Table of Contents
The Ellie Haskell Mysteries from Dorothy Cannell
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
The Ellie Haskell Mysteries from Dorothy Cannell
THE THIN WOMAN
DOWN THE GARDEN PATH
THE WIDOW’S CLUB
MUM’S THE WORD
FEMMES FATAL
HOW TO MURDER YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW
HOW TO MURDER THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS
THE SPRING CLEANING MURDERS
THE TROUBLE WITH HARRIET
BRIDESMAIDS REVISITED
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING ERNESTINE
WITHERING HEIGHTS
GOODBYE, MS CHIPS
SHE SHOOTS TO CONQUER
SEA GLASS SUMMER
Dorothy Cannell
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2012
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2012 by Cannell & Company.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Cannell, Dorothy.
Sea glass summer.
1. Maine—Fiction. 2. Love stories.
I. Title
813.5'4-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-293-1 (Epub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8183-0 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-441-7 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For Jordan Thomas, who inspired me to write about a boy with a heart of gold who is also the world’s best potato peeler.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my friend Lesley Perry for introducing me to village life.
One
Look to the ocean for an eternal constant, forever new. Such was Sarah Draycott’s thought as she stood one May morning gazing out of French windows at a lawn that sloped down to a flight of wooden steps. She could not see them from this distance, but just knowing they were there, her steps, leading down to the beach, brought a surge of proprietary delight. It was hard to believe this was not a childhood vacation, of the sort that included a bucket and spade. As of today she was a resident of Sea Glass. She had all the time in the world to spend selecting flat stones to send skipping over the waves, or clambering among the rocks searching for sea glass. For surely any wholehearted inhabitant of a village with that name must start a collection.
Those French windows brought welcome light into the kitchen. Sarah filled the red enamel kettle she had brought with her from Chicago, set it on the front burner of the stove and ignited the gas flame. Her first domestic act in her very own house. The zippered cable knit sweater she wore was also red. A color that suited her dark hair and hazel eyes. Cheerful clothes for cheerful doings. It sounded like a slogan from the nineteen fifties, when the home was a woman’s queendom, and the washing machine her prince consort. Her mouth curved into a smile. Despite hair left rumpled from that morning’s sketchy combing, she was feeling very queenly right now.
Surveying the empty kitchen she saw not its current drabness, but the unfulfilled promise. It was a long if rather narrow room, with just enough space at the end with the French doors for a small table and chairs. Next week, maybe before, she would get started painting the cabinets a crisp glossy white and the walls a custard yellow. As to what was to be done about the vinyl flooring . . . she would have to think about that. A lot of work lay ahead, but it would be fun and, if she were sensible, well within her handy-woman scope. It was a small house; the real estate agent had stressed that fact before showing it to her.
‘Just sufficient for a couple with perhaps one child,’ she’d said, ‘but perfect for a single woman. Unless, of course, you like to do a lot of entertaining, host big parties; that sort of thing works better with an open-floor plan.’
Unlikely to be an issue. Other than the agent, who, though pleasant, couldn’t as yet be considered a friend, Sarah didn’t know anyone locally to invite to a party big or small. As for out-of-state visitors, they weren’t likely to arrive all at once.
That conversation had taken place just six weeks ago. In early April she had flown to Maine to attend a college friend’s wedding in Portland and rented a car for a couple of extra days, exploring. Her meandering had brought her to Sea Glass. At thirty-four, she had never previously considered the possibility of leaving Illinois. Now it was as though this seaside village, with its bronze statue of a local hero in the center of the tree-shaded common and the surrounding pink, yellow and green cottages, had been awaiting her arrival. It was offering her the chance to start over. She’d spotted the real estate office nestled between Plover’s Grocery and Mary Anne’s Flower Shop and headed for its door.
A couple of hours later, when the realtor drew up alongside the little white brick cottage with the friendly-sized windows, green tiled roof and two storybook chimneys, Sarah had known with equal certainty it had likewise been waiting for her to show up. Her brother Tim, four years her senior, would have warned against getting ahead of herself. He believed she’d made that mistake when marrying Harris Colefax. Tim had always had her back, but she didn’t believe that past mistakes should stop her from ever trusting her instincts again. Within taking a couple of steps toward the front door with its time-tarnished brass dolphin knocker, she’d made up her mind to buy this house. She’d also decided she would finally get the dog she had always wanted. It came to her that Bramble Cottage liked the idea of a dog almost as much as it welcomed the prospect of her moving in.
‘Some people don’t like the idea of a corner house,’ the agent had said with painstaking frankness while producing a key, ‘but you do have this screening of firs and shrubbery on both sides. And there’s a half acre to the rear, with access to the beach, more than making up for this handkerchief up front. As I warned you, the interior isn’t spacious, just the two bedrooms, unless you count the storage area under the eaves. It does have a window so maybe it could work at a pinch as a home office. Wood floors throughout, except the kitchen and bathroom, and the one thing the seller did before putting the place on the market was have them refinished. Down the road you could add on a master suite above the garage. Always a good investment for resale.’
‘That’s a thought, but I want to put down roots.’
During her seven-year marriage to Harris, home had been a high-rise condo on Lake Shore Drive in Chicago. After the divorce eighteen months ago she’d moved in
to an apartment in Evanston. Neither had been her ideal. She and Tim had grown up in a house with all the charm of one built in the nineteen forties. For Harris it had been different. A glass-sided aerie was his natural habitat, his childhood and adolescence having been spent in the penthouse where his widowed mother still lived in contented proximity to theaters and museums. He hadn’t foisted his wishes on Sarah, merely pointed out the pros of not having to deal with maintenance, and the freedom to come and go as they wished. She had put up no resistance when he’d taken her to see an industrialized loft space they would be crazy not to buy. Wildly in love, she’d have lived with him in a tent on a swamp if that was what he wanted.
Sarah rummaged in the cardboard box she had brought into the kitchen and hefted onto the butcher block counter. Producing a jar of instant coffee, a cup and a spoon, she smiled. Her first caffeine fix since setting off from New Hampshire at dawn, having spent the night with her Aunt Beth. She would have preferred a freshly-ground brew, better yet a double shot cappuccino, but this would do. In the box were a couple of pastries thanks to the kindness of Aunt Beth, but she was too excited to feel hungry. She was home. Bramble Cottage! Just think of it! Her cozy little house had its very own name and it stood at the entrance to one of the loveliest-named roads in the world: Wild Rose Way.
She took a deep, reviving sip before picking up her cell phone to let her parents know she had arrived. Barney Draycott answered at the first ring.
‘Hey, Dad!’
‘Made it there?’ He spoke in his usual leisurely way. She could see him as clearly as if he were in the room, a square-jawed, stockily-built man, with a thick thatch of graying brown hair.
‘Ten minutes ago. I’m savoring the moment.’
‘Proud of you, honey. It was time to make a new start.’
‘Thanks, Dad. Picture me celebrating with a cup of instant before the movers arrive. That should be in a couple of hours’ time.’
‘Be sure and make time to eat something; have to keep up your strength for the unpacking.’
Sarah laughed. ‘Is Mom telling you to say that? She’s the one who’d know.’
‘Some daughter you are! Think I’m incapable of basic common sense advice? Your mother’s out grocery shopping.’
‘You always did let her have all the fun.’ Sarah sipped at her coffee. Striking out on her own adventure had nudged her parents into fulfilling their own dream of moving to Florida. ‘Any nibbles on the house?’
‘A woman came through yesterday and she’s coming back this afternoon with her husband.’
‘Better start packing.’
‘Honey, we’ve been here forty years. A lot of thought will have to go into downsizing. You know your mother. Getting her to part with anything from a chipped coffee cup to Tim’s old bedroom furniture will take professional mediation.’
Sarah laughed. ‘Don’t be mean. She was the one who gave me those two leather recliners. You didn’t look any too pleased at parting with them.’
‘Craftiness on my part. If I’d seemed gung-ho to get rid of them she’d have decided they were only fit for the attic and I’d have been the one hauling them up there. Think of my back, honey, and enjoy them.’
‘Thanks, Dad. For everything. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through the past few years without all the emotional support from you and Mom, but it’s time for you both to think sunscreen and margaritas by the pool. Tim, Kristen and the girls will be down to visit every chance they get and you can seriously count on my showing up when winter sets in.’
‘Fat chance!’ Barney laughed. ‘You’ll be too busy skiing. Anyone would think you were born on the slopes.’
‘I’ll tear myself away. And remember the road runs both ways. I can’t wait for you to come here and visit. I think you and Mom will see why I fell in love with Sea Glass.’
‘We’ll be there once you’ve settled in. Before I let you go, how was your overnight with Aunt Beth?’
‘Welcoming, in her own special way.’
‘Still got that white sofa she won’t allow even herself to sit on?’
‘It’ll go a virgin to the grave.’ Sarah set down her empty coffee cup. ‘She told me I looked anemic without blush and thought I’d looked better with longer hair. The last time I saw her she told me I ought to cut it. She did admire the Coach purse Kristen and Tim gave me for Christmas but said my shoes and raincoat didn’t live up to it. Top of my to-do list is to send her a thank you card. You, along with all our friends and relatives, will be hearing about it if I don’t.’
‘You’re right. A phone call wouldn’t sufficiently meet my sister’s standard of etiquette.’ He chuckled. ‘Same old Beth.’
‘But it’s hard not to halfway like her. I always feel I should suggest taking her out clubbing.’
‘Softie! Now off with you. Can’t keep the movers hanging about on the front step with their arms full of furniture.’
‘Bye, Dad. Love to Mom.’
Sarah clicked off the phone and slipped it in the pocket of her dark blue jeans. There was nothing she could do inside until the movers arrived, but even if there had been she would still not have wanted to waste a moment getting down to the beach.
Opening the French doors she went out onto a flagstone patio containing a number of abandoned plant holders displaying only dried leaves on dead twigs, likely remnants of last year’s annuals. There was a path of the same stone leading from the patio. Ignoring the saturated clouds and quivering chill that signaled impending rain, she followed the path’s looping progression down the sloping lawn that was bordered on either side by hedges tall enough to provide only a minimal glimpse of the house next door. It was owned, the real estate agent had told her, by a couple from England. Sarah liked that the hedges weren’t fiercely clipped. What looked to be elderly fruit trees stood ankle-deep in daffodils, surrounded by outcroppings of granite. It was a garden that seemed to have been allowed a personal say in how it wanted to dress for the various seasons, which somehow made the previous tenant seem suddenly very much present.
According to the ever-knowledgeable realtor she had been a woman named Nan Fielding, who had moved to Sea Glass from New Hampshire ten years previously, after retiring from teaching high school English. Single, inclined to be reclusive and, as was apparent from the tired interior of the house, not one to make above minimum demands on her landlord. He had put the house on the market after her death in late March.
Reaching the wooden steps, Sarah stood with arms at her side, taking in the rocky beach, inhaling the tang of seaweed, absorbing the murmur of the foam-streaked water. Walking alongside its edge was a woman with a small child hopping and skipping a few paces behind her, both wearing zippered jackets. Sarah was pierced by one of those moments of regret, less frequent now, but still painful. She breathed out, letting the damp breeze carry the emotion out to the gently shifting waves with their backdrop of lavender-brown hills.
After two years of marriage she and Harris had started trying for a baby. Six months later, when she failed to become pregnant, she’d gone back to her gynecologist and the round of tests had begun. Another year passed, during which she’d increasingly felt she was going it alone, with Harris off on the sidelines. When she was told in vitro was the next option he refused to consider it, saying he’d come to think having a child wasn’t such a great idea. Why disrupt the lifestyle they’d come to enjoy? Three months later he’d phoned her from his office to say he’d made dinner reservations for them at their favorite restaurant. When he ordered champagne she felt a thrill of excitement. He was going to tell her he’d changed his mind. Happiness turned quickly to numbed confusion. He wanted a divorce. He’d fallen in love with Lisa Bentley. She was pregnant and he hoped Sarah would be civilized about the whole thing. Civilized! That part she did grasp. It was why he’d chosen to break the news at a restaurant where the maître d’ looked as though he would clutch his chest and gasp for air if a patron burped. No chance of Sarah making a public scene. Or so Harris t
hought. She had tossed her glass of champagne in his face and walked out. The maître d’ had approached her in the foyer with regal tread, to say it would be his privilege to summon a cab for her. Lisa Bentley had been her best friend from high school on, the maid of honor at her wedding, her confidante through all the fertility clinic disappointments.
The woman and child down on the beach disappeared from view. The sky was now so low it had become one with the ocean, but Sarah’s spirits lifted as she went down to the beach. She had come to Sea Glass to make a new life for herself and she wasn’t going to waste a moment of her first day dwelling on what was over and done. Single women today adopted children all the time – in the case of a friend of hers a little girl from Ethiopia. There were half a dozen red and yellow downturned kayaks along with a dory in front of the sea wall. Sarah had done quite a bit of river kayaking and loved it. She would have to get one. And maybe, in the future, a sailboat. She paused to look at some driftwood before crossing the pebbles, interspaced with the rugged groupings of rock, to stand at the water’s edge. The wind-whipped waves came foaming up within inches of her feet. Bending, she gathered up a handful of suitably flat stones and one by one sent them skimming across the water. Her highest number of skips was seven. Tim, the grand champion, had once achieved twelve. But against that, she smiled; she had left him trailing in most of their kayak races.
There were no boats out in the bay, but Sarah’s mind filled with the image of an eighteenth-century vessel with billowing sails arriving from Boston with the families who were the original settlers of Sea Glass. On her initial visit she had paid a visit to the historical society museum, two doors down from the realty office, and eagerly soaked up the information provided by the volunteer on duty. Among the settlers was a woman named Martha Cully who had remarked shortly before landing that it was a good omen that the sea was as smooth as glass, hence the naming of the village. She and her husband had been forced to leave Cornwall, England when his smuggling activities threatened to catch up with him. Throughout the coming generations the menfolk had all been seafarers, of the reformed, respectable sort, with the exception of Nathaniel Cully, born 1837, died 1925. Sarah had a fluke memory for dates. It was this man’s life-sized bronze statue mounted on a six-foot granite pedestal that took pride of place in the center of the common. His father and brothers had been whalers, adding nicely to the family coffers. The Sea Glass Historical Society was the proud possessor of their remarkably fine collection of scrimshaws, bequeathed by Nathaniel’s granddaughter and only descendent, Emily Cully, born 1908, died 2001. The family home, a grim red Victorian across from the common, had been left to a distant cousin of hers in New York. He had subsequently been killed in a plane crash, along with his wife, younger son and daughter-in-law. And the house now stood empty, abandoned to neglect by the remaining son. Only the essential maintenance funded by a provision in the will had prevented the grounds from becoming a wilderness. The volunteer had looked very severe when relaying this fact. No wonder the place was developing a reputation of being haunted. She had brightened when getting back to Nathaniel Cully, speaking as if he were an old friend, recently deceased. The dear man had suffered from sea sickness from childhood on; an embarrassing affliction, given his family background. He had found his true calling as the local doctor, delivering babies and taking care of everyone’s ills, from croup to broken bones and final hours for nearly fifty years, never letting the worst weather keep him from getting to his patients in his horse and buggy. If that wasn’t doable he had walked. Always beloved, he had sealed his place in the hearts of the community at the age of seventy-four. The volunteer had done a great job bringing the narrative to its climax. The statue didn’t exaggerate Nathaniel’s height, she had proclaimed proudly. He was the proverbial giant of a man and robust well into old age. On an April evening, when no one else appeared on the beach to help, he plowed the family rowboat out to rescue a group of six young people who had decided to go sailing, all lacking sufficient experience to deal with a sudden squall. He had brought them safely to shore despite his seasickness.
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