The Seaside Detective Agency - The funniest Cozy Mystery you'll read this year (The Isle of Man Cozy Mystery Series Book 1)

by J C Williams

  “Does that even work, anyway?” he said in a hushed voice. “We’d be better hiring a boat and weighing them down with concrete boots? Look, I need to go, I’ll be back at the house in about an hour or so. No, I won’t forget the shovel, I’m not stupid,” he said.

  There was a pause. And, then, “What? No, I don’t have your… Why would I have your…? Mikey, look, a man does not touch another man’s weapon. It’s just not done. It’s a violation of… okay… okay… right. Exactly. Yeah, I’ll see you in about an hour or so.”

  Joey pressed his hand to his forehead. “Fuck this,” he said. “Fuck this,” he said, once again. The appearance of a wandering flamingo had the same effect on Joey as marijuana did on a dopehead. He could feel the stress oozing out of his body, just then, but only momentarily, until the phone rumbled in his pocket once again.

  There was no peace for Joey. He ignored it. He doubled back on the path he walked up earlier, passing the penguins on the way. He grimaced for a moment as something poking up caught him sharply in the ribs. He shuffled with his belt and his crotch to adjust it. An undernourished chap, wearing a yellow high-viz jacket and pushing a wheelbarrow, approached Joey at speed as soon as he observed him seemingly getting too friendly with himself in front of the penguin enclosure — but soon stopped when the scale of Joey became all too apparent.

  Joey continued to struggle. It wouldn’t fit back where it should be, and he had grown tired of hiding it anyway. It was time.

  “Bastard,” he said, and he began undoing his jacket, one button at a time, in a deliberate fashion — causing the scrawny park keeper to retreat further back.

  Joey took the cattle prod, unsheathing it from its anchor, breathing in so as to release it from the grip of his trouser belt, and held it aloft like Excalibur.

  The prod — his partner’s weapon of choice — had served them well on a number of occasions, despite Joey’s own distaste for it. Today he looked at it with utter contempt. Not just because it’d chaffed his gentle areas through the constant rubbing while concealed — How did Mikey ever tolerate it? Maybe, to him, this was part of its charm? — but because it was the very symbol of a life from which he wanted out.

  He held the prod in his right hand, took one final look at it, and then lobbed it over the glass barrier like a hand grenade into the foot-deep water of the penguin enclosure.

  It was liberating, but even he knew that you didn’t just walk out like you would in an office job. It wasn’t that simple, unfortunately. And if he was told to complete a job, he had to, without any hesitation, complete the job. Otherwise, it would be he who’d find himself on the receiving end.

  Joey stomped toward the park keeper. “Can I buy that off you?” he said in reference to the shovel poking out of the man’s wheelbarrow.

  “Take it!” came the reply, as the shovel was handed over with shaking hands. “It’s my spare one anyway. I don’t need it,” the man offered, nervously.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any lime in there by any chance, would you?” pressed Joey, peering into the mobile workplace.

  “Sorry,” the man replied weakly, turning even paler.

  “Don’t worry about,” Joey replied. “I’ll manage.” And he turned to leave.

  Joey smiled to himself as the symbol of a world he no longer wanted floated gently around the pool. He placed the discarded five-pound note into the collection tin in the reception area on the way out.

  Unfortunately, for a compassionate animal lover, Joey’s act of defiance had left an undesired effect. Several penguins had apparently assumed the foreign object in their pool to be some formerly unseen fishy treat. The sound of a young girl screaming carried on the wind as she watched in horror the tableau before her. The Humboldt penguins, as it turned out, lay floating on their back, with their muscles convulsing, one after another, as they each, in turn, attempted to consume the queerly-shaped fish.

  But the penguins weren’t dead. At least, not yet. The voltage in the pool caused their flippers to flap like a hummingbird’s wings, and it was entirely possible that the Isle of Man Wildlife Park would be witness to the first flight of a flightless bird. One last hurrah, perhaps, until it all came crashing down.

  Joey remained blissfully unaware of any of this, as he pulled out of the carpark with a somewhat contented look upon his face.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Family Business

  S o, you’re in the family business also?” asked Abby with a sneer.

  “What?” snapped Madeline in response.

  “The forgery business. Does your creative talent extend to reproductive artworks?”

  Madeline rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, that’s very clever,” she said. She paced the impressively polished floor — the sort of floor a small boy’s knees would be attracted to, like a magnet — as she fidgeted with one of the white, wooden sash windows which flooded the room with glorious sunshine.

  Of course the glorious sunshine was of no advantage to them, being, as they were, held against their will inside the room.

  “It’s no use,” said Abby. “I’ve tried them all. They’re all locked. All sealed up as tight as a duck’s arse.”

  “There must be some way out of here,” Madeline responded. “What about the fireplace?”

  “What about the fireplace?” said Abby. “Do I look like Santa Claus?”

  “You’re not very jolly, that’s for sure,” Madeline remarked.

  “I am so! I’m perfectly bloody jolly given the right circumstance! But this is not it!” insisted Abby. “And how are either of us meant to get up that chimney, besides?”

  Madeline’s cheeks flushed. “At least I’m trying to come up with a plan!” she said, throwing a cautious glance to the shaven-headed thug in an ill-fitting suit, sat on a wooden chair, in front of the only door. The man sneered over the top of his newspaper and chuckled at the dilemma faced by his two charges.

  “Is the newspaper for looks, then?” Abby called over in frustration. “As I’m sure an ape like you would be more suited to a paint-by-numbers book. If there are any tricky words in that paper you can’t work out, be sure to shout, and we’ll draw you a pretty picture!”

  The shaven ape did not reply. He was used to these sorts of remonstrations, and was immune to their effect.

  Madeline chuckled. “No, I’m not, by the way.”

  “Not what?” replied Abby, performing a series of stretching exercises.

  Madeline mirrored her stretching, not only to relieve the tedium but because they’d been stuck in the same room for hours. The man, once again, peered over his newspaper at the ladies exercising, although with a modicum of discretion.

  “You asked if I was in the family business. I’m not. My sister inherited the artistic flair. I’m a vet.”

  When she heard this, Abby’s demeanour softened. “Ah,” she said. “Then I’m sorry for being so curt with you. I just assumed, well… you know.”

  Madeline jogged leisurely, on the spot. “It’s fine. I didn’t even know about my sister’s… alter-ego… until a man appeared in my surgery and insisted I come to his car to look at his injured dog. Next thing I know, I’m on a private jet surrounded by the cast of the Sopranos.”

  “How was the dog?” asked the concerned-looking henchman.

  “What?” asked Madeline.

  “The dog,” he repeated, lowering his paper. “Was it okay?”

  Madeline looked at Abby and then back to the seated brute. She sensed a glimmer of compassion there that she thought might prove useful. “He was fine,” she said softly. “Just fine.” She used the interaction as an invitation for further conversation.

  “So,” said Madeline, moving closer to him. She pushed her elbows into her sides in an attempt to make her womanly charms appear rather more pert. “What’s your name, big fella?” she asked.

  “Harry,” the big fella replied in a barely-audible American Southern drawl. He added an extra syllable to the word, as Southerners often did. He remai
ned seated, staring directly at Madeline’s chest, mesmerised, like a charmed snake.

  Madeline did little to avert his gaze. “You must work out,” she said, sounding like a ten-dollar hooker. “To get such an impressive physique, I mean.”

  “I guess,” Harry with-the-extra-syllable said, eyes fixed.

  Abby smirked as Harry lowered the newspaper further, down to his crotch, as if it were now serving a purpose not originally intended.

  “Don’t worry, Harry. I’m a lot friendlier than the other one over there,” Madeline said, nodding over to Abby. “A girl’s got to know how to make the best of a situation, doesn’t she?” she purred.

  Harry coughed, as if trying to snap himself out of a trance. “Back off,” he ordered sternly, surly henchman persona resumed. “I know what you’re doing,”

  “That’s because you’re an intelligent man,” said Madeline, piling on the flattery, using every weapon at her disposal.

  “Stop it,” said Harry, getting flustered. “And get back over there,” he said, pointing. “I really mean it!”

  “Fine. Be that way!” Madeline returned, and she walked back over to Abby. The pair of them continued to size up their surroundings, but the only viable exit remained covered by a twenty-stone thug.

  “How long are we going to be held?” demanded Abby impertinently. There was no reply, so she tried again. “I said, when are we going to be let go?”

  Harry’s excessive blood flow seemed to have returned to normal, allowing him to regain some focus. “You honestly think I’ve got my finger on the pulse of this operation?” he said with a gruff belly laugh. “I’ve been following orders, sitting in a practically-empty room watching you two for the last hour. Does that sound to you like a man who’s been sitting included around a boardroom table or something, deciding when to let you two free?” To the frustration of Abby and Madeline, the belly laugh continued.

  Madeline scoured the room. “Why don’t we hit him with our chair?” whispered Madeline, in the absence of any other identifiable weapon.

  “And then what?” said Abby. “Besides, if we hit him with a chair it’d just bounce off him. Look at the size of him! He’s built like a brick shithouse. Don’t think I’m raining on your ideas, but if by some miracle we managed to knock him out, there are several more just like him on the other side of that door,” she said, motioning.

  It was deathly still apart from the periodic noise of Harry turning pages. The silence was deafening. Abby had never been good with bodily noises and the sound of Harry’s nose whistling each time he breathed was boring into her skull, like a trepanning drill.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said through gritted teeth. Abby took a deep breath to compose herself and watched out over the perfectly manicured gardens. Under different circumstances, she could see herself sat under the distant oak tree on a picnic blanket with a glass of something cold, having her feet rubbed by an attractive man in a nice suit as she absorbed the surroundings.

  The momentary daydream dalliance was shattered by the return of the melodic nose whistling in regular time, near the door. It had stopped only momentarily, it seemed, only in preparation for the next movement.

  Madeline’s gaze, however, remained on the oak tree. She squinted to make out details as two men shifted at pace through the gardens. She wouldn’t have given them consideration, except these two were different. Rather than merely a set of muscles atop a pair of legs, these two had a sleek elegance about them.

  She stood, under the guise of continuing the stretches Abby had initiated earlier, and moved closer to the window. She dipped her head and squinted again, trying to focus on them. Madeline pressed one hand to her forehead and the other rested on her hip and tried to make herself visible by performing a series of sporadic hip thrusts that gave the impression she was having some sort of episode.

  “She alright?” asked Harry, with little genuine concern.

  Abby shrugged her shoulders and moved to join her by the window. “What are you doing?” she asked. “You look like my dad trying to dance at a wedding.”

  “Down there,” said Madeline, discreetly nodding.

  Abby leaned forward, confused. “What?” she whispered.

  “Those two men,” Madeline replied, “I don’t know what’s going on, but they’re different from the rest. Something’s happening. Whether it’s a good or bad thing, I don’t know.”

  Abby looked hard. “Holy shit,” she said after a moment. “I recognise those two men from a website!”

  “O… kay… Well, that was certainly unexpected. Whatever floats your boat, I suppose,” Madeline replied, backing slowly away from Abby and returning to her seat.

  “No,” said Abby, reaching out for Madeline’s arm and tugging on her sleeve. “You don’t understand. Those two men came to see my friend, Sam. He showed me their pictures on their website.”

  Madeline was still wary, but she was listening.

  “Madeline,” said Abby. “Those two men are from the FBI.”

  “O… kay…” Madeline said again. “And I think I see Spider-Man crawling up the wall to rescue us…?”

  Abby moved closer. “I’m being completely serious. And I’m not crazy! They’re FBI.”

  Before Abby could elaborate further, a key turning in the door caused Harry to jump to his feet.

  “Boss wants them two,” said yet another meathead, another in a seemingly endless conveyor-belt supply of hired thugs. “Make it snappy.”

  “Snappy is the only way I make it,” Harry assured his brother-in-arms.

  Apparently satisfied with this response, the other brute returned from whence he came.

  Abby’s mouth went dry as Harry advanced menacingly towards them. For Harry’s part, advancing menacingly was something he’d perfected to an art. There were few things he did exceptionally well, but this was certainly one of those things.

  “What are you going to do with us?” Abby demanded, defiantly, putting on a brave face.

  But Harry with-the-extra-syllable did not respond. He was too busy doing what he did well. He was not finished with the menacing advancement. Not quite yet, at least. It was his favourite part of the job, and he didn’t want it to end too quickly.

  Abby’s heart raced, but the adrenaline rush also ensured that she was not entirely without a certain kind of courage. She wasn’t going without a fight. And, once within range, she took the opportunity to kick Harry forcefully in the shin.

  For a man of his bulk, he screamed like a young girl as he raised his right leg, rubbing it frantically. He hopped on one foot, and, then, every time he landed, the thud caused the expensive-looking light fittings overhead to swing gently.

  Abby snatched up the newspaper and rolled it tightly before using it to poke Harry in the eye. He barked in pain, shifting his soothing hands between his two injuries.

  “That’s dirty pool!” he wailed, before the tears from the jab to his eye blinded him. “You’re not supposed to do that!”

  Abby turned to grab Madeline, but Madeline was not without her own devices and had taken up the chair and swung it full force against Harry’s standing leg. Poor bloke didn’t have a chance. His spare leg was swept from beneath him and he fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes. A very large sack of potatoes.

  “Let’s go,” said Madeline, holding the broken remnants of the chair in her hand as Harry whimpered on the floor. He was in no condition to give chase.

  “Which way?” said Abby.

  “Shit. I don’t know. It all looks the same. But we need to do something, anything, since it probably won’t take Harry long to recover.”

  Abby frantically tried a hall window, but it wouldn’t budge. “If the FBI are about to come smashing their way in, bearing in mind who they’re here to arrest, we need to make sure we’re not caught in the crossfire. We can’t go that way,” she said, pointing to the rear of the corridor. “That’s where I was brought in.”

  They moved through the generous corridor
with stealth, cautious about making noise on the wooden floor.

  “Which one?” said Madeline, when they’d come to two identical-looking doors.

  Abby moved close, pressing her ear in turn against each surface.

  “I can’t hear voices behind either of them,” she said. Presented with a 50/50 proposition, she offered, “Let’s try this one?” She said this with her ear still very much attached to the door. “But don’t make a sound,” she admonished.

  Unbeknownst to Abby, Madeline had already reached behind her and pressed down on the silver door handle. With Abby’s weight still resting against the door, it nearly came off its hinges as it flew open and smashed against the wall. Abby staggered forward but the momentum of her body moved quicker than her legs, which struggled to keep up, and it was a certainty which would win the race. Abby's face planted the floor as she collapsed, unceremoniously, in a heap.

  “What happened to don’t make a sound?” whispered Madeline.

  Abby groaned as she tried to right herself. Her knickers were on display to the world, so with a quick adjustment, she pulled herself up with the assistance of an intricately-carved wooden table. The unexpected motion caused the monumental vase which rested on top of it to stagger like a drunken sailor. It was the size of a small child and quivered precariously. Abby and Madeline both lurched forward and grabbed one of the delicate handles, precluding it from certain demise.

  Madeline let go, allowing Abby to place it carefully back on the table, but, before she could, Harry’s considerable frame came hopping through the door, with a trickle of blood running down his chin.

  Harry may not have been the brightest star at the rodeo, but as soon as he saw the vase in Abby’s hand he knew what was coming.

  He went crashing to the floor once again, with remnants of antique vase now embedded in his forehead.

  Abby stood holding the vase handle — all that remained after the impact. “Harry’s really not having a good day,” she said, tossing it to the floor beside him. “I very nearly feel sorry for him.” She said, ushering Madeline through yet another stately room.