Sea Glass Summer

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 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

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.

Thanks to my friend Lesley Perry for introducing me to village life.

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 into 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.'