Murder on a Yacht: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery Read online

  Murder on a Yacht

  Penelope Sotheby

  ~~~

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2016 Penelope Sotheby

  First published in 2016 by Jonmac Limited.

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters and places, incidents are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Sign up for this author's new release mailing list and receive a free copy of her very first novella Murder At The Inn. This fantastic whodunit will keep you guessing to the very end and is not currently available anywhere else.

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  Other Books By The Author

  Murder in Bermuda (Book 1 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)

  Murder in the Bahamas (Book 2 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)

  Murder in Jamaica (Book 3 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)

  Murder in Barbados (Book 4 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)

  Murder in Aruba (Book 5 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)

  Murder at the Inn

  Murder on the Village Green (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)

  Murder in the Neighbourhood (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)

  Table Of Contents

  Free Book

  Other Books By The Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Get Your Free Copy of “Murder at the Inn”

  Other Books By This Author

  About The Author

  Fantastic Fiction

  Chapter 1

  Apple Mews would normally be characterized by any outsider as quiet, like a strictly-guarded library. And for those outsiders who pass through on a scenic Sunday drive, their minds might, for a fleeting moment, yearn for such a peaceful life. Mind you, these passing whimsies are probably made without the knowledge that Apple Mews has in fact been associated with more than one murder.

  But besides that point, it is fairly safe to conclude that all who call it home are happy they live in the Shropshire village.

  Still, although Apple Mews only has a couple hundred households, the serene semblance can be quite deceiving. For when you meet the villagers, you’ll soon learn that many have boisterous quirks or behaviours, loud both in terms of volume and eccentricity.

  At this very moment, in fact, some of Apple Mews’ primary school students are up to their regular pranks. Three boys, aged 10 and 11, are kneeling on Mrs. Oakley’s front walkway. The focus of their attention are the bottles just delivered by the milkman. The ringleader of the pranksters, Tommy Turner, pulls out a small bottle of blue food colouring. Snickering, while being egged on by his mates, he removes the cap from one of the milk bottles. Less than a second before young Tommy squeezes a drop of blue into the milk, he is stopped by a—

  “HALT!”

  Tommy drops the food colouring – on the ground, not in the bottle of milk – and looks around.

  “Did you hear something?” he asks his mates.

  His accomplices nod their heads and shrug their shoulders at the same time. It definitely sounded like a grownup lady’s voice, but the only people they see are younger pupils running in the opposite direction up the road.

  Tommy picks up the food colouring from the ground.

  “HALT!” Diane Dimbleby yells once again, and immediately ducks for cover below her windowsill. She bites her finger to contain her laughter. Staying hidden, she shouts even louder to ensure she’s still heard, “You will immediately replace the milk cap, run home as fast as you can and return the blue food colouring to your mother!”

  Tommy’s accomplices move their heads in every direction, searching for the source of the commanding voice. Tommy, stunned, does not move a muscle.

  Diane slowly raises her eyes above the windowsill, and yells “MOVE!”

  The boys do not need another warning. Tommy quickly replaces the milk cap, stands and sprints away, even faster than his mates, without looking back.

  Once all the boys are out of sight, Diane finally allows herself to release the stream of laughter she had barely contained.

  “I’ve still got it!” she says amusingly to herself, referring to her former years teaching at the same school these boys now attend. Her specialty had been dealing with the eldest, most rambunctious pupils – truth be told she got a kick out of their mischief, although she would never reveal this to her classes.

  Diane had taught at Apple Mews’ up until a few years ago. Now in her sixties and retired, she is still working, but in another field. Perhaps it was an odd concept some years ago, but for Diane, it had been her plan all along. While teaching had been a passion, she still had to bow to the exigencies of school administrators, parents, and curriculum outcomes. Now, however, she is free to work at her own pace and with creative liberty, doing what she loves best: writing and editing books.

  Diane walks next door, collects the milk bottles and walks up to Mrs. Oakley’s front door. Immediately after Diane knocks, Mrs. Oakley comes out to the porch.

  “I wouldn’t have much minded drinking blue milk, but I’m very grateful that you intervened,” Mrs. Oakley smiles.

  “Ah, you’re a good sport Mrs. Oakley!” Diane giggles.

  “Won’t you come in for a cuppa?”

  “I thank you kindly, but I really must finish getting ready for my weekend getaway. Are you sure you don’t mind taking care of Rufus in my absence?”

  “Not at all my dear! He’s good company,” Mrs. Oakley responds. “He’ll protect me and my milk!”

  Diane thanks her neighbour and returns home to finish packing for her trip. Her long-time friend, Mike Davies, has invited her to spend the weekend on the Island of Lundy, which is off the North Devon coast. Lundy is a beautiful isle with a rich and long history, but it is endowed with a variety of reputations.

  Some say that it’s a drunkard’s paradise – the after-hour parties, organized by the thrill seekers who visit the island for scuba diving and climbing excursions, are rumoured to get quite rowdy. On the other hand, some describe Lundy as the most peaceful place on Earth – a haven for birdwatching, serene walks and waking up to the sunrise, not the alarm clock. Still others say it’s the perfect place for writers and artists to find inspiration.

  Diane, who has visited her friend Mike and Lundy at least three or four times, has not yet decided how she would describe the island. Each time she goes though, it is a welcome change from the hullabaloo that even the small village of Apple Mews seems to generate. On every visit, she makes sure to walk along the beach and enjoy a delicious seafood meal at the island’s tavern.

  Her friend Mike owns an impressive forty-foot yacht which, during the summer and autumn months, he docks as much as he can at the Lundy Island pier. Each time he invites Diane for a visit, he welcomes her to stay abo
ard his yacht too.

  In recent years, however, Diane’s sea legs have become wobblier and she does not enjoy sailing like she used to. She prefers to stay on terra-firma as much as possible, or at least while she sleeps. She had proposed a compromise: “I will join you as you sail around the Bristol Channel on Saturday and Sunday, but this time I will spend the night at the Puffin’s Nest,” she had told him. She has booked the B&B’s especially cosy loft bedroom for this trip.

  Diane had assured herself that she could handle the daytime on the boat. Their conversations – which never go dry because of their long-time friendship and mutual admiration for reading and writing – would distract her if the waves got too choppy.

  Mike of course agreed to the suggested compromise, because he knew that would be the only way that his dear friend would agree to come visit.

  Mike is not quite a hermit, but is on the cusp of becoming one. Since retiring from the MI6 – for those not familiar with the world of undercover operations, MI6 is the common name for Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service – the 63-year-old native Londoner has taken refuge on his yacht. He likes to keep to himself. In fact, wherever he travels, he’s more likely to stay the night on his boat rather than in a hotel.

  Those who don’t know Mike Davies well would call him shy or aloof. One might conclude that a former MI6 spy has to be that way, living a secretive life and all. “…the secrecy of our operations and the identity of those who work with us is our foremost principle…” Perhaps not being able to talk about past covert operations – even traumas – makes getting close to anyone increasingly difficult.

  Of course, many readers have had a chance to gain a slight glimpse of insight into the life of Mike Davies. The published author’s novels, although works of fiction, are inspired by his intelligence days and even describe some factual events.

  And those lucky enough to be a friend of Mike’s know that he is as loyal as they come. Diane is one of these lucky few and knows that if she were ever in a pickle, she could turn to him for help. Yet it seems that this time, it is Mike that may need help.

  Earlier this Saturday morning, before, as they say, the rooster crowed, Diane drove to Ifracombe as the crow flies. Now crossing the Bristol Channel, aboard the ferry to Lundy Island, she thinks of the conversation she’d had with Mike when he asked her to come for the weekend. She remembers thinking the invitation seemed almost desperate. It was not what he said, but the simplicity of the words he used: it was an earnest request – “Please come.” Diane has the sense they will be discussing more than just his latest spy novel.

  As the ferry nears Lundy Island’s dock, Diane can easily make out the familiar, ghost-white, full head of hair atop her slightly tall friend. She eagerly waves and Mike reciprocates with a basic yet warm salute.

  He walks up to the gangway to personally assist Diane off the boat, even though she is very agile for her age, and regardless of the fact that the gangway is easy to manoeuvre. Still, Diane obligingly takes his hand and even allows him to take her valise.

  Both standing on the wharf, Mike quickly takes Diane in his arms and gives her a big hug. Although the two friends have been communicating often lately, it must be a year since Diane has visited the island and her friend.

  Mike is pleased to see Diane, who is all smiles. The two go back 60 years and have always been comfortable with one another. Although they grew up in different places – Mike in London and Diane in Apple Mews – their two families were friends and got together often. Diane remembers that when they were little, the two shared a boundless imagination and often concocted such elaborate games, like complex treasure hunts or adventures in fantastical worlds.

  Now, 60 years later, they find themselves at a place that could be described as just as magical. Together they walk to the Puffin’s Nest B&B, so Diane can check in and drop off her suitcase. As they walk up the trail bisecting the moorland of purple heather, Mike comments on the last week’s weather, the birth of a new Lundy pony and the latest artist-in-residence.

  “She’s working on a collection of paintings that simultaneously reflect the island’s ecology above and below water. I’m looking forward to seeing them.”

  Mike stops and looks off in the distance. He holds his binoculars up to his eyes and nods his head. He removes the strap from around his neck and passes the binoculars to Diane.

  “Look over there,” he says, pointing. “Some of the island’s feral goat population.

  Diane focuses the lenses until the furry creatures with their pronounced, slightly curled horns come into focus. She slowly moves her body 360 degrees to scan the rest of the landscape. She marvels at the tall brick lighthouse, and then the climbers scaling a vertical granite cliff above a torrent of crashing waves, and then what just might be a colony of puffins way off in the distance.

  Still looking through the binoculars, Diane is nearly toppled over by two children sprinting past. Diane laughs at the excited youngsters, as their parents, following behind, apologize.

  “Not to worry,” says Diane. “It’s so refreshing to see children playing outside instead of trapped indoors with their eyes glued to a screen.”

  “They must be looking for letterboxes,” Mike explains.

  Lundy Island has numerous letterboxes scattered about. With a map in hand, those up for the challenge can try to find and collect a stamp from each, while solving riddles along the way.

  “It sounds like we would have enjoyed that when we were kids,” says Diane.

  “Who are you kidding? You’d enjoy that now,” chuckles Mike.

  Inside the bed & breakfast, they are greeted by what seems to be an explosion of puffin knick-knacks, ornaments and curios. Clocks, figurines, plush toys, pictures, cushions and curtains all boast the black and white and orange colours of the seabird of which the accommodation is named after.

  “Hello there Mike!” says a woman who runs out from behind an old-fashioned secretary desk cluttered with a puffin bobbleheads, mugs and postcards. “And you must be Diane Dimbleby! Welcome to the Puffin’s Nest!”

  The proprietor, a Mrs. Poole, does not even wait for Diane to show any proof of payment, but quickly ushers her upstairs to the loft. As fast as Mrs. Poole ran up the stairs, she runs out of the room and back downstairs.

  Diane is immediately happy with her decision to stay at the B&B. The sun shining through the south-facing and ceiling windows invite her into the space that has a bed, a desk and private bathroom. Unlike the main floor – there is not a puffin in sight – several vibrant, potted plants add to the welcoming ambience of the room.

  Mrs. Poole returns with a tray of scones and iced tea and urges Diane to make herself at home.

  “Oh, there’s a terrace!” says Diane excitedly, pointing to the small patio adjoined to her top-level room. “Shall we enjoy our snack outside?”

  Diane slides open the screen door and Mike carries their tray outside. They each take a seat on a patio chair, content to be the target of the sun’s rays.

  “I’m so glad to be in your presence Diane on this beautiful day,” says Mike, eyes closed.

  “And I am happy to be here,” says Diane. “But Mike, you must truly tell me why you invited me on this particular occasion. I have a feeling it’s more than just to catch up. We’ve already been talking so much lately”

  Mike does not say anything for several minutes. He stares down at the same children from earlier who are now posing next to a letterbox they have just found. Their mother snaps several pictures.

  “I didn’t want to say anything on the phone,” he says finally. “But something’s got me spinning. I needed to tell somebody about it. You were the first person that came to mind. I can trust you.”

  It is about his latest manuscript, Mike explains. He’s received some menacing letters and threatening phone calls.

  “Someone does not want my book to be published,” he says softly.

  “But it hasn’t been published yet!” says a surprised Diane.

&
nbsp; “But I have sent the pages to the publisher,” says Mike.

  Diane could understand if he received such attention once the book is on the bookshelves– this happened with many controversial books. But how could the contents of the book be leaked at this stage? Only the small team at the publishing house has read the manuscript. Mike would have sent his draft to them via e-mail as was customary these days, rather than sending a hard copy.

  “Except they asked me to print the final version and send it to them by post.”

  This is most curious, Diane thinks. Is Mike being watched? Could a hacker somehow access the documents on Mike’s computer? Has somebody bugged the publishing house? Did some fanatic at the post office even cunningly read Mike’s pages?

  “Do you think it’s serious… the threats, I mean?” asks Diane.

  Mike doesn’t say a word. If Diane could read his mind, she would know he is wondering if he went too far this time. He’s never written a “tell-all” autobiography about his time with the MI6 before, but he does tend to recall details from actual events in his novels. Not only does this make the stories more enticing for his readers, it’s also been therapeutic for him – a way for him to process what had been a rollercoaster of a profession.

  One of the most troubling moments of his career happened at what had been a celebration for others – a time when families and loved ones and a country was reunited. But something happened then that Mike has never been able to get over. He wrote about it in this latest novel – something that perhaps the British government nor the intelligence agency does not want revealed, not even under the guise of fiction.

  “The MI6 is not a temporary employer,” Mike whispers. “Once you’ve served under their flag, they will never let you be free to move on with your life.”

  “Sorry, did you say something Mike?” Diane asks.