. “Of course. Good-bye, Abigail.”

She and Detective McClernand were intercepted outside the chief’s office by an older woman, gray hair in a french twist. She greeted Abigail with a smile and handed a folder to McClernand.

“Thanks, Lorraine.” He turned to Abigail and gestured. “Abigail Wrentham, this is Lorraine Wallach, dispatcher, seer of all things, and all-around good egg.”

“Nice to meet you, Lorraine.”

“Likewise,” Lorraine said with a smile that suddenly looked a touch embarrassed. “You probably hear this a lot, but I love your books.”

Abigail laughed and squeezed Lorraine’s hand. “No writer ever tires of hearing that, Lorraine.”

As they resumed their walk, the young detective asked, “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water? Soda?”

“A coffee would be great.

He abruptly turned toward the front of the building. “In that case, let’s get out of here. Our coffee sucks, despite our best efforts. We just use it to coerce confessions from suspects. I can arrange for you to get something much better.”

He glanced over his shoulder and called back to Lorraine, “We’ll be at the Correspondent if you need me,” and then led Abigail out the door.

Abigail gazed around The Foreign Correspondent, the cafe he led her to several picturesque blocks from the police station. Saturated with the welcoming aroma of good coffee and baked goods, the place hummed with a pleasant blend of conversation and Chris Smither’s raspy blues on the speakers. While some patrons enjoyed the early afternoon sun on the spacious deck, she instead relaxed inside, where it was well lit without being overly bright and the walls were covered in photos old and new along with a pleasant selection of paintings. She decided she liked the place, contingent of course on the quality of the coffee.

Her beverage of choice arrived a few moments later as Detective McClernand sat opposite her, slid a mug across to her and a plate with a large blueberry scone on it between them.

“Enjoy. It’s the best coffee north of Portland, or so I’ve been told.”

“Do you not agree?” she asked.

“Actually, I can’t abide the stuff.”

“Heresy if I ever heard it. Aren’t coffee and doughnuts two of the major food groups for cops?”

He raised his own glass of iced tea. “Scurrilous lies spread by Big Java and the doughnut mafia. Love the smell of coffee, but that’s about it.” He paused for a moment and then grinned. “Although I’m not going to say no to coffee ice cream or dark chocolate-covered espresso beans,” and he broke off a piece of scone and popped it into his mouth.

“You seem to be popular here for someone with a deep disdain for coffee,” she replied with a nod toward the counter and the salt-and-pepper-haired, elfin woman who had greeted him with a cheery wave.

“That’s Trish. She’s worked here for years, ever since she and her husband retired to the Cove. She’s one of a few year-round people here at the cafe. Maggie staffs up with high school and college kids during the summer months.”

“Maggie?”

He gestured toward another woman, this one with short, sandy hair and a broad smile who was chatting with two elderly gentlemen.

“Maggie Baird. She owns the Correspondent and will be a great source for local color. A Shelton’s Cover born and bred, left town to get a degree in art history, came back and opened the Correspondent. Hears all, sees all, and bakes a great muffin.”

“Is she one of your sources for seamy rumors about life on the underside of Shelton’s Cove baking and beverage community?”

He laughed. “A good detective never reveals his confidential informants. Seriously though, Maggie is someone worth knowing. I’ll introduce you when she’s done buttering up the Paggett brothers.”

“You seem to know everyone.”

McClernand shrugged. “Shelton’s Cove is a small town, Miss Wrentham. We’ve got five thousand year-round residents, a figure that more than triples during the summer season. Live here a while and, provided you’re not a recluse, it’s hard to avoid becoming known and getting to know at least some people. As a cop, it’s unavoidable. And, as long as you’re not an asshole who likes to throw his or her weight around behind the badge, most people are willing to chat with you, share some gossip, and make their complaints and suspicions known. Especially their complaints,” he added with a chuckle.

She smiled in return, sipped her coffee, and closed her eyes briefly as bliss flooded through her,

“Good?”

“Oh yes, very. Your coffee quality informant was correct. Plus, the scone is delicious.”

“You can tell her yourself. Hi Maggs, pull up a chair.”

Abigail looked up to see Maggie Baird walking to them. She grinned and took a seat with a sigh.

“Busy day?”

She smiled with a shrug. “Not as busy as it will get this weekend and going forward, but it was a good warm up for the summer rush.” She extended a hand. “Maggie Baird, chief cook and bottle washer.”

Abigail gave a quick shake in return. “Abigail Wrentham, keyboard jockey. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. I believe we have a few of your books on our loaner shelf.”

“Hopefully not gathering dust.”

“Definitely not,” Maggie replied. “And I know for a fact that Judy Cashby over at Coveside Books keeps your stuff in stock for the summer crowd. So what brings you to our little pocket of paradise?”

Abigail gestured around the cafe and out the window.

“Collecting a sense of local color, a feel for life in a town like this, inspiration, and five thousand words a day.”

“Not just a vacation then?”

Abigail shook her head ruefully. “Definitely not a vacation. I’ve got a deadline to meet and a demanding publisher.”

“And readers who are looking forward to the next book, I imagine. I, on the other hand, see a barista frantically waving me down,” Maggie said as she rose. “It was great to meet you, Abigail. Please stop in any time. And don’t believe everything my cousin tells you as I know from a lifetime experience that he is not to be trusted.” She grinned at Abigail, bent to give McClernand a peck on the cheek, and headed back behind the counter.

“Cousin?”

“Maggie McClernand Baird, mom of two, and daughter of my boss, Uncle Todd.”

“Ah, I wondered about that when we met.”

“We’re an old New England town with a few old, long-standing families. I’ll let you be the judge whether I’m competent or simply the product of nepotism and name recognition.”

“Noted and understood.”

“Speaking of competency, I should head back to the station and pretend to get some work done. Care to walk back with me?”

Abigail shook her head and pulled a notebook out of her back. “Thanks, but I think I’m going to stay here and pretend to write. Might get another cup of that excellent coffee, too.”

“Well, I hope you find inspiration and caffeination in equal parts this afternoon. Would you be up for your first ride along on Tuesday? I’m tied up a bit tomorrow and off duty this weekend.”

“Next Tuesday?”

“Sure. Why not? Unless you’re busy or would prefer to ride with someone else.”

“No, not at all. Tuesday would be great. Thanks!”

“Sounds like a plan. Oh, and if you want to get some of that local color, a bunch of us are meeting at an Irish pub down on the waterfront called Perfidous Albion, the Fid for short. We’re getting together for drinks and to listen to a local blues band. You’re welcome to join us. We’ll be meeting there around nine.”

He rose and shook her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Wrentham. Hope to see you this evening and, if not, then around town and then at ten sharp at the station next Tuesday.”

“Goodbye, detective. Thanks for the coffee and the conversation.”

She watched through the window as he said hello to another customer, waved at the driver of a passing convertible, and disappeared up the street.

Abigail sat back and ate the last bite of the scone. Detective Jeff McClernand was not at all what she expected though she wasn’t quite sure what that would have been. Someone older perhaps? A bit less polished or a bit more provincial? Brusque and gruff? Definitely not the engaging tall drink of water, as her mom would have put it, who had just walked out of the cafe. She grinned and was pretty sure she’d be making it to the Fid that evening.