Books, beach roses… and bodies.
Bookseller and recent divorcée Max Sayers has risked her life savings to start a fresh chapter with the purchase of Seaside Cottage Books in cozy Snug Harbor, Maine. But she’s barely opened the shop’s doors when her new storybook life takes a dark turn. The morning after the grand opening–featuring a famous author who shows up at the store on the arm of Max’s ex-husband–Max’s rescue dog Winston finds a dead man on the beach behind the shop. The murder weapon? One of Max’s doorstops, an antique flatiron.
Will Max solve the case before the murderer strikes again?
Or will her bright new beginning turn into a killer of an ending?
Here’s the first chapter of A KILLER ENDING, the companion series to the Gray Whale Inn mysteries. You can grab your copy here:
Welcome to Snug Harbor!!!! I hope you’ll love it as much as I do. <3
CHAPTER ONE
Two years ago, if you’d told me I’d be spending my 42nd birthday driving north on I-95 with all of my worldly possessions hitched to my Honda CRV in a U-Haul trailer like some sort of oversize snail shell, I’d have told you you were crazy.
But things change.
Boy, do they change.
It wasn’t the best time to head out of Boston. I hadn’t gotten the last picture of my two darling girls packed up into a box and loaded into the back of the trailer until just after four o’clock on Friday afternoon. Since it was the first weekend of summer vacation in Massachusetts, I was now trapped on the highway with several thousand fellow motorists, many of them with kayaks or bicycles strapped to the backs of their SUVs. Like a lot of them, I was headed north to the Maine coast to enjoy a sunny, sparkling summer weekend. Unlike them, however, I didn’t plan to come back on Sunday.
Or at all.
Just three months earlier, listening to a deep gut instinct for the first time in almost two decades, I’d signed a stack of paperwork, plunked down my life savings, and purchased my very own bookstore, Seaside Cottage Books, in Snug Harbor, Maine. With the help of an assistant, I’d spent the last several weeks clearing out years of debris from the storage room, dusting the shelves, taking stock of the inventory, and using what little money I had left to add a carefully curated selection of new books. I’d also spent a good bit of time redecorating the place, rolling up my sleeves and repainting the walls a gorgeous blue, making new, nautical-print cushions for the window seats with my mother’s old sewing machine, and scouring second-hand stores for the perfect cozy armchairs to tuck away in corners.
The grand re-opening celebration was scheduled for tomorrow night, and I was as nervous as… well, as nervous as a middle-age, recently divorced woman who’s just spent everything she has on a risky venture in a small Maine town can be. I’d used my final pennies (and a small loan) to take out ads in the local paper and spread flyers all over town; I hoped my marketing efforts worked.
From his crate behind me, Winston, my faithful Bichon-mystery-mix rescue, whined. I reached back to put my fingers through the grate and pat his wooly white head; he licked my fingers. “I know, buddy. But once we get there, you’ll get to go for walks on the beach and sniff all kinds of things. I promise you’ll love it.” He let out a whimper, but settled down.
Walks on the beach. Fresh sea air. A business that allowed me to be my own boss. A home to call my own. I repeated these sentences like a mantra, as if they could wipe the memory of the complicated and painful last year-and-a-half from my mind and my soul.
Move forward, Max. Just move forward.
I took a deep breath and let my foot off the brake unconsciously. The car rolled forward and I slammed on the brake again, just in time to avoid rear-ending the Highlander in front of me, which had four bikes strapped to the back. Two adult bikes, and two smaller, pink and blue sparkly bikes, one of which had pink ribbons trailing from the handlebar grips. Two daughters. My eye was drawn to the heads in the car; a happy family, going to Maine for the summer. A dull pain sprouted in my chest, but once again, I banished it.
Forward, Max.
* * *
By the time I reached the exit for Snug Harbor, the sun was low in the sky and my stomach was growling. I glanced back at Winston, who was still giving me a reproachful look from his dark brown eyes.
“We’re almost there,” I promised him.
I turned at the exit. Within moments, we’d left the impersonal, clogged highway behind and were heading down a winding rural route, passing handmade signs offering firewood for sale, a sea glass souvenir shop, and a log-cabin-style restaurant advertising early-bird lobster dinners and senior specials. I hooked a left at a T-intersection marked by a large planter filled with dahlias and white salvia. And then, as if I had crossed the threshold into another world, I was in Snug Harbor.
I glanced at Winston; he was perking up as I tooled down Main Street, which was already buzzing with summer visitors, and when I opened the windows and let the cool, fresh sea breeze in, he sat up and started sniffing. Quaint, homegrown shops faced the narrow, car-lined street, which was landscaped with trees and flower-filled planters. Business appeared to be booming; a line snaked out the door of Scoops Ice Cream, Judy’s Fudge Emporium was hopping, and lots of relaxed-looking families strolled the streets with ice cream cones and dreamy smiles. Live guitar music drifted out of the Salty Dog Pub as we rolled by, and I caught a whiff of fried clams that made my mouth water. I’d have to splurge on dinner out soon, I told myself. I just hoped a lot of those vacationers were looking for good reads to relax with on their hotel and rental-house porches so I could support my deep-fried seafood habit.
As I crested the gentle hill, passing the town green on my left, the street in front of me seemed to fall away, leaving a perfectly framed view of Snug Harbor.
The water was a beautiful, deep blue, and beyond it nestled the pristine, tree-clad Snug Island; the tide was low, so the sandbar connecting Snug Harbor to the small island across the water was visible. As I rolled down the street, the whale-watching boat came into view; the big white vessel was just pulling out for its sunset tour, and beyond, I could see the four masts of the Abigail Todd as it sailed out of the harbor toward the small, outlying islands.
It took my breath away, just as it had the first time I’d seen it more then thirty years ago, when I’d spent summers here at my parents’ camp on a nearby lake.
I drove down to the end of main street and the pier, which was filled with a mix of working boats and pleasure boats (including a few large yachts), then turned left on Cottage Street.
I passed three dockside restaurants featuring lobster boils and fisherman’s dinners, catching yet more whiffs of fried clams (this was going to be an occupational hazard), the cobalt harbor peeking out between the buildings and snow-white seagulls calling and whirling overhead in the evening light. There was a little blue-painted shop called Ivy’s Seaglass and Crafts, which I knew housed an eclectic assortment of local jewelry and artwork, and then, on its own, a little ways down the street, the walkway flanked by pink rosebushes… Seaside Cottage Books.
My new home… in fact, my new life.
I looked at the familiar Cape-style building with fresh eyes, admiring the gray-shingled sides of the little house, the white curtains in the upper windows, the pots of red geraniums looking fresh and sprightly in half-barrels on the freshly painted porch. Two rockers with handmade cushions awaited readers. Behind it, I knew, a beach-rose-lined walkway led down to a rocky beach; a beach Winston and I would be able to walk every morning, greeting the sun. And the bookstore itself–it was a dream come true for me. A place where I could connect with other people who loved books, and introduce others to literary treasures that would open up their minds and their worlds.
Pride surged in me at the sight of the book display that graced one of the sparkling front windows–a hand-selected variety of Maine-centric books and beloved reads, including several of Lea Wait’s delightful Maine mysteries, two books by Sarah Orne Jewett, a whimsical book by two young women who had hiked the Appalachian Trail barefoot, and–a personal favorite for years–Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods. They were like old friends welcoming me home, even though I’d just left my home of twenty years for the last time this morning. I smiled, feeling a surge of hope for the first time that day. A sign with the words OPEN SOON was hooked on the door, and I found myself envisioning the community of readers who would gather here.
Goose bumps rose on my arms as I pulled into the gravel drive beside the small building, carefully easing in the trailer behind me so as not to knock over the mailbox. I parked next to the rear of the house, so that it would be a short trip from the trailer to the back door of the shop. And the back door of my home, which was an apartment on the second floor with a cozy bedroom, a small kitchen and living area, a view of the harbor, and even a balcony on which I planned to put a rocking chair and enjoy my morning coffee, as soon as I could afford it.
My store.
My home.
It was the first time in my whole life I’d had something that was completely and totally mine, and I told myself in that moment that I’d do anything to keep anyone else from taking it away from me.
Of course, at the time, I had no idea someone would try quite so soon.
Like tomorrow.
* * *
“Hey, Max!”
As I clambered out of the Honda, a bright-faced young woman opened the back door of the shop and stepped out to meet me.
“What are you still doing here?” I asked.
“Just finishing up a few last minute things for the big opening tomorrow,” she said. “My mom lent us some platters for cookies, I borrowed two coffee percolators from Sea Beans, and I’ve got a line on a punch bowl, too.”
“You’re amazing,” I said, smiling. Bethany had been my right-hand woman in getting the bookstore up and running. She’d been crushed when the previous owner, Loretta Satterthwaite, became too ill to carry on with the store, and had banged on the front door two days after I bought the shop. I’d greeted her with cobwebs in my hair–I’d been dusting–and she talked me into an “internship.”
“Snug Harbor needs a bookstore,” she’d said. “Plus, I plan to be a writer, so I need to keep up with happenings in the industry.”
“What about the library?”
“Their budget for new books is meager. I’ve volunteered there for years,” she told me, “but Snug Harbor without a Seaside Books… it’s like having a body without a heart.” Since I felt much the same way–I’d spent many summer days holed up in the shop as a girl–I felt an immediate kinship. She smiled, and I noticed the freckles dotting her nose and the bright optimism in her fresh-scrubbed, young face. She reminded me of my daughters, Audrey and Caroline, and my heart melted a little bit. “I’ll start as an intern; once the store opens, we’ll figure something out. I live with my parents and I’m only taking classes part-time. I’ve got both ample time and a scholarship.”
“I can’t pay you much,” I warned her. “I’m not opening for months and I spent almost everything on the building.”
“I’m sure we’ll come to a suitable arrangement,” she’d announced, peering past me at a jumble of books the previous owner had left on a table. “I’ll start by rescuing those poor books from their current condition,” she’d informed me, and walked right into the store–and into my life.
Thank heavens for angels like Bethany.
Now, as I stood outside Seaside Cottage Books the day before the grand opening, the sight of a cheerful Bethany in jeans and a pink flannel shirt lifted my heart. Her gorgeous braids were pulled up into a swingy ponytail, and her coffee-colored skin glowed in the light off the water.
“How’s it going in there?” I asked.
“Everything’s ship-shape,” she announced. “I’ve got the Maine section finished up–two local authors dropped their books by today–and I picked up more coffee and creamer, and some hot chocolate for the little ones.”
“Terrific,” I said, feeling better already. “Give me the receipts, and I’ll reimburse you!” I opened the back door of the SUV and picked up Winston’s crate, setting it on the ground. “There is one thing, though,” Bethany said.
“Oh?”
“A rather insistent woman has stopped by three times today,” she informed me as I liberated Winston from his crate.
“Who?” I asked as my fluffy little dog shook himself all over and trotted over to greet Bethany. He’d been my faithful companion since I’d retrieved him from the pound, covered in mange and painful-looking sores and looking a little like a scabby goat, six years ago. With lots of TLC and medication, we’d taken care of the mange and sores, along with the worms and other maladies that had kept him curled up on the couch with me the first few months. Now, he was bouncy, curious, and suffering from a bit of a Napoleon complex, particularly (alas) with dogs that were more than ten times his size. He’d doubled in bulk since I adopted him, and was a terrible food scavenger. To my delight, since the first day he climbed into my lap, shaking, at the pound, he’d been my biggest fan, my stout defender, and my reliable snuggle partner. Now, once Bethany scratched his head and got a few licks, he shook himself and waddled over to a tree stump to relieve himself.
“The woman who came by today? I’ve never met her, and she wouldn’t leave a name. But she was practically apoplectic.” I smiled; even though “practically apoplectic” didn’t sound promising, I did love Bethany’s vocabulary. She was taking classes part-time at nearby College of the North Atlantic, working on her first mystery novel, and pretty much managing the store opening solo, all at the same time… and doing a stellar job in every department. “She told me she absolutely needed to talk to you.”
“Well, I’m here now,” I said. “She can come find me.”
“Right,” Bethany said, but a cloud had passed over her beautiful face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“She said something about you stealing the store.”
“Stealing the store?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what she meant. But I got the impression she’s planning to instigate trouble.”
“Fabulous,” I said. “Well, what’s a good story without a few plot twists?” This was part of my new goal, which was to look on the bright side and count my blessings. Some days were easier than others. “Speaking of stories, how’s your mystery going?” I asked.
“I’ve gotten to the dead body,” she said, “but now I’m kind of stuck. I put the book to the side until after the grand re-opening, though. I’ve got K.T. Anderson set up for a reading an hour after it starts, and I even talked the local paper into sending a reporter over tomorrow!”
K.T. Anderson was a Maine-based bestselling mystery author who had set an entire series in a town not far from here; getting her to come to the grand opening was a coup. “You are amazing, Bethany,” I said, meaning every word.
“Happy to do it. Come see what I’ve done!”
Leaving my U-Haul trailer behind and feeling rather brighter, I followed my young assistant into Seaside Cottage Books, Winston trotting along at my heels.
The bright blue walls and white bookshelves were fresh and clean, the neatly stacked books like jewels just waiting to be plucked from the shelves. The window seat in the bay window at the front of the store was lined with my handmade pillows, an inviting nook to tuck into with a book, and the armchairs tucked into the corners here and there gave the whole place the sweet, cozy feel I remembered from when I’d spent summer afternoons in the shop as a girl, when Loretta was still in good health. I walked from room to room, the gleaming wood floors creaking under my feet, and resisted the urge to pinch myself. Where the store had been dark and close, the windows covered over with old blankets and the rooms smelling of dust and must when I first took possession, over the past few months, Bethany and I had transformed it into a bright, clean space that smelled of lemon and new books and, above all, possibility.
“I set the table up here in the room with the local books, under the window,” Bethany said, leading me to one of the front rooms. “I’m featuring K.T. Anderson’s latest, of course. I didn’t like it as much as the last one–it’s a little heavy on the romance part–but it’ll sell well. I ordered lots of stock for her to sign.” Sure enough, a table with a bright blue tablecloth sat along the wall, two coffee percolators and several platters waiting for the cookies I’d been stocking the freezer with for the last month. A stack of postcards was displayed prominently on shelves and tables around the store that showed a picture of Seaside Books, including a 10% off coupon and the promo copy we’d come up with together–“Sink Your Teeth into a Good Book–Free Cookie with Every Purchase.”
“It looks terrific,” I said. “I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you.”
“Become a booming success and feature my first book,” Bethany said, “and we’ll call it even.”
“Of course,” I said, grinning at her. I had total faith in Bethany; she was smart, enthusiastic, dedicated, and one of the hardest workers I knew.
I glanced around the store, which was picture-perfect and ready for opening, with pride and anticipation mixed with a little bit of anxiety. After all, everything was riding on this venture. I’d spent the last twenty years taking care of my daughters, running a home, and working part-time at one of Boston’s independent bookstores, Bean Books. Now that I was single again, I needed to be able to take care of myself, and after being out of the workforce for two decades, my prospects in corporate America were rather limited. Besides, I couldn’t envision spending the next twenty years in some oatmeal-colored cubicle answering phones and doing filing, which was pretty much the only option available for someone with my work experience.
Although Ellie, the owner of Bean Books and a dear friend, had offered me an assistant manager position, with real estate prices in Boston, there was no way I could pay my rent with the salary she was able to offer me. When Ellie told me Loretta was ill and might be looking for someone to help run Seaside Cottage Books–or even take it over for her–something inside me responded. I’d always fantasized about owning my own bookstore and living in a small community, and I wasn’t getting any younger. Did I really want “She always wanted to own a bookstore but never got around to it” in my obituary? No matter what happened, I was glad I’d gone after what I’d always wanted; and Ellie had been a terrific cheerleader and consultant during my moments of doubt.
Winston seemed to approve of the new digs, too; he’d settled down into the dog bed I’d put beside the old desk I was using as a counter, looking content for the first time that day. Or at least relieved to be out of his crate. I knew the demand for dinner would be coming soon, though.
“Mail is in the top drawer of the desk–there were a few things that looked important, so I put them on top of the stack–and I shelved another order of books that came in today,” Bethany informed me. “There was a new one from Barbara Ross in the order, so I put it in the New Releases display.”
“Perfect,” I told her.
“I’m going to head home for dinner,” she said. “But I’ll be back tomorrow. If you need help unloading, I can ask my cousins to come give us a hand tomorrow morning.”
“That would be a massive help; there’s no way I could get that couch up the stairs on my own, much less the mattress. I can’t thank you enough!”
“See you in the morning, then. I can’t wait!”
“Text me when you get home, okay?’
“I will,” she promised.
I watched through the front window as Bethany climbed onto her bike and turned right on Cottage Street, keeping my eyes on her until she disappeared from sight. Her house was only a few blocks away. I knew Snug Harbor was safe, but I also knew I wouldn’t sleep soundly unless I knew Bethany had gotten home okay.
Once a mother, always a mother, I suppose.
* * *
“Let’s stretch our legs,” I suggested, grabbing a leash from the passenger seat of the car and clipping it to Winston’s collar. With a glance back at the house–and the U-Haul I still had to unload — we headed down the grassy trail to the water, pausing to inspect a few raspberry bushes with berries hidden under the yellow-green leaves, Winston straining at the leash and sniffing everything in range. Berries I would pick and put into ice cream sundaes, into muffins… I had so many things to look forward to this summer. Beach roses filled the air with their winey perfume, the bright blooms studding the dark green foliage.
Winston romped happily toward the water, smelling all the grass tufts, only slowing down and treading carefully when we got to the rocky beach. The tide was halfway out, and Winston was staying close beside me. Even though the waves in the harbor were minimal, he’d been swamped by a rogue wave once, and had had new respect for the ocean ever since. As we walked, I scanned the dark rocks mixed with flecks of brown seaweed, searching out of habit for sea glass. I found two brown chunks, doubtless the remains of old beer bottles, a couple of green shards, and two bits of delicate pale green that must have started life as Coke bottles, and I was about to turn back when a glint of cobalt caught my eye. I scooped it up and rinsed it off; it was a beautiful, deep blue shard, my favorite color and a lucky find. I tucked it in my pocket and walked up the beach, my stomach rumbling. What I really wanted to do was go to one of those restaurants up the street and indulge in a lobster dinner, but I was on a tunafish budget, so a homemade sandwich would have to do.
I grabbed the overnight case from the back seat of the SUV and climbed the back stairs to the apartment porch, Winston in my wake. Then I unlocked the door and stepped inside, flipping on the light with my elbow, and smiled. It was cozy, sweet, and… in a word, perfect.
In the back of the little house, with a gorgeous view of the harbor, was the living room, whose natural-colored floors and white walls (I’d painted) looked fresh and bright, even in the evening. Although the furnishings currently consisted of a rag rug, two folding chairs, and a dust mop, I could picture how it would be once I brought in my white couch and coffee table, with a big blue rag rug against the golden floor.
The kitchen was small, but cozy, also with wood floors and white walls, with a card table I’d gotten at the second-hand store in the corner. I’d outfitted the kitchen with odds and ends from my kitchen in Boston, including a toaster oven I’d been meaning to throw away for years, a coffeemaker that had been state-of-the-art in the late 1990s, and stacks of white and blue plates from Goodwill. I plopped down my overnight bag, released Winston from his leash, and grabbed a loaf of bread I’d put in the freezer the last time I was here, tucking two slices into the toaster oven and fishing in the small fridge for cheese. A bottle of cheap but not entirely undrinkable Prosecco sat in the fridge door; I’d bought it in anticipation of this night.
I slapped a slice of cheddar cheese on each piece of bread, then hit “toast” and retrieved a jam jar from the cabinet. While Winston watched, I popped the cork on the Prosecco and filled the jar. Then, jam jar in hand, I walked into the living room and surveyed the view from the kitchen window, which overlooked the harbor.
The sandbar connecting Snug Harbor to Snug Island had almost been swallowed up by the tide, and two late seagulls picked through the broken shells at the water’s edge. Two sea kayakers were heading out from the island, paddling toward Snug Harbor, probably anxious to get back before total darkness fell. The sky was rose and peach and deep, deep, blue, and the first two stars twinkled in the cobalt swath of sky.
I looked down to where Winston stood behind me, looking up at me expectantly, head cocked to one side. “To new beginnings,” I said, slipping my companion a piece of cheese before raising my jar in a toast, then sipping the fizzy Prosecco. “We made it.”
As I spoke, I noticed a furtive figure slipping out of the trees and creeping up the path to the house. Then it paused, and I could see the pale oval of a face looking up at the lit window. As if whoever it was had changed their mind, he or she hustled back into the trees, melting into the shadows. Beside me, standing at the glass door, Winston’s hackles rose, and he growled.
Goose bumps rose on my arms for the second time that night–this time, not in a good way. “It’s okay,” I reassured the little dog, hoping to reassure myself at the same time. “Whoever it is is gone.”
As I spoke, the smell of burning toast filled the air. “Drat,” I said, and hurried back to the kitchen, where the edges of the toast had blackened.
I pulled it out of the toaster and onto a plate, burning myself in the process, and cut off the edges with a butter knife, then sat down at the table with my sad-looking toasted cheese sandwich and a jam jar of Prosecco, still wondering who had headed up the path and changed tacks at the last minute.
Whoever it was was gone, I told myself as I bit into my sandwich. And I had other things to worry about.
Like unpacking the truck.
And preparing to have all of Snug Harbor descend on my fledgling bookstore in less than 24 hours.
* * *
It was almost midnight by the time I tucked in with Winston curled up in the crook of my arm. I hoped it was my last night sleeping on an air mattress, but with my crisp blue and white percale sheets, fluffy blanket, and soft pillows, it wasn’t exactly a hardship. Besides, it was lovely being able to see the stars out my window; and to open my window and hear the lap of the water against the shore and the breeze in the maple tree next to the house instead of Boston traffic in the distance.
I read one of Lee Strauss’s charming Ginger Gold books until my eyes started to droop. Then I reached to turn off the lamp I’d set up next to the head of the mattress and burrowed into the covers, lulled to sleep by Winston’s steady breathing and the soothing sound of the ocean.
Until a crashing sound from downstairs woke me up.
Want to find out what happens next? You can find the rest of the book here!
