Empty Promises and Crowded Caskets

by Ana Bisset

  Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  More About the Author

  Recipe for Grammie's Fish Chowder

  Empty Promises and

  Crowded Caskets

  A Libby Foster Cozy Mystery

  by Ana Bisset

  cozy-mysteries-by-anabisset.com

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to Baloo, my buddy for 11 years.

  I look forward to seeing you again at the rainbow bridge.

  Copyright © Ana Bisset 2019.

  Special thanks to my editors and the lessons you taught me.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, including the cover and book blurbs, or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover graphics from 123rf.com & Vecteezy.com

  Note from the Publisher: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I did not get the feeling of dread I expected when I pulled into town. A strange sense of calm enveloped me instead. Considering the terrible morning I had just experienced - which lead me into making a trip I have been anxious about since I left town at age 22 with my new journalism degree - I would have thought my mood would be darker. That is not the case. I dare say I may have stumbled into one of those moments in life when you are right where you are supposed to be, despite the time and effort you have fought against it.

  I was going back home to live for the foreseeable future. Had any other circumstance caused me to surpass my life plans by sending me back to my past, I would be upset about being here. But as it stands, I am already too angry to care about it as much as I thought I would. And home is what I need right now.

  Home is Black Ridge Cove. A small town on the coast of Maine that boasted two lighthouses, one for each piece of land that juts out into the ocean on either side of the town, forming a fat bottom U of mostly rocky shoreline between them. It has been my hometown from the time I was five until I left for bigger and better places after my college graduation.

  I, Elizabeth Grace Foster, Libby to most people, granddaughter of Thomas and Grace Foster, would be someone. All of my five foot ten inches would do something meaningful. Stand up and make my mark on the world by shining a light on evildoings through my words, bringing criminals to justice by showcasing criminals in print. I would get a Pulitzer doing it too! These are not only my dreams, they are my goals.

  So far though, that isn’t how it is working out. Today, on what was arguably the worst day of my adult life, I came to understand a few realizations: First, some crimes are committed by those we think we know. Second, despite my fair looks and trim figure, I am a bum-magnet. And third, I cannot always control my temper.

  I pulled into Grammie's driveway and turned off the SUV. The vehicle was a new purchase that Tony chastised as not the car of a winner. In other words, while I found it practical for running to and fro in New England’s winters, it didn’t scream the owner’s status when you drove down the road like his Mercedes-Benz. He was all about status. I have never been, even after landing a coveted job as a journalist at the Boston Gazette. That was going to plague me. Why didn’t I see his Machiavellian traits before he was able to bring my promising career to a screeching halt?

  I sat there for a few minutes letting the emotional wave of the day’s events wash over me. While I had spent the last two hours debating with myself over the choices I made, I would not continue to waver between the pros and cons that got me here as if my life would not be whole because I’m committed to being home.

  I am here now. Whatever is left of the relationship I thought I had with Tony died in my editor’s office this morning, where I took a metaphorical pickax to their lame-brain idea. Then, I moved out of the apartment I shared with the bum and drove back to my hometown with at least a small bit of my pride left — all before dinner, which was going to be Grammie’s fish chowder and homemade bread. At least I still had great timing in that respect.

  I stepped out of my vehicle and surveyed the snowy yard. Same trees, same walkway - not much had changed. It’s not like I haven’t been home for a visit here and there. I had just been back a few week’s ago for the holidays. But this time it wasn’t for a visit, so everything looked a bit different. I don’t even know how long I will be here as I don’t know what my next steps will be. But I do know one thing for sure. I will not let myself think this is a step backward. This move is the way forward for me.

  Letting out a big sigh, I wondered if I should bother bringing my things into the house. I opted to grab my overnight bag, black dress shoes, and a messenger laptop bag. I’ll come out for the rest after I tell Grammie I am here. She seemed worried when I had called earlier.

  I walked to the back drive, towards the carriage house where I had stayed while I was in college. Gramps, understanding my independent streak as he raised my brother and I since we were small after the death of my father, had felt I needed my own space when I came home from college for a holiday and seasonal breaks. So, he made a small apartment on the second floor of the carriage house where he ran The Cove Post, our local paper.

  The carriage house itself had been renovated back in the 1950s to be turned into a working office for Gramps and his newspaper. He had it modernized in the late 1990s adding computers, etc. From the outside, it looked pretty much the same as when it was built. Grammie wanted to keep its historic look to match the Victorian house. But the inside was changed dramatically. Everything had been gutted, refurbished, and done over except for the stables area. They kept the main barn door that slid to the side, and all the wood in the stalls was refurbished, cement was laid on the floor, and an old fashioned printing press was placed in the center. That is where they kept a copy of each paper printed and lots of outdated files. This was a great place to play hide and seek with my brother when we were growing up.

  As I got closer to the carriage house, I noted footprints in the snow where it looked like it hadn’t been shoveled since the last storm. I wondered who would have been going in and out since there seemed to be no reason and the footprints were much larger than Grammie’s boots would have made.

  Reaching out for the door handle, I heard a banging noise. It stopped me cold. It wasn’t like a knocking or rapping; it was a bang as if someone took a tin trashcan lid and hit it along the side of a tree several times in rapid succession. No rhyme, reason, or rhyth
m to the sound, but it continued as I began to open the door slowly. I took a step back and stood there for a second waiting to see if a raccoon or squirrel was going to make their way out now that there was a door open to them — no such luck. No cute little furry creature came out, and the banging continued.

  I stepped in and hit the light switch. Again, nothing scurried. So I proceeded to the right, down the hallway into the main office area—toward the banging noise. I stop as it occurred to me that I might need a weapon of some sort. Could it be something nefarious? Would I need to protect myself? But I cannot think of why something like that would be here. This is my safe place, I reminded myself. It’s most likely an animal that is stuck. I can always leave it and call for help from the humane society.

  I took a step into the main office area and flick on the lights. I look across the open room over several desks toward a bank of filing cabinets and realize it is not an animal. No, it’s a man in a leather jacket. Or more accurately, it’s what once was a man in a leather jacket. He hasn’t seemed to have noticed the lights as he is concentrating on the filing cabinet in front of him. I cannot tell if he is trying to open the drawer or move the whole thing, but as he fails, his frustration radiates. His fists come down on the metal cabinet, making the banging noise I have been hearing, before disappearing through it.

  “Who are you?” I ask, my inner editor noting it would have been more accurate to use the verb were.

  He turned around, startled to see me, looking guilty and caught. He started to run towards me, hands outstretched as if he meant to push me out of the way. He ran straight through the desks, not moving anything including the dust. In my shock, I did not have time to step aside. I only got a glimpse at the surprised look on his face when his hands went right through my chest. The feeling was not comfortable. I could taste his rage as he ran straight through me. It seemed to stop my heart for a second. I quickly turned to see where he had gone, but he was no longer there.

  Catching my breath, I shook my head. I had been home all of five minutes. Already the ghosts were coming out to play.

  Could this day get any worse?

  CHAPTER TWO

  I struggled with the door handle on the main house as I was still carrying my stuff. After getting a hold of myself, I had gone upstairs in the carriage house to drop off my things. But, it seems my old apartment is being used for storage. My first set of feelings when peering into my old digs sparked the thought: How dare they not make this space a shrine to the loving granddaughter they raised, who has turned into such a successful adult! Then, I remembered why I was moving back in.

  I managed to get the front door open without dropping anything. I walked inside the home I knew as a child and wondered why there was loud Mariachi music coming from the kitchen. Please let it be Grammie, I thought. One ghostly sighting a day is enough, and I didn’t think I could take a visit with my Grandmother’s lady friends right now.

  “Hello?” I yelled out while standing in the foyer. I closed the door and dropped my stuff. I took off my snow boots and put on a pair of knitted slippers that were kept in a basket by the door. I hung my coat on a hook.

  Grammie came in from the kitchen wearing a black dress, her good pearls, and a sombrero. Her tall form was shaking maracas in her hands and she did a little dance over to me. At least I knew she was the reason for the music.

  “Attractive! Are you going to the memorial service dressed like that?” I laughed.

  She smiled, took my bag over to the steps and said, “I just wanted to cheer you up a bit, and I remembered this getup from when I dusted my hat collection last week.”

  “I wish I could say it was that easy, but you did put a smile on my face,” I said.

  “There’s that, then,” she said pulling me into a hug.

  “So you are saying there will be no Mexican Hat Dance instead of a eulogy tonight?” I laughed, getting every ounce of comfort I could from the embrace. Grammie’s hugs were always warm and comforting.

  “You know John Smith would have enjoyed that,” she chuckled. “Such a dear man! And to think there is no one in town left from that founding family. All the family members are gone to other places, or the name has died out. Go to church on Sunday and everyone you see is old.” She started up the steps, so I followed.

  “I had some young men come over this morning after you called and move the dollhouses out of your old room and clear out the smaller bedroom that adjoins it. I thought maybe you would want to turn it into a home office. Doug Phillips will be here tomorrow to run another line for the computer. I don’t think what I have right now will suffice for both of us, since the television streams from the Internet too.”

  “That sounds great for a couple of days, but I thought I would be staying in the apartment if I stayed for an extended period?”

  “Oh, Libby. I don’t even have the water running over there, let alone paying to heat out there. I’ve moved myself to the guest room downstairs after the holidays. I’m tired of going up and down the steps. So, you have the whole second floor to yourself. But if you have your heart set on moving out there, we can get the apartment cleaned out in the spring,” Grammie said.

  I thought about it and didn’t see any reason to not take her up on the offer of staying in the main house. It is cheaper because we won’t have to heat the other building. And it is not like I am seeing anyone and need privacy. Plus, it is nice to be around Grammie. “Sounds great. I think the second floor is more than fine.”

  We walked into what was once my childhood bedroom from the time I was five years old. It was pink. It was frilly. It hadn’t changed in twenty-two years.

  Grammie cleared her throat as she looked around. “At least it has been dusted and cleaned,” she smiled. “We’ll get it redone in any color you want - have it painted and such. Why don’t you move some of your things in? Can we call a moving company and have some of your furniture delivered this week? Unless you want me to grab a desk from the other room? Oh, it doesn’t matter now. Think it through and let me know, dear. I’m going to finish making the chowder and warm the bread. Come down when you are ready.” She kissed my cheek and left the room.

  My grandmother had lived in New England all of her life, and it showed. She was stoic, practical, and efficient to a fault. There was no such thing as chaos in her world, everything knew its place and would never not be in it. This was a good thing, considering her many collections. She was acting as if my abrupt departure of Boston as if it had been a planned event. Her way of letting me know that everything was okay and she loved me.

  I wondered if she meant to come down when I was ready to tell her what had happened today or when I felt like eating, but I didn’t ask as I watched her grip the railing while descending the steps.

  I walked over to the white dresser that doubled as a vanity and sat down on the padded bench. An antique comb and brush set sat to the right and old perfume jars on the left. I picked up the brush and ran it through my hair noting that it was time for a cut and maybe some amber highlights to put some spark into the brown color. I had been keeping it at shoulder length, but had allowed it to grow well past this point during the last year. While I was here, I checked my face in the mirror. I wasn’t beautiful, but I was proud of my looks. My gray eyes being one of my best features, except now they looked tired. I wondered if a good crying jag would wipe away the worry. But then it would muss the makeup, so why bother?

  A nice hot shower before the memorial service would take the tired out of my eyes I think. First, I’ll get my stuff out of the car and move it in. Then, it’s time to get something to eat and let Grammie know what happened. I’m not worried about her knowing what Tony did. I’m concerned that I have to admit to what I was doing to allow Tony to do what he did.

  Grammie has never been a fan of me being on the crime beat at the paper. Telling her I was working with a source that was part of a mob family is something I’ve shied away from. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be any way arou
nd it, except straight up lying and I would never do that to her.

  Time to face the music, at least there is chowder and homemade bread.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Grammie had given up on the mariachi music and was humming an old-time tune instead. She stirred the chowder at the stove and looked over as I walked in. “Why don’t you get the bowls and spoons out on the table for us. I have crackers in the cupboard if you want some,” she said.

  “If you tell me you have apple pie for dessert too, I will know that you are spoiling me,” I said.

  “It’s strawberry rhubarb. I am not spoiling, just helping you get through a bad day. To think, you come home to feel better, and here I am going to cart you off to a memorial service. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” she said.

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I almost came home just to go before this other mess happened,” I said. Mr. Smith was a favorite individual in our town. He always volunteered to take scouts hiking, fishing, and camping - that included both boys and girls scout troops. While he had slowed down over the years, he still sponsored many youth programs and was as active as he could be. He would be missed as a member of the town’s founding families and someone who was loved by many.