by Josh Lanyon
“Ahoy there, matey,” she drawled in a deep, slightly sexy voice.
Uh…right. Because today was the official start of Buccaneer Days, a weeklong celebration of Pirate’s Cove’s murky and probably nefarious history. Ostensibly, Buccaneer Days had been conceived as a way of attracting tourists off-season to this windswept southern coast of Rhode Island, but having worked in theater for most of his adult life, Ellery knew people loved any excuse to play dress-up.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
“Maybe we can help each other. I’m Tommy Rider.” She flashed Ellery a beguiling smile, offering her hand.
It took him a moment, but then he remembered that Thomasina Rider was the main real-estate agent for Pirate’s Cove. They’d never formally met, though they’d had some email correspondence regarding the deed to Great-great-great-aunt Eudora’s house.
“Right. Nice to meet you at last.”
They shook hands, and Ellery did his best to avoid staring down into Tommy’s gold-embroidered green-velvet bustier. His preference ran on different lines, but no question she was quite striking. He guessed she had probably done some modeling.
“If I’d realized what I was missing, I’d have hightailed it over here sooner. Are you sure you’re a screenwriter and not an actor?”
Ellery smiled. He didn’t take her flattery seriously. For one thing, it was obvious her default setting was flirtatious. For another, he was well aware of his looks. When he’d been younger, he’d been very self-conscious, but at thirty-two he had learned to accept that through some fluke of biology, he’d hit the genetic jackpot. His wavy hair was dark brown, his wide eyes hazel, his bone structure elegantly masculine. He was six feet tall and lightly muscled—okay, the muscles were not inherited; he took pains to stay fit because writing was not exactly a physically demanding job.
“That was the first plan,” he admitted. “It turns out I can’t act my way out of a paper bag.”
Tommy chuckled. “No? Well, TV’s loss is our gain. Anyway, I decided it was time to finally meet you in person and see how the Crow’s Nest is coming along.” She glanced around the shop. “Good God. I have to say, you’ve worked wonders here. I’ve never seen the place look so clean and bright and inviting. No wonder Trevor’s hounding you to sell to him.”
Ellery grimaced. “I didn’t realize that was common knowledge.”
“Oh, sugar, everything is common knowledge in a village.” Tommy’s gaze wandered around the shop once more. “Yes, this is pretty impressive. Poor old Eudora would be thrilled.” Her bright gaze returned to Ellery’s. “What’s your asking price?”
“I don’t have one. I’m not interested in selling.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
An unpleasant suspicion dawned. “Are you here on Trevor’s behalf?”
Tommy gave another of those husky chuckles. “No way. But if you do change your mind, I’d love to handle the property for you.”
“You’re the most popular real-estate agent in town, so if I do change my mind, you’ve got the commission.”
They smiled at each other with perfect understanding.
“Actually, I’m here to win your vote,” Tommy said. “As you may or may not know, I’m running for mayor against Trevor in the upcoming election.”
“I saw that.”
“As of this morning, I’m in second place.”
Cyrus Jones, Pirate Cove’s current mayor, was bringing up the rear in the three-way race for mayor. It was surprising how hotly contested the election was, given that fewer than four thousand citizens inhabited the entire island.
“Congratulations,” Ellery said.
“Well, it’s too soon for congratulations, which is why I would really appreciate your vote.” Tommy took a moment to flutter her lash extensions in his direction. “Here’s a pamphlet you can take home to read. It describes the platforms I’m running on and the promises I intend to keep for the citizens of Pirate’s Cove.”
“Okay,” Ellery said doubtfully. He didn’t have a spare moment to read things he might actually enjoy, let alone what likely amounted to a glossy, full-color sales pitch.
“I look forward to earning your vote!” One scarlet-tipped fingernail slid across the scratched counter an ocean-blue pamphlet featuring Tommy’s beaming smile. The living, breathing Tommy winked at him.
“Thanks. You’re in my top three contenders.” He accepted the pamphlet, giving it a quick, curious glance. As he’d suspected, it seemed to be mostly advertising for Rider Realty.
Tommy chuckled. She had a surprisingly deep and unexpectedly appealing laugh. “That’s a start.” She was already making her way back to the door.
“Lovely to meet you, Ellery. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. Oh, and don’t worry too much about Trevor; he’s more bark than bite.” The familiar bell tinkled through the salty morning air, and the door closed, cutting off Tommy’s voice. Ellery was smiling faintly as he returned to studying her brochure.
Chapter Three
Bookish buccaneers did not appear to be a thing.
That Saturday Ellery sold a mass-market paperback of Agatha Christie’s The Hollow, a hardcopy edition of Robert Crais’s The Monkey’s Raincoat, and three fabric-covered, tasseled bookmarks for a day’s grand total of thirty-five dollars and twenty-two cents. The afternoon turned into evening, and he couldn’t help wondering if he had been too hasty in declining Trevor’s offer.
At six thirty, he closed up shop and headed over to the Salty Dog for dinner. He wasn’t quite ready to brave the Miss Havisham vibe and depressingly empty fridge of Captain’s Seat. He wanted a drink and a nice meal—and an hour or so of efficient central heating.
Libby Tulley, the teenaged daughter of Tom Tulley, owner and proprietor of the pub, led Ellery to his usual spot: a quiet corner table positioned between the cozy stone fireplace and the window overlooking Main Street. This vantage point allowed Ellery, a devoted people-watcher, to indulge his voyeuristic tendencies without putting him center stage for the viewing pleasure of his neighbors.
His neighbors for now, because after today’s dismal sales, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could support the shop before they both went bankrupt. He had already gone through the little money left to him by Great-great-great-aunt Eudora in order to renovate the Crow’s Nest. He was living off his own savings, which had seemed like plenty when he’d arrived three months ago, but which were dwindling fast. He simply did not have the financial resources to begin repairs on the old mansion, keep the bookstore afloat, and put food in his belly.
Ellery sighed. He considered himself a reasonably optimistic and resilient person, but maybe he should have stayed in the Big Apple.
Where he belonged?
Yeah, maybe. Maybe Trevor had been right about that. Studying the noisy and crowded pub, where everyone but himself appeared to be clad in full swashbuckler regalia, he couldn’t help feeling like a fish out of water.
Before he could get too downhearted, Libby, pert and ginger-haired, appeared with a frosty mug of “grog,” and recited the evening specials: shepherd’s pie, meatloaf dinner, and baked mac-and-cheese casserole. In other words, the same specials as every other night. Ellery gave in to the call of carbs and opted for the mac and cheese.
The blend of soft lights, grog (rum—a lot of rum—lime, sugar, and beer) and the jolly soundtrack to Pirates of the Caribbean gradually eased his tension.
He could probably hold out for another two months, and by then it would be tourist season and perhaps business would pick up. It could hardly get worse.
His dismal reflections were interrupted by Libby, who finally placed his mac-and-cheese casserole on the table before him.
“Bon appétit!” Libby said.
“Merci,” Ellery replied.
Libby snickered as though this were a great witticism, and he grinned. Over her shoulder he spied Police Chief Jack Carson being led to his regular table on the opposite side of the pub, and he felt an instant and unwilling
leap of interest.
Partly that was because Carson was a ruggedly handsome six foot, one hundred and ninety-plus pounds of gainfully employed eligible male. He wore a wedding ring—he might even be married—but from the moment Ellery’s gaze had first tangled with the police chief’s piercing green-blue one, he had been pretty sure Carson had a secret that would deeply disappoint the ladies of Pirate’s Cove. That was speculation on Ellery’s part. He certainly had nothing more than a certain gut instinct—his interactions with the chief had been minimal at most—but yeah. He couldn’t help hoping he was right. Not because he had a personal interest in Carson—after Todd, he was through with all that—but because as far as Ellery could tell, he was the only LGBTQ person on all of Buck Island. It would be nice to have some company, even if the company was not of the socializing variety. Initially, he’d thought Dylan Carter, who owned the toy shop next door to the Crow’s Nest, was of the same orientation, but it turned out Dylan was just a flamboyant guy with a slightly effeminate manner. Which was a good lesson about judging people based on appearances.
Anyway, Carson was in his late thirties, had sun-streaked brown hair and eyes the changeful color of sunlight on restless water. His voice was surprisingly pleasant for a guy who never smiled and seemed to live for handing out construction-code violations.
Ellery watched the chief—clad in his usual navy uniform and not pirate garb—nodding politely to the local wives and wenches bidding him good evening. He picked up his menu, putting an end to the pleasantries. That had to be deliberate, because as often as the chief ate at the Salty Dog, he surely knew the entire menu by heart. Ellery did, and he’d only been in Pirate’s Cove three months.
Ellery gave the Ritz-cracker crust of his mac and cheese a tentative poke. Frankly, the casserole could have been topped with Oreos for all he cared. He was too hungry to be picky. He couldn’t afford to hire any help at the bookstore, so lunch usually consisted of whatever he could eat at the front desk. Today’s fare had been a bag of granola and a Kona Blend Monster Energy drink.
The door to the pub opened on a blustery gust of salt-laced night air. A group of pirates carrying guitar and mandolin cases pushed their way through the crowd, which greeted them with song requests and offers to buy drinks. The piped-in music cut off mid-ballad.
My heart, my heart, my drowning heart…
Ellery glanced over at Chief Carson’s table and found the chief studying him with his usual unsmiling appraisal. His face warmed, his heart jumped—that was guilty conscience over the fact that he still hadn’t fixed the ceiling vents in the customers’ bathroom—and he nodded politely.
Carson nodded grimly back and returned to frowning over the menu.
Yep, that was one steely jawline Carson sported. Smoke-detector violations were probably a hanging offense in his book.
Ellery picked up his fork. His gaze wandered again to the mostly empty street outside the pub. A couple of pickup trucks tooled past in the glimmery lamplight, and occasionally, he caught a glimpse of a bustling petticoat or a plumed hat disappearing around a corner. But for the most part, everyone in Pirate’s Cove seemed to be crammed inside the Salty Dog.
Happily, that did not include Trevor Maples, though he was usually present most evenings. In fact, the last time he’d been there, he’d once again tried to convince Ellery to sell him the Crow’s Nest. No did not seem to be in Trevor’s vocabulary.
Ellery swallowed the last mouthful of grog, finished his casserole, paid his bill, and rose to leave.
By then the band—the Fish and Chippies—had broken into a lively version of “Eddystone Light.”
He glanced automatically toward Chief Carson’s corner and, aggravatingly, Carson, engaged in conversation with Tom Tulley, seemed to feel the weight of his gaze and glanced over at him.
Hastily, Ellery shrugged into his jacket and headed for the door.
Chapter Four
A few hours later…
“I don’t know how he got inside or what he was doing in the bookshop.”
Ellery was seated in his back office, trying to cover up the fact that he was completely and totally freaked out by recent events. Not that being freaked out wasn’t a normal reaction, but something about Police Chief Carson brought out a previously undiscovered need to appear cool in a crisis. Frankly, he was not really a cool-in-a-crisis kind of guy. He was the kind of guy who yelled, “Help! Murder!” when he found a body.
“How did you know Maples had been murdered?” had been one of Chief Carson’s first questions.
“Possibly the pool of blood was a clue?” Ellery had snapped.
“Maybe he committed suicide. Maybe he tripped over the doorstop I asked you to remove two weeks ago.”
Ellery managed to swallow his retort.
So yeah, he was that kind of guy. The kind who got sarcastic when put on the defensive, the kind who felt queasy and a little light-headed in the presence of dead bodies and had to be told by Chief Carson not to faint or throw up on the crime scene.
Speaking of which—or whom—Ellery was quickly getting over his slight and very brief interest in Chief Carson. Chief Carson had turned out to be an insensitive, unimaginative jerk.
Anyway. It had been hours since Ellery had first crept into the Crow’s Nest and found Trevor Maples, clad in pirate costume, dead on his floor. Chief Carson had been first on the scene, but to Ellery’s relief, the chief was not the only law-enforcement officer in Pirate’s Cove. He actually had several trained officers in his teeny-tiny police department and access to the full resources of the Rhode Island State Police. In fact, Ellery had assumed the State Police would take over the investigation, but no. It seemed that at least for now, Chief Carson was still in charge.
And covering the same ground over and over. For example, this was the second time they’d been over the subject of how and why Trevor had decided to turn up dead in Ellery’s bookshop. What else was there to say beyond I. Don’t. Know?
Of course, murder had to be a new experience for the chief too. The nearest thing to crime Pirate’s Cove experienced was a bit of drunk and disorderly on the weekends. Maybe Carson was also feeling defensive. Maybe he was worried the State Police were going to take away his first and only murder case.
“When was the last time you spoke to Maples?” Carson asked. This too was not a new question. Did he think if he changed his wording, he might get a different answer?
“I told you,” Ellery replied. “This afternoon. He offered to buy the Crow’s Nest again. He told me I could name my price—within reason.”
Were Carson’s eyes more green than blue? It was hard to tell. The only thing for sure was they were as bright and hard as sea glass. “And what was your price?”
“I told him I didn’t want to sell.”
The dark and forbidding line of Carson’s brows rose skeptically. “And did he buy that?”
Ellery was momentarily confused. “Did he—”
Carson said with a trace of impatience, “Did he accept your refusal?”
“Oh. No. I don’t know. I think he thought I was still negotiating for a better price.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“No?” Carson didn’t bother trying to hide his disbelief.
Ellery shook his head. “I like it here. I told him that. I wouldn’t be going to all this trouble of renovating the shop if my plan was just to sell.”
Carson looked taken aback. Or at least as taken aback as someone like him could look. “You’re planning to stay in Pirate’s Cove?”
“Well, yes. That was the idea. That was my great-aunt’s idea.”
Brow furrowed, Carson jotted down a couple of notes in a small black book. He had long fingers. His hands were tanned and strong, but the nails were neatly trimmed and filed. He wore a plain-gold wedding band on his left hand. Not exactly conclusive proof, but… The scratching of his pencil was the only sound filling the void of silence stretching between them.
Ellery wa
tched uneasily. His mind was racing. Carson couldn’t think he’d done it. Could he? That was preposterous. And yet, there was something going on here, something in Carson’s attitude that made Ellery nervous. What was it that Carson knew and Ellery didn’t?
“How’s the shop doing?” Carson asked without looking up from his notes.
Ellery shrugged.
Carson raised his head. “Could you be more specific?”
“From what everyone tells me, this is the slow season.”
Carson’s mouth curved without humor. “But you’re turning a profit?”
“No.”
“You’re breaking even?”
Ellery grimaced. “No.”
“You’re losing money.” It was not a question.
Why was Carson hammering away on this point? Ellery said cautiously, “The renovations cost money, but that’s to be expected.”
Carson pushed back in his chair, said almost conversationally, “I remember your aunt. She was quite a character. And not one to beat about the bush. According to her, the Crow’s Nest had been running in the red for some time. The last time I spoke to her, she was weighing whether to sell up or close the doors for good.”
Ellery’s sinking confidence sprang another leak.
“Was she going to sell to Trevor Maples?”
“You tell me.”
Ellery stared into Chief Carson’s eyes. He could see Carson wanted to get his reaction, so okay. His reaction was confusion and guilt. If Great-great-great-aunt Eudora really had agreed to sell to Trevor, Trevor’s persistence made more sense.
“All I know is my great-aunt left the bookstore and her house to me, and I’m doing my best to turn things around. The business is doing as expected for this time of year. If there was an agreement with Trevor, I’m unaware of it. And Mr. Landry, Great-great-great-aunt Eudora’s lawyer, was unaware of it.”
Chief Carson nodded, made another note. “How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Maples?”
Trevor had been telling the truth the whole time. No wonder he had been so impatient and exasperated with Ellery’s decision to stay in Pirate’s Cove. Especially when it was probably obvious that Ellery had no more chance of making the Crow’s Nest a success than Great-great-great-aunt Eudora had.