Murder at the Beach: Bouchercon 2014 Anthology Read online

  ‘You found her?’ asked Jake.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Don’t rush me, sir. Let me tell you how I went about it.’

  ‘I just want the result.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to be patient,’ said Dowling, determined not to be robbed of his moment in the spotlight. ‘I’ve worked long and hard on your behalf, Mr Wyman.’

  ‘That’s what I pay you for.’

  ‘Well, I’m ready to claim the bonus you promised.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ snapped Jake. ‘If this turns out to be another blind alley, I’ll kick you out of here without another penny and find someone better.’

  Dowling was indignant. ‘There is nobody better.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘You had to sack the people you employed before me. They never even got a whiff of your wife. I was on to her at once.’ Seeing the look in Jake’s eyes, he went on quickly. ‘The agent gave her away,’ he said. ‘I reasoned that sooner or later she’d meet Mrs Wyman face to face. All I had to do was to wait and watch. Melanie Fry is a cunning old bag. In case she was being followed, she changed trains three times to shake off pursuit. But she was no match for me. I stuck to her like a limpet—except she didn’t see or feel me, of course. I was Melanie Fry’s shadow.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘She went to Exeter.’

  ‘Did she meet my wife?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Dowling. ‘First of all, she called on another of her clients, a woman who writes mysteries under the pseudonym of A.J. Hillier. Her real name is quite different. According to her neighbour, the books are crap but they’re the kind of crap that sells. Anyway,’ he added with a sniff, ‘most people would have thought they’d reached the end of the line. Literary agent visits client—nothing suspicious there. But I’ve got a second sense where these things are concerned, you see. It felt like a deliberate ruse to me. So I bought a cup of coffee in the bar opposite and bided my time. Eventually, out she came. After a good look round to make sure nobody was watching her, she walked back to the railway station to fulfil the real purpose of her visit. I caught the same train.’

  ‘Where did it take you?’

  ‘There’s a little coastal village, thirty miles south. Melanie Fry walked to a cottage near the shore. A woman let her in and they talked for hours.’ He thrust out his chest. ‘I’ve reason to believe the woman in question was Mrs Wyman.’

  ‘What’s she calling herself this time?’

  ‘Enid Goodband—that’s what they told me in the pub, anyway.

  Jake was livid. ‘My mother’s maiden name was Enid Goodband,’ he said, eyes ablaze. ‘How dare she? That’s a terrible thing to do.’

  ‘At least, it proves it must be her,’ said Dowling. ‘Nobody else could have come up with a name like that. On the other hand, Mrs Wyman—or Goodband, as they all know her—doesn’t look anything like the photos you showed me. That’s what put doubts in my mind at first. Maybe I’d got the wrong person. Then I saw the way she said goodbye to her agent. They were like conspirators, hugging each other and grinning stupidly because they believed they’d got away with it. That’s when I knew for certain I’d hit the jackpot. It was Mrs Wyman, as large as life.’ He took out his mobile phone and clicked it a few times. A gallery of photographs came into view. ‘There she is, sir.’

  Taking the phone from him, Jake studied the woman embracing Melanie Fry. At first glance, she didn’t look anything like his wife. Closer examination, however, revealed a clear resemblance. The woman was younger, slimmer and more attractive than Selina but it was undoubtedly her. Jake felt a sudden lurch. He now had to ask a question that had tormented him ever since she’d fled. In running away from him, had his wife been running towards another man?

  ‘Does she live alone?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir.’

  Jake’s heart sank. ‘There’s someone else in the cottage?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dowling, ‘there’s this bleeding great Alsatian.’

  Freedom had had a remarkable effect on Selina. She felt younger and fitter than she’d ever been. She ran along the beach every morning and swam daily in the sea. She exuded a sense of good health. Deprived by Jake of her chance to play tennis, she atoned by inventing her own variation of the game, using her racquet to hit the ball hard along the wet sand so that Rex could charge off to retrieve it. They spent hours playing together. It made Selina feel truly alive. Her new-found vitality was reflected in her work. Her novels had always been well written, beautifully crafted and filled with the surging passion that had become her trademark. But there was something else now. After reading the first draft of the latest romance, her agent had remarked on it. There was an added zest, a profounder depth and an increased resonance. Selina was pushing out the boundaries of her talent with impressive results.

  That day followed the usual sequence. Before breakfast, she had a run along the beach, played a tennis match against Rex, had a bracing swim with the dog beside her in the water then returned to her cottage for a shower. During the meal, Selina considered the improvements she could make to what she believed would be her best ever novel. It was not long before she was sitting at her desk, immersed in her work and letting the hours drift gently by. Nobody came, rang or contacted her by email. Cocooned from the outside world, she was able to work at her own pace. Nothing else mattered. As far as Selina was concerned, her husband was a million miles away.

  Jake Wyman had caught a train to take him to south Devon. He, too, had contrived a disguise. Instead of his customary impeccable suit, he was now wearing the sort of anonymous casual clothing that allowed him to pass for a holidaymaker. Nobody gave him a second look. By the time he reached the village, light was fading. Set apart from the rest of the housing, Selina’s cottage was exactly where George Dowling had told him it would be. Jake was at once thrilled and sobered, delighted he’d found the runaway at last but stung by the thought that his wife preferred to live alone in such a tiny house when she could have enjoyed the luxury of their mansion.

  His immediate problem was the dog. Dowling had forewarned him so Jake had come prepared. He studied the cottage through a pair of binoculars and saw the animal pacing the garden before settling down on a patch of grass. After waiting until shadows had lengthened, Jake moved stealthily in.

  Selina was so engrossed in her revision that she lost all track of time. When she saw how late it was, she scolded herself for leaving Rex outside and was surprised he hadn’t been barking to be let in. Unlocking the back door, she expected the dog to come bounding up to her but there was no sign of him. When she stepped into the garden, she was grabbed from behind and pushed roughly back into the cottage by her husband. Jake slammed the door shut behind him.

  ‘Hello, Selina,’ he said, icily calm. ‘How are you?’

  She was aghast. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to reclaim some lost property—my wife.’ As Selina glanced towards the back door, he grinned. ‘Don’t worry. The dog won’t interrupt us. I gave him a tasty meal laced with a sedative. He’ll sleep for a long time.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my love, but I can’t do that.’

  ‘I don’t want to live with you, Jake.’

  ‘That’s a decision only I can make.’

  Selina’s blood froze. She’d known that the confrontation would eventually come but she was unequal to it. Until now, she’d drawn great strength from Rex. He was her friend and protector. She relied on him totally. But he was no help to her now. Making an effort to regain her composure, she reminded herself she was not defenceless. Since they were in the kitchen, she had several weapons within easy reach. What she lacked was the courage to reach out for one of them.

  ‘You used my mother’s name,’ he said, clicking his tongue. ‘That was very naughty of you, Selina.’

  ‘It was the first thing that came into my mind.’

  ‘Don�
�t lie to me. You chose it deliberately. I daresay you had a good laugh when you passed yourself off as Enid Goodband. Well, I don’t think it was funny and neither would my mother, if she were still alive. You’ll have to be punished.’

  ‘Get out of here, Jake.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to do so and I’ll take you with me.’

  Selina stiffened. ‘No, you won’t.’

  ‘Who’s going to stop me?’

  ‘I am,’ she cried, snatching a carving knife from the table and brandishing it. ‘I’m serious, Jake. It’s all over. I’ll never go back to the old life.’

  ‘Selina!’ he said, spreading his arms. ‘You’d never harm me, would you? I’m your husband. We belong together.’

  ‘Keep back!’ she ordered as he took a step towards her.

  ‘What’s come over you?’

  ‘I finally found a way to escape that monster I was married to.’

  ‘But I gave you everything.’

  ‘It was always on your terms.’

  ‘They can easily be arranged to suit your wishes.’

  ‘You’re a control freak. You only ever have what suits you.’

  ‘I’ll be a good husband to you, Selina. I promise.’

  ‘Good husbands don’t abuse their wives. They don’t treat them like a prisoner. They don’t go chasing after other women.’ He was startled. ‘I’ve known about them for ages, Jake. You’re not the only one who can hire a private detective.’

  ‘Those affairs were meaningless,’ he said, flicking a dismissive hand. ‘They don’t affect what we have, Selina. I need you. I want you.’ As he took another step forward, she jabbed his hand with the knife and drew blood. Jake was enraged. ‘Right,’ he yelled, lifting a kitchen chair up, ‘let’s play it your way, shall we? Come on. We can fight on equal terms now.’

  ‘I’m calling the police,’ she decided.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he said, using the chair to knock the telephone off the work surface and onto the floor. ‘We don’t want any interruptions. Now what are you going to do—come quietly or keep waving that knife at me?’

  ‘I’m staying here.’

  But there was a quaver in her voice. Selina’s courage was being sapped. Though she’d rehearsed the scene many times, she now discovered her part had been over-written. Instead of being able to frighten him away, she was in serious danger. Her knife would not deter him. Only a gun would do that and the revolver was in the bedside drawer. Selina would never reach it in time. The shotgun was in the cupboard next door. Her one hope lay in getting to that and turning it on him. After thrusting the knife at him once more, she dashed through the door to the living room and slammed it behind her, rushing to the cupboard and flinging it open. Jake was after her at once. He came into the room with the chair held high, as if about to smash it down on her head. Then he saw the shotgun pointing at him. The sight made him step backwards involuntarily.

  ‘I always keep it loaded,’ she warned.

  ‘You’d never shoot me, Selina, surely?’

  ‘Put that chair down and get out.’

  ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, hurt and bewildered. ‘Was I really such a monster?’ His tone softened. ‘Let me make it up to you, darling. You can have whatever you want whenever you want it. I’ll swear to that. Listen,’ he went on, lowering the chair, ‘I’ll build that tennis court you always talked about. I know how much you love the game. We’ll have tennis parties. You can invite whoever you choose.’

  ‘I simply want to be left alone,’ she said, keeping the shotgun on him.

  He shrugged. ‘Very well—you win, Selina. I’ll be off.’

  Pretending to turn, he suddenly hurled the chair at her and knocked the gun from her hands. Selina let out a scream of horror. As she tried to pick up the weapon, he stabbed a foot down on it and cuffed her across the face, making her reel against the front door and bang her head on the hard timber. She was back in an all too familiar situation, cowering in terror and losing the urge to resist. Another blow rallied her. Gathering up her strength, she unlocked the front door and charged through it into the gloom beyond. Selina had no idea where she was going and no breath to call out for help. All she knew was Jake was after her, bent on revenge. Selina was alone and unarmed. She had no means of defence or of summoning aid. The panic button and the cell phone were back in the cottage.

  Then she felt something lapping against her feet and realised her situation was not as dire as she’d thought. The tide was coming in fast. She had a murder weapon, after all. Jake was no swimmer and the effort of chasing her was taking its toll on him. She could hear him grunting and wheezing. Though she was fast enough to outrun him, Selina slowed down to let him think he was gaining on her. They were splashing through water that was rising inexorably. Because she ran on the beach every day, she knew exactly where they were and she was aware of the treacherous undercurrents in the sea. Jake, on the other hand, was running blind, powered by the desire to catch, subdue and punish a wife who’d dared to desert him. Even when the water was up to his knees, he plodded on regardless.

  Minutes later, putting in a final spurt, he got within yards of her. But it was too late. Selina dived forward into the incoming waves and began to swim expertly. All her husband could do was to stand waist-deep in the sea and wonder where she was going. Oblivious to danger and gasping with exhaustion, he went after her with murder in his heart. Selina, however, now had a watery accomplice. The tide had come in so quickly that her husband was trapped. Jake might overpower her but he could never withstand the might of the sea. As he plunged madly forward, the waves thickened, the foam spattered his face, the undertow strengthened and his legs turned to jelly. The next moment, he was swept off his feet and fighting for his life. A mouthful of salt water gagged him.

  When Selina swam past him, he was floating helplessly out to sea.

  The body was washed up a week later. Selina was feeding Rex in the garden of the Wyman mansion when contacted by the police. Informed of Jake’s gruesome death, she expressed great surprise.

  ‘Whatever was he doing in the sea?’ she asked, innocently. ‘My husband was such a poor swimmer.’

  Back to TOC

  Daisy and the Desperado

  Bill Cameron

  “Hey, you still got your gun?”

  For a second I thought Marcy was talking to someone else. But there was only one customer in the shop, a high school girl camped out at the table beside the fish tank, nursing an iced caramel latte and scribbling furiously in a notebook. Uncommon Cup Coffee House was so dead that overheated July afternoon I’d resorted to cleaning the pastry display—it was that or take a nap in it.

  “Why? You thinking about robbing a liquor store?”

  “That’s a thought.” Marcy sat on a stool behind the counter and stared out the front window, turbulence in her eyes.

  It was a look I recognized.

  “It’s your Grandma Daisy, isn’t it?”

  Her silence was all the answer I needed. I sat back on my heels, the pastry case forgotten. Daisy Morgan was notorious among the cops of Portland’s Southeast Precinct. Or legendary, depending on who you asked.

  “You better tell me.”

  “Oh, Skin...” She let out a long, slow breath. “I think Old Long wants to kill her.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time. Once or twice, I’d even considered it myself. Hell, my first encounter with Grandma Daisy was at gunpoint.

  Not mine.

  Hers.

  It was during my patrol days, a typical call. Report of an attempted break-in, possible domestic disturbance. I assumed it was some ne’er-do-well showing up at his ex’s house demanding whatever the hell these dirtbags think they’re owed. The call came in just after midnight, the Drunking Hour, from a neighbor who didn’t appreciate all the damn noise. Under the community policing model in force in those days, S.O.P. was de-escalate and defuse.

  But this time it wasn’t a girlfriend or wife—or raging ex—waiting for
me when I pulled up. It was a fellow named George Long, and he was covered in multi-color, fluorescent paint spatter.

  “Hey, man, you gonna arrest that woman?”

  “What woman?”

  He gestured wildly at the dark house next door—windows closed, shades drawn, porch light off. “The kook who shot me.” At five paces, his beer breath measured at least point-one-five.

  I looked him over. Fiftyish with thinning blond hair and a wispy neckbeard. His cargo pants were unzipped and his shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, revealing a tattooed unicorn on his chest. The rest of him was a Day-Glo rainbow. “With a paint gun?”

  “Course with a paint gun! You think I done this to myself?”

  In Portland’s Hawthorne neighborhood in the mid-90s, there was no telling what a fellow might do to himself. “How about you start at the beginning?”

  To his credit, he kept it short. “I was coming home from the Addition and when I walked past her house she ambushed me from her porch.”

  Sewickley’s Addition was a bar a few blocks away on Hawthorne—I’ve busted up more brawls there than I can count. “Have you been drinking, Mr. Long?”

  “You don’t go to the Addition for the atmosphere, man. Doesn’t mean she can just up and bust a cap in my ass.”

  “Shotgunned by Skittles is more like it.” He actually chuckled at that. “Why don’t you go inside and get cleaned up? I’ll talk to your neighbor.”

  “Watch yourself. She’s not called Crazy Daisy for nothing.”

  Crazy Daisy didn’t want to open the door, even after I identified myself as a peace officer. When she finally did, the fact I was a cop didn’t stop her from saying hello with the barrel of her paintball gun.

  “Who said you could come up on my porch?” Her voice was a growl out of a cavern of shadows beyond a barred security gate. From somewhere inside, I could hear the burble of a television.