Murder Me Twice (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. MURDER ME TWICE 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

“Audrey is not going to be happy when she gets back,” I muttered. The door behind me creaked, and I turned to see Lindsay Anderson backlit by the afternoon sun. Broken glass crunched beneath her boots as the youngest officer on the Grace Harbor, Maine, police force entered the house

“Did you say something, Jeff?” she asked.

“What’s it look like outside?”

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

“Alright. Head over to the neighbors and see if they heard anything.”

“Will do, boss,” she said.

Audrey Grossman’s house was the fourth to be robbed in the past two months, and the thieves were beginning to piss me off. They never broke into a house when anyone was around, they left damn all in the way of evidence, and surprisingly for a town the size of Grace Harbor, the local grapevine had been silent on the topic.

Lindsay’s patrol car was already rolling down the wooded driveway when I returned to the porch and sat next to the young girl on the bench. Veronica Cates, a high school junior and my own dogs’ favorite pet sitter, pushed a lock of flamingo pink hair out of her eyes.

“Hey, Roni,” I said. “Thanks for calling us. How long has Ms. Grossman been out of town?”

“She called two days ago, said she needed to go out of town unexpectedly, and asked if I could pet sit Valentine, her cat. She said she wasn’t sure how long she’d be gone. Can I go in the house, Jeff, please? I really need to make sure Valentine’s ok.”

“Sure. In a few minutes. We need to take a look around first. Were you coming over every day?”

She nodded. “Yeah, Valentine is old and can’t eat hard food, so I come over and give her canned food every day.”

“What time did you come over yesterday?”

“Same time as today, about four-ish. Everything was fine. I went in, hung around for a little bit.”

I looked at her. She shrugged.

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

“What time did you leave?”

“Five or so.”

“And today?”

“I got here, saw the broken window, and called you. I didn’t go in.”

“Good thinking. Do you know where Ms. Grossman went?”

Roni nodded. “She went to Chicago to take care of her nieces. I guess her sister just had a baby but had some complications.” She pulled her iPhone out of her pocket. “Want her number?”

A moment later, Audrey’s contact info popped up on my phone.

“Thanks, Roni. Hang out here for just a bit. I need to go inside and take a look around. Lindsay will 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 Maine summer to come. As with the previous break-ins, the thief or thieves appeared to be interested only in small, easily fenced valuables and cash. Audrey’s small but impressive collection of art appeared to be untouched. At least the thieves didn’t trash the art out of spite or in a stoned haze.

I went upstairs and, as I expected, found the main bedroom in shambles. A jewelry box was overturned and broken, while pearls from a broken necklace had been pressed into the carpet’s deep pile. Someone had pulled out the drawers and dumped their contents on the bed and the floor. After a quick check, I found two twenty-dollar bills out of sight beneath the bed, hidden by the tossed bedding.

Sloppy, I thought. Go to all the trouble to break in, and you miss some cash. Maybe Audrey had left enough lying around that a more thorough search wasn’t worth the effort.

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

“Jeff?” Lindsay called.

“Upstairs. Anything with the neighbors?”

“Nobody home either place. I’ll swing back after we’re done here.”

We checked out the remainder of the house. We found only closets that had been searched, a desk in the first-floor office that had been tossed, and a moderately pissed-off old cat who crawled purring into Roni’s arms when I called the young woman into the house.

Orange light and the growing shadows of early evening bathed the waterfront when I returned to town. The Grace Harbor police department headquarters was quiet as I parked the truck and headed inside to my boss’s office. Chief Todd McClernand, my father’s younger brother, was on the phone and waved me in.

While I waited, I pulled out my phone and checked the news and Google alerts for the latest regional crime news. It had been a quiet day. Several small drug busts, including a meth stash on the outskirts of Augusta. A failed bank robbery in Portland.

Seriously? Who tries to knock over a bank these days?

The shootout down in Boston sounded a bit more dramatic, perhaps something out of a low-rent heist movie. On the other hand, it was moderately big news that Agostino Nicolo Lombardi, head of his titular crime family, had been found murdered at his lakeside house in Rhode Island the day before. Those in the know speculated that factions in the once-fearsome New England mafia were knocking each other off in a series of tit-for-tat killings that started two years before.

Uncle Todd hung up the phone and leaned back. “Alright, what’s the deal with the break-in?”

“Same as the first three. Owner out of town. No vandalism though they tossed the bedroom and office for easy-to-carry valuables. I reached Audrey Grossman at her sister’s place in Chicago. Audrey said she had roughly two hundred and fifty bucks in cash and a bunch of very good jewelry tucked away upstairs. It’s all gone but a stray bill or two. She’ll fly home as soon as her family emergency is over and get us descriptions or photos of any jewelry or other valuables that have gone for a walk.” I rubbed my jaw. “Not much we can do at the moment beyond putting the word out about the stolen items and seeing if they turn up. Whoever went in was quiet and clean. I’m going to check in with some sources who might’ve heard something on the underside.”

“Trevor?”

“Among others.”

He nodded. “Okay. Write it up.”

I started to rise, but he gestured me back.

“Remember that writer I told you about?”

I nodded. “Abigail Wrentham? The writer who wants to hang out with us and experience the pulse-pounding action of small-town policing?”

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

I groaned. “Did I lose a bet or something?”

He grinned. “Lindsay and Ollie are too junior to be her liaison. Since Claire 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, a ride-along or two, 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.”

Father Mitch Donovan, my oldest friend, wove his way back to our small table at Perfidious Albion as the pounding drums from the band’s cover of “Tumbling Dice” made my head throb. 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 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 saluting the guy’s ambition while rolling in his grave.”

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

“Quiet except for another house break.”

“Did you catch them?”

“Nope, long gone. I hope your day was more productive.”

“Nope. I spent mine at the bishop’s bi-annual conclave with the rectors from along the coast.”

“You have all the fun.”

The band wrapped up the song and announced they were taking a break. There were a few hoots, a smattering of cheers, and then the interior of the Fid settled down to a boisterous hum of voices and clinking bottles.

Jessica Cavas emerged from the crowd and sauntered up to our table, her light brown hair falling into an almost Veronica Lake old-fashioned peekaboo. She ruffled Mitch’s hair.

“Hiya, Red.”

“Hey, Jess,” Mitch replied, leaning over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“You need to be dancing with me,” Jessica said as she nudged him with her hip. She smiled at me. “Hey, Jeff.”

“Hi, Jessica.”

Lindsay and her fiancé, Caleb, wandered up to the table along with Dena Garrett, who clinked her beer glass on mine.

“Hey, Jeff. How’s it going? I heard there was another break-in today.”

Lindsay groaned. “Man, word gets around fast. Yeah, at Audrey Grossman’s place. She’s in Chicago for some crisis.”

Dena put down her beer. “I hope it was nothing serious. Maybe she’ll have a chance to get out and 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,” replied Caleb. Turning back to Lindsay, he said, “I hope they didn’t trash the place. Why do people do shit like that?”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Lindsay replied. “Broke a window to get in and ransacked the bedroom and office looking for jewelry and stuff.”

“Pick someplace else to hide all your gems, ladies,” Mitch said, and then he rose and dragged Jessica onto the dance floor as the band started up again.

I leaned back in my chair. 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 headed back onto the floor as the band launched into Stevie Ray Vaughn’s “Pride and Joy.”

I was on the verge of permanent hearing damage when Melanie Branscom placed the remains of her usual gin and tonic on the high-top table and leaned on her elbows across from me. Her blond hair hung loose about her shoulders, and my breath caught for just a heartbeat.

“Hi there,” she shouted over the music.

“How’re you doing?”

“It’s too loud. Wanna go outside?”

I finished my beer, stood, and gestured toward the door.

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

“Where have you been? We missed you at Lindsay and Caleb’s cookout.”

She stared out over the water toward the boats at their moorings. “I had to go finish up part of the project I’ve been working on.”

“How did it go?”

She rolled one shoulder as if easing a cramp 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?’”

“And what are you going to do next?”

“Take you up on your offer to go sailing,” she said. “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. Plus,” I added, “we’ve gotten used to you hanging around the last six months.”

A brief, sad smile flickered across her face. “Thanks, but I’m finding the idea of a change appealing. I am sorry I never got to see you perform though.”

“You’ll have to come back and visit sometime. I’ll add you to the comp ticket list. We’re doing Noises Off in the fall.”

She looked at me, face gone serious. “You’ve been a good friend since I’ve been here, Jeff. Thanks.”

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

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

“So, why are you thinking of leaving?” I asked quietly, thinking about how quickly she’d become a fixture in our group and lives in the last six months.

“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.”

“That’s too bad. I like who you are now.”

She smiled that melancholy smile again. “I know.” Then she brightened. “What about you? Are you ever going to leave?”

I shrugged. “I’ve left. I’ve come back. Who knows what’s next?” I trailed off and stared out at the boats bobbing at their moorings.

Melanie gave me a soft 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 be a fixture like my grandfather. The town will collapse if he isn’t here shoring it up. Let me know when you want to go sailing, and don’t leave without saying bye.”

“Will do,” she said with a smile, then walked back into the Fid.

Half an hour later, I rolled up the wooded drive to my darkened house. The assorted gables, rooms, porches, and more added on over the last two hundred years appeared a jumble at first in the shadows before resolving themselves into a stylish whole as the clouds lifted their veil from the moon. I strolled down the blue slate walkway my father had installed along the side of the house when I was ten and into the wide backyard.

As I opened the wide sliding door on the back deck, Cuff and Jasmine, my two Siberian huskies, hurled themselves at me with the spasmodic glee of two dogs convinced I would never come home. They romped around me as I walked across lawn to the edge of the Rookery, the granite bluff that stretched north from Grace Harbor toward Canada. 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 or 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, a home that had seen multiple generations of McClernands come and go. I thought about Melanie’s words. Would I ever leave, or would I be eighty-seven and still be here like my grandfather? I whistled for the beasts and turned back toward the house and bed.

I finished my morning run as dawn arrived, circling back into the center of town, having left my truck and gear at the station. Fog shrouded the harbor and streets, the thick mist scattering the red gold of sunrise. All I could see of the waterfront were faint shadows and hear the muffled sounds of lapping waves and the ting-ting of halyards on aluminum masts. No cars rolled through town at this hour. There were no shouts of 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 Café.

“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.”

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

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. 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 returned to 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 gentle 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 woman’s voice from behind me, hidden in the fog and among the sculptures. She was singing the opening words of Gershwin’s “A Foggy Day.” Her voice was rich and velvet smooth, and while not loud, carried through the brightening fog. Shades of Ella Fitzgerald in that voice, I thought. My mother loves Gershwin and Ella. I’d listened to this and other Gershwin songs innumerable times, knew them by heart, and could still hear my mother singing it under her breath as she sat at her desk, deep into some financial prospectus or market analysis.

I turned and peered behind me to see if I could spot the singer. She 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.

For just a moment, I glimpsed purple hiking boots and the bottom half of a pair of shapely walnut-colored calves peeking out beneath the edge of “Heart of the Sea,” the sculpture nearest me. Then, the fog swirled in as she walked away, continuing to sing. I sat back, electing to let the mystery singer fade away. I 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.