Murder on a Yacht: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery

by Penelope Sotheby

  “I’ve been reading Mike’s pages since he began writing the novel,” says Diane. “With the publishers’ permission, Mike asked me to be his editor on this project. I agreed.”

  Darrell stares at her blankly for an instant. Then he stands up quickly, practically pouncing towards the closet. He opens it and finds what he’s after – Diane’s suitcase. He swings it open and lays it on her bed. Forgetting all his manners, he starts grabbing clothes out of the closet and throwing them in the case.

  “Darrell!?! What’s gotten into you???” an alarmed Diane asks.

  A knock comes at the door. “Everything alright in there?” warbles Mrs. Poole from behind the door.

  “Yes!” Diane and Darrell yell at the same time.

  Darrell listens for the sound of Mrs. Poole’s feet going back down the stairs, and then says, “Diane, don’t you see? If the killer murdered Mike because of the book, he or she might know that you are the book’s editor. And if they know that, you may be next on their hit list. I do not want you anywhere near this place!”

  “But—”

  “There is no argument you can make that will subtract from the fact that you might not be safe here. I want you on the very next ferry off this island.”

  But Diane isn’t a former MI6 agent. She isn’t privy to British Secret Service operations. And it wasn’t her that wrote the passages that allude to actual events that some people in power may not want made public. She has just been correcting some basic grammatical errors, the odd typo, and in a few cases has improved phraseology.

  Still, she does know what happened 25 years ago at the border between East and West Berlin. It was a particular incident Mike wrote about. He thought he had been safe including it in a book of fiction. But perhaps he had been wrong.

  Diane wonders though, who’s to say he wasn’t murdered for some completely different reason, like for the classic motives of greed, heartbreak or revenge?

  Chapter 4

  After it travels through a hallway of doors labelled ‘Motive A’ through ‘Z’, Diane’s mind returns to the loft on the top floor of the Puffin’s Nest Bed and Breakfast. Her eyes focus back on the suitcase that Darrell continues to fill with her very own clothing, which she finds only slightly disturbing. It’d be as if her son or nephew, if she had either, were packing her clothes, and she’s nowhere near the state of needing someone to do her packing.

  Before Darrell can open the drawer holding her knickers, Diane says, “You said yourself that I could help by doing what I do best – using my brain to help you with this case.”

  “That was before I knew you were working as the murder victim’s editor,” says Darrell. “And like you said, the book might be the motive.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m in danger, surely.”

  “The killer might still be in the area. Don’t you think that if he knows that the editor of Mike Davies’ book is on the island, he’ll want that editor – you – dead!?!”

  “Ok, there’s no need to blow a fuse,” says Diane, feeling deflated in purpose.

  She agrees to leave the island as long as Darrell lets her finish her own packing.

  Downstairs, Diane informs Mrs. Poole that she is checking out, but that Inspector Darrell Crothers would take over the loft if she has no objections. The inn owner swings her arms in excitement. She’s overjoyed to hear the detective would be staying at none other than the Puffin’s Nest.

  Diane bends down to pick up the items that Mrs. Poole so boisterously knocked to the floor. She stares down at a letter she’s just picked up. It’s one that Mrs. Poole had been writing to her sister who lives in County Durham. It isn’t so much that the sisters write to one another out of fear that the art of letter writing will become extinct – it’s more because neither can stand the other’s voice. They much prefer to communicate by post rather than by telephone.

  “I’ll take that thank you,” Mrs. Poole says, swiping the letter from Diane’s hands.

  “Oh terribly sorry,” says Diane. “Thank you, Mrs. Poole, for your hospitality.”

  Mrs. Poole’s letter has stirred up Diane’s vault of recent memories. Specifically it has brought her attention to what had been an inconspicuous detail, one that the unconscious has collected and has waited for the conscious to catch up. Specifically Diane is remembering the threatening letters that Mike had shown her – the ones that so cruelly addressed him.

  When Diane had held the letters in her own hands, while aboard friend’s yacht, she must have subconsciously held each of the pages up to the sun. She remembers now seeing a faint image, a watermark. And if it is what she envisions now, the watermark is a familiar one.

  She remembers the symbol with wholehearted focus now – a calligraphic CP. Diane knows she’s seen stationary with that same watermark before, and recently too. The CP stands for ‘Copse Publishers’, the name of the publishing house in Birmingham that Mike has been working with.

  The first time Diane read the name, she thought it said ‘Corpse Publishers’. Mike naturally corrected her mistake, explaining the name ‘Copse’ (which means a small wood or thicket of trees) had been chosen to pay tribute to Birmingham’s reputation as a city of many trees and parks.

  The threatening letters sent to her friend were written on stationary from Copse Publishers. That almost certainly means that someone who works at the publishing house, who has read the manuscript, sent Mike the threats. Did that same person kill him?

  Diane stops herself from shouting out what she’s just remembered. She shouldn’t say such things in front of Mrs. Poole, plus Darrell has enough on his plate right now with supervising the forensic team who will be coming to work the scene on the yacht and coordinating with the Barnstaple morgue to receive Dr. Jackson, so he can conduct the formal autopsy.

  At the pier, Diane and Darrell run into Sergeant Golden. He’s recruited the conservationist, Shaun Boyle, to help him transport Mike’s body to the mainland. The corpse is wrapped in an aqua blue tarp, but ingeniously a long piece of rain gutter is sticking out on either end to make the ‘load’ resemble some sort of construction material.

  Still, as soon as Diane sees the mass wrapped in blue, she knows exactly what, or rather who, it is. She becomes weak in the knees and Darrell holds her elbow to keep her from falling. After a couple of long breaths with her eyes closed, Diane regains her composure.

  “Inspector Crothers, Mrs. Dimbleby, this is Shaun Doyle,” says Sergeant Golden. “He’s agreed to help me… you know….”

  “This has put the heart crossways in me,” says Mr. Doyle. “I just can’t believe it. A murder? On Lundy Island!?”

  “Shhhhhh!” Diane, Darrell and Sergeant Golden shush simultaneously. Luckily the couple and the single gentleman also waiting for the ferry seem not to have heard.

  When the ferry arrives, Darrell gives Diane a hug, something he rarely initiates with his older friend and fellow crime solver. He tells her that he will call her at home to give her an update on how the investigation is going.

  Diane follows close behind Sergeant Golden and Mr. Doyle, who manage to carry Mike’s body as if they are seasoned construction workers headed to their next job. Diane sits in the row behind them, and several times during the ferry ride finds herself placing her hand on top of the tarp covering her friend’s body.

  Upon reaching Barnstaple, Diane leaves it up to Sergeant Golden to accompany Mike’s corpse to the morgue. She feels relieved to be in the driver’s seat of her car again – it seems like it has been ages, even though she’s only been away since early yesterday.

  The whole drive back to Apple Mews, Diane’s mind alternates between thinking about who to notify about her friend’s death – as far as she knows, Mike has no living relatives – and Copse Publishers.

  In the past, out of all the staff at the publishing house, she’s only corresponded with Julie Petrie, the publishing house’s executive director, and only by e-mail.

  Diane wonders how tight the security is at a publisher’s o
ffice. It could be possible that someone not even connected to Copse Publishers broke in, read Mike’s manuscript and even used some of the publisher’s stationary to write the threats. This would be an intriguing plot line for my next crime novel, Diane thinks for a brief moment. Her mind quickly shifts to, how dare I think about my friend’s murder in that way right now!

  She suddenly slams on the brakes. The Border Collie in front of her car stops just as quickly. Standing in the middle of the road the dog stares at Diane. If Diane had been lost in thought just a few seconds longer she could have hit the poor dog. The Border Collie stares a moment longer, not with malice in his eyes but concern almost, then finishes crossing the road into an adjacent farmer’s field.

  “I wish you were here, Rufus!” Diane yells aloud. She is so used to taking her canine companion with her everywhere, but she couldn’t have brought him to Lundy Island since sailing was on the books.

  Diane continues the drive, more focused this time, and manages to return to Apple Mews without any other mishaps. As soon as she pulls her car into her driveway, she can hear Rufus barking next door. It seems that he is as excited to see her as she him.

  Diane runs over to Mrs. Oakley’s and knocks, trying not to do so frantically. Mrs. Oakley opens the door, and Rufus bursts out and jumps up to greet his friend and caretaker. Diane wraps her arms around Rufus’ shoulders and nuzzles her nose into his fuzzy back.

  When she stands up, Diane finally notices the new… ‘fur-style’ Rufus is donning. The grey terrier’s hair that normally hangs naturally over his eyes and nose has been tied into an assortment of buns, each held together with a pink bow.

  “Oh my, Rufus, don’t you look dashing,” Diane giggles.

  “I was trying to think of a way to keep his hair clean – it gets in the way when he eats, don’t you think?” says Mrs. Oakley. “Perhaps I got a little carried away.”

  “Nothing wrong with a new style from time to time,” Diane laughs again. “Was he a good boy for you while I was away?”

  “He was at that, although one time he hid my socks on me, he did! He’s a smart one, aren’t you Rufus? A little rascal I suspect too.”

  Mrs. Oakley scratches the terrier behind the ears, sad to see him go. Diane thanks her neighbour for taking care of Rufus and tells her that once she’s settled back in, she’ll have to invite her over for a nice dinner. What she does not tell Mrs. Oakley is that the invitation may have to wait until the case of Mike Davies’ murder is solved.

  Diane quickly brings their things inside and then takes Rufus for a walk. Perhaps she is craving the fresh air and exercise as much as or more than the terrier. Diane is feeling spooked to the bone and needs to try and settle her mind.

  When their feet touch the village green, Diane unclips the leash, allowing Rufus to run free. Diane follows behind quickly. The power-walker pace is helping her angst morph into calm... that is until, whilst coming around the bend, she smacks into her dear friend Albert.

  Diane lets out a squeal, while Albert is more than pleased to see her. Although their relationship is technically platonic, the two retirees are each other’s closest companions and confidants. They each envision, in the back of their minds, that they will marry, although the topic has never been broached aloud.

  Albert immediately breaks out into a spiel about his latest local history project. “I am not certain… but in or around this very spot, is where the very first recorded game of cricket was played!”

  “My stars! The very first game of cricket in the world was right here?!”

  “I didn’t say that, my dear Diane. But the very first game of cricket in Apple Mews was on this spot… or a spot near this spot.”

  Diane laughs quite hard until her laughter turns to crying.

  “Oh, what is it my dear?” Albert asks, as he passes Diane a handkerchief. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Albert places an arm around his friend. When Diane catches her breath, she tells him everything: about what’s happened to Mike aboard his yacht at Lundy Island, about the threatening letters, about the manuscript and her suspicion that it is the motive.

  “You have to promise not to share this with anybody, Albert,” Diane says quietly.

  “Of course I won’t. But what can I do to help?”

  “You’ve already done it,” says Diane with a smile. “I feel better having told you. And now I know what I should do next.”

  Diane wishes Albert luck with his history tour of the game of cricket and reminds him of their upcoming ‘mead and mystery’ get-together. She whistles for Rufus to come, reattaches his leash, and quickly walks back home.

  After filling Rufus’ water bowl, Diane turns on her computer and Googles ‘Copse Publishers’ to look up its phone number. Although it’s Sunday afternoon, she’s decided to call the executive director anyway. She’ll leave a message on Mrs. Petrie’s voicemail and that way it will be there waiting for her first thing tomorrow. It’s crucial that Diane get a hold of her as soon as possible. And she doesn’t want to send the director a message to her work e-mail address, because who knows who will be snooping in the office today.

  As she listens to the ringtone, Diane tries to mentally prepare exactly what she’ll say on Mrs. Petrie’s voicemail. But instead of hearing “You’ve reached the voicemail of Julie Petrie…,” somebody picks up after just two rings.

  “Hello, Copse Publishers.”

  “Um… yes… um… I’d like to speak to Julie Petrie please.”

  “This is she.”

  “I didn’t expect that you’d be in the office today. I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you. My name is Diane Dimbleby.”

  “Oh Diane! It’s so nice to finally speak to you. I’m such a big fan of your latest book. And you’ve been doing a smashing job editing Mike’s book.”

  “Mrs. Petrie—”

  “Please, call me Julie.”

  “Julie, I have some terrible news.”

  Diane tells Julie that Mike Davies is dead. The publisher is stunned. Both women remain quiet for some time until Julie lets out a long sigh.

  “I just can’t believe he’s dead,” she says. “Still, if I look at it from a business point of view, this is a blessing in disguise. This being his last book and published posthumously means its sales will surpass all projections!”

  Although the publisher’s commentary makes Diane cringe slightly, she has to agree. A dead author is like a dead painter – their works are more valuable once they pass away. Nevertheless, this is a murder, and solving it is more important than talking about sales figures.

  “I liked the fellow though,” says Julie. “He was a bit odd, remote really, but there was something quite endearing about him.”

  “Julie, there’s more,” says Diane. She explains that Mike has been killed under very suspicious circumstances, and whatever information Julie has about Mike and his manuscript might be most helpful to Detective Crothers.

  “And you say he received the threats after he submitted the final draft to us?” Julie asks.

  “Yes,” Diane says. She does not tell the publisher that it appears the threatening letters were written on the publisher’s stationary. Who knows? Julie Petrie could even be the author of the vile threats.

  “Can you make it to Birmingham tomorrow? Why don’t you come by my office so we can chat to see if I have anything helpful to offer? Say, 10am?”

  “That’s fine,” says Diane. “I really should bring Detective Crothers with me, being his investigation and all. Is that alright with you?”

  “See you both tomorrow morning. Goodnight Diane.”

  Not only should Darrell be there, but Diane would feel a lot safer with him there too. Knowing what she knows about the watermark on the threatening letters, the publishing house could be a danger zone. Now to somehow make sure the inspector can leave Lundy Island and make it to Birmingham for 10 tomorrow morning.

  Diane takes out her wallet and pulls out a folded piece of paper that Sergeant Golden ha
d given her. It has the number of the satellite phone that Golden has generously lent Darrell for the duration of his time on the island. It was mighty smart of Golden to do so and to share the number with Diane. She dials the number, hoping Darrell still has the phone with him.

  “Inspector Darrell Crothers.”

  “Darrell, it’s Diane.”

  “Diane, is everything alright?”

  “Oh yes… fine… fine… is there any chance you can be in Birmingham tomorrow at 10 am?”

  “Oh Diane… the forensic team has just arrived to finally process the yacht. They might be able to finish by tonight but…”

  “I’ve arranged for us to meet the executive director at Mike’s publisher’s office.”

  “Isn’t that a little premature?”

  “Not if the threatening letters were written on the publisher’s stationary.”

  “Diane!? Why didn’t you say anything before?”

  “I remembered it later and then when I did you were so busy organizing this and that…”

  Diane tells the inspector that the threatening letters should be inside the cabin on the yacht, although she isn’t sure where. Darrell pokes his head into the cabin and asks one of the forensic investigators if they came across any typed letters of a threatening nature. The investigator says they haven’t, but that they are not finished processing the scene yet.

  “The killer could have also taken them,” Darrell and Diane say at the same time.

  “But the cabin wasn’t ransacked, and it didn’t even appear to be rummaged through,” says Diane.

  Darrell then tells Diane that he’s already talked to Dr. Jackson about his autopsy on Mike’s body. He says a severe blow to the head, probably from a large rock or a similar type of object, was the cause of death. He says Golden and a couple of constables from the mainland are searching the area just to see if they can find a rock with any evidence on it.

  “So Golden came back, did he?” Diane says jovially, while trying to ignore Darrell’s statements about a ‘large rock’, ‘blood’ and ‘’hair.